Sinking Boat Meets Fateful Day

That Sunday morning our pastor talked about becoming fishers of men and how the disciples had had to drop their nets immediately if they wanted to follow Jesus. They had to be prepared to leave their livelihood behind. It hit me then that maybe by not drawing any lines, I was making a choice.

It's not fair. I have often complained to The Boy that I do not have the luxury of working late. I have never managed to communicate this to him clearly, but here's what I mean. If his day goes late, it goes late. He has to stay and does. If mine goes late, I either have to draw attention to myself because I cannot stay, or I have to make Herculean efforts in order to line up the rest of my life so that I may stay. Preferably in advance. This is just how our life is ordered.

Up until now, I have not turned down opportunities for more responsibility or to work a little extra on occasion. Part of why is because I know that when women leave the workforce, even only in part, they don't get to pick back up where they left off. I feared that if I took a step back from the role that I worked hard to create and sell that I would never have that chance again. I was hung up on this for a while. But I started to feel that morning like maybe it was time to drop that net. There are more important things.

That said, when I got phone calls and e-mails to help out early that afternoon, I still did, with the caveat that I would be offline for the rest of the day. I knew they were not pleased.

The Boy and I had argued during the week about whether to invite over our lovely Irish neighbors we are starting to befriend. I knew I may yet have work to do, despite my vow, and I was exhausted. But we had been trying to get together for months and they could finally make it, so we planned a small cookout. The Boy grilled the pork chops and potato packets I had made in advance, and I baked Emerie half a birthday cake because it was her half birthday.

We sat outside watching Mirabella splash around in her inflatable pool. At just about 7, in a dress soaked from Mirabella's little shivering, bikini-clad body, after I had set all the food out on the table, I heard Emerie cry. Still in flip-flops from being on the patio, I ran up two flights of stairs to retrieve her from her crib. I snuggled her to my chest and headed back down the stairs when my feet slipped from under me and I fell flat on my lower back. I felt the air rush out of me, and I did not drop Emerie; she flew. Out of my arms and into the air, down onto the landing on her head, where she bounced, then began to roll down the second flight of stairs. I think I screamed. I remember saying "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod," and screeching at The Boy to catch her. He ran and caught her after a few steps and I found myself in the kitchen clinging to the counter asking my sister-in-law to call 911.

"How many steps did she fall?" Amy asked relayed, phone in hand, and I was immediately irritated. I'm not sure I answered.

Our new friend was a doctor-- this much we knew-- but we did not know until days later that he is a neurologist. He, being a new friend and a very polite Irishman, asked permission to go upstairs to check on the baby.

"OF COURSE," I probably yelled.

All the while I stood, hunched over the counter, heaving. No tears, no breath, no words. I slid to the floor in a pile, hyperventilating. The doctor's wife came to me and I pointed at my elder daughter. She must be scared, I must have thought, and I can't talk to her.

They brought the baby down and she was crying, but it sounded faint. I couldn't look at her. I just couldn't. I felt certain that this was the moment we would always look back on as the turning point-- the event that would define the rest of our daughter's life. I was terrified she would never be the same. I could never imagine forgiving myself. I could not stop seeing the horrific replay of her flying-- terrified-- from her mother's arms. "Mommies protect their babies," I always tell Mirabella. And I didn't. It felt like all I could do was watch.

A police officer arrived and asked me what happened. "How many stairs?" he had asked. Really? He asked to hold the baby. I was crying too hard to object when The Boy handed her over. "Well, she looks pretty good," he said. What do you know? You're just a Baltimore City cop, I thought.

I stood at the front door in my soaked dress, waiting for the ambulance. Our neighbor asked, in her lovely Irish brogue, "Amy, does she have another dress? Or a cardigan?" I stumbled up the stairs and threw on jeans and a tank top. I remember thinking, "Good, I have a clean cardigan," like it was important. The EMTs arrived and strapped our infant daughter-- screaming, at this point-- to a giant backboard. They asked how many stairs. Again. I tried to explain, then brought one of them into the house to show him.

We rode just a mile or so to the best hospital in the country, where, exactly six months prior, Emerie had made her stubborn arrival. The Boy held her tiny hand the whole way while I wept and texted my family to pray for our sweet girl. I was impotent. I couldn't even pray.

Adventures in Grrridlock

Realtors beware: We are Open House crashers. We don't go out of our way to look for them or anything, but when homes in our neighborhood are on the market, you better believe we'll be there. In our early crashing days, we used to pretend we were actually interested, but the closer the open houses have gotten to our door, we've decided to fess up. We're just nosy neighbors, upside down, looking for a little reassurance that our house will sell in our lifetime.

So a couple open houses ago, The Boy noticed an open staircase in direct contrast to our dark, tunnel-like one. "I could totally take down the wall and make ours look like this," he said then. Feh, I thought. Then a month ago, he asked if it would be okay if he tackled the project.

"Only if the girls and I are out of the house," I said. So I made plans to head to Richmond and Amber, my best friend from college, and The Boy somehow coerced his father and brother to come down from Connecticut to help with the project. Preparing myself for the worst since, despite his best intentions his well-executed plans are rarely executed on time, I told him I expected to come home to drywall dust and dirty dishes and unfinished work. He smiled and said, "We'll see."

Friday morning I got up early and packed outfits, diapers, and toys for the girls. I thought of everything. I timed it perfectly so that we could leave as soon as Emerie ate and just as Mirabella would be ready for a nap. At 1:30 I was on the road, singing grown-up songs, with both girls conked out. I can do this, I thought, no sweat. But well before the Woodrow Wilson bridge, Mirabella was up and chatty. I had only gotten 40 miles from home when Emerie starting screaming under the Welcome to Virginia sign.

Washington, DC/Northern Virginia is not the easiest place to stop, and it wasn't time for Emerie to eat anyway; she was just unhappy. I barely made it through Springfield when I found myself parked at a Wendy's with Emerie on my lap and Mirabella on the passenger's seat, coloring. After feeding Emerie, I walked the girls into the bathroom where I laid Emerie on the floor on a changing pad while changing a standing Mirabella. No changing table, no problem. At 3:18 I got a text from Amber: "Dinner choices... 1. I cook, 2. Japanese takeout, or 3. You and I go out to dinner nearby and Matt watches the kids." I responded, "I might kiss him. Just warning you now." I had a renewed sense of purpose, but by the time I strapped Emerie in her seat, she was wailing again. I closed the door to pump gas. I couldn't hear the girls. I might have lingered at the gas pump.

I merged off the ramp onto 95 and standstill traffic. I made it 11 miles in an hour and 15 minutes. I tried to ignore my baby's mostly on-again crying. I found myself becoming angry with everyone. I never notice the vast array of non-issues about which to be passionate until I'm in traffic with bumper-sticker people. Two of the most memorable: Owned by Parrots, and Got Tea? I can think of few things less likely to induce passion then tea, but then maybe I need to venture further outside my black/red/Earl Grey comfort zone.

At 5:30, I was still an hour and a half outside of Richmond, under the best circumstances, and it was time to feed the baby. I ventured farther than necessary off the exit and into a McDonald's where I bought a vanilla shake and an iced mocha. The women behind the counter ooed and ahhed over the baby, and I could only imagine how frazzled I looked. Again, we sat in the car and I sighed deeply. Repeatedly. I glared at the clock and felt my dinner with my friend slipping away.

Back on 95 an hour later, nothing had changed. The baby, now fed, still cried, and traffic still moved at 6 miles per hour. We finally arrived in Richmond after 8:00, hungry and annoyed. Mirabella ate mac and cheese and I ate leftover spaghetti. The girls were both down by 9 but not asleep until after 11. I talked with my friend into the wee hours.

After a weekend of time at the park with five children after they all napped at the same time, a forced viewing of Twilight in an attempt to convert me, copious time in the minivan, and the long-awaited Japanese takeout, I almost cried in preparation for the drive home today. Thankfully, as I said in my message to Amber upon arriving home, sometimes God says yes. We didn't stop at all, since Emerie slept the entire way home and we hit minimal traffic. We arrived home to no dirty dishes or drywall dust, an opened stairway but unfinished walls.

"Why Daddy do dat?" Mirabella asked, gesturing to the new hallway. "He need to put a rail-lin."

Then, at dinner, she had this to say:

"Mommy, sometimes dinosaurs say, 'Rahhhhr.'"

"Yes, sometimes they do say that if they're angry," I said.

"Mommy, sometimes you say, 'Grrrrr.'"

"Mommy doesn't really say that much, Mirabella."

"Yes your do," she replied, "When you're angry. You say dat."

"Sometimes I do," I conceded, "When I'm angry. But I don't say it much."

"Yes your do say dat. You say dat in the car all de time. You say, 'Grrr, come on, cars!'"

The Boy just laughed.

Hi, My Name is. . .

Awkward.

Despite what The Boy will tell you when we're telling Our Story, I hardly ever gave out my number. I can only recall doing it twice-- once that ended in a disastrously bad date to an Orioles game (a story for another post, for sure), and the other ended in the messy and cluttered joy that is my current life. But that was then. Since meeting my love, I give my number out like it's my job.

Remember when making friends was as easy as sitting beside each other in homeroom? Yeah, not so simple now. Several years ago, upon seeing a beautiful, dark-featured couple in my Sunday School class for the first time, my heart stuttered a little. I wonder if we could be friends, I thought. Then I looked down and saw her silver stilettos. We will definitely be friends. I chased Joyce down the hallway and forced my handshake upon her, telling her how my boyfriend and I were in the market for friends. I gave her my number and set up a first date, before which I pleaded with The Boy to behave. He didn't, but it still went well. Since then we have had dinner parties and playdates and even . . . shopping. After college I thought I'd never have a (new) friend I'd be comfortable enough with to go shopping. But with Joyce, I did. With strollers in tow. And baby weight. And it was still fun.

I have been surprisingly fortunate to keep my male friends from my single days because: a) the Boy genuinely likes them regardless of whether I'm there/especially when I'm not, and b) the ones who have taken the plunge all married great women with whom I'm friends apart from my affection for them. I did not see this coming, but I love it.

So I am aware that friendship after marriage is possible, but friendship after kids? Well, that appears to be a whole other thing. Now there are so many more boxes to check. Do I like her spouse? Does she like mine? Do we have kids of similar age? Are we of similar age? Do we have a somewhat similar outlook on parenting? Does it matter? Is she a working mom? Is she a stay-at-home mom who doesn't dislike working moms? Does she live anywhere nearby? Is she willing to put up with my inability to volley communication attempts effectively? So far, with one notable exception of a fellow mom I met online, these combinations haven't quite gelled yet. Not that I haven't tried. I joined the neighborhood parents' listserv and read it regularly. I wrote for a mom's website and friended people there. I signed my then 18-month-old for swim lessons, selfishly, so I might make some mom friends. I take my daughters to the park and tot lot and scour the area like a single guy on the prowl. I am unnecessarily chatty at the grocery store in our neighborhood with mothers who look like my type. But so far, to no avail.

This past Sunday we visited a church that is new to us and the neighborhood. We didn't feel new. We met a couple with a two-year-old and another on the way. We spent the evening in their home later in the week. We were open, they were warm, and it was easy. Easy! After nearly two-and-a-half years!

"Just let me know if you want to swap babysitting-- we're all about that," she said.

Of course I do! I almost cringed at how quickly and enthusiastically I answered the question. Because, really, I just met these people. But friends! For the whole family, and where we live! We see everyone else seem to have such things and wonder how it has thus far eluded us. I think of the couple we saw each week at the pool last summer. The Boy would talk to the little girl's father for a half hour at a time but never introduced himself. How did we get so clumsy and unfriendly?

Today at the tot-lot I sat isolated on the bench in the corner, nursing Emerie. "You need to get into the inner circle," The Boy said, gesturing to the center of the tot lot where four pony-tailed, jeans-clad moms sat chatting. Suddenly, I felt like I was back in high school, except I used to be on the inside. I made a mental note to be more friendly to the ones on the outskirts, that is, if I ever get back in. Until then, I'll try to push myself more, awkwardly extending my hand, and pray for a warm reception.

Yes Sir, That's my Baby

Driving home from dropping Mirabella off at day care and a disastrous trip to the dollar store for plastic Easter eggs, I decide to take a detour to David's Bridal. My two-month-old, Emerie, snoozes in the backseat of our new-to-us vehicle that The Boy affectionately refers to as "the grocery getter." For obvious reasons, I have been putting off ordering a bridesmaid's dress for my college roommate's May 30th wedding, but for reasons far less apparent, bridesmaids' dresses take months longer to deliver than any other kind of dress, so ordering one on April 1st for a Memorial Day wedding is pushing it.

Of course, as I unfold the stroller, the baby begins to cry. And from a combination of acid reflux, a cold bestowed upon her with the utmost affection by her big sister, and persistent crying over the last week, homegirl is hoarse. This does not bode well for my shopping trip or public perception. I stop just short of the store to remove Emerie from her seat and try to calm her down, then attempt to enter the store whilst pushing the stroller and holding the newborn. A saleswoman-- Donna-- opens the door for me, and I manage to tell her what I need just in time for her to take a lengthy phone call. I start to wander the aisles, frantically trying to find a dress before Emerie loses it, but she never really had it to begin with, so I end up outside to let her cry it out. When I reenter the store, Donna is (still) on the phone, and I manage to find the styles I had seen and liked online. Donna tracks me down with a list of the bridesmaids and asks if the baby is hungry. I cannot understand why this is commonly believed to be the only reason babies cry.

"No, she just ate" I tell her, "She's just a cranky baby," which is mostly true.

She tells me I don't want the dress in my hand because Lindsay, the matron of honor, will be wearing it. She directs me to a one-shouldered number that makes me scrunch my nose. We select three additional dresses-- one I like and two I don't-- and head to the fitting rooms. Emerie fusses loudly as I begin to sweat, knowing that if I were here for any other reason I already would have dumped the dresses without trying them on and walked out (as I have done in Banana Republic, and the Gap Outlet, and JC Penney, and various other fine retailers while cradling a wailing infant and an apologetic smile). I begin to panic knowing she will scream when I set her down in her dreaded seat.

As I open the fitting room door and steer the stroller inside, Donna says, "Here. Give me the baby. I'm a grandma; I'm a pro." And here's the moment I'll reflect on when winning Mother of the Year, 2010: I gave her the baby. Along with a burp cloth. Wouldn't want her to get spit up on her ensemble while kidnapping my child. I could hear her singing to Emerie while I tore my clothes off, all the while thinking, it would be very difficult for her to take the baby. There are lots of people here; there are security cameras; she works here and they know all her information. But really, I can't believe I gave her my baby. A minute later there's a knock on my door and Janice says Donna has sent her to help me.

"Don't worry," she tells me, "Donna is wonderful with babies." She also tells me I look great "for just having had a baby," a modified compliment sure to thrill any new mother. She hems and haws over the dresses, asking me to try on the one I already have and getting me a new size. Donna comes back bouncing my baby.

"I didn't want you to think I had taken her, mom," she says, "We are just fine." Clearly, I am not, as I have handed my infant off to a a stranger.

Janice returns with a larger size and news that my top choice will not be in until the week before the wedding, but I could take said larger size home today, and besides, doesn't it fit better in the bust anyway? So I'm back in my clothes and Donna is walking with me to the cash register, singing nonsense words to my child as onlookers stare.

"Who gave Donna a baby?" an employee asks, but the manager, dressed in black, is all smiles as I stumble an attempt at complimenting Donna, the babyknapping saleswoman of the year.

At the counter, yet another saleswoman explains that I can't get the widely-advertised $20 discount because my bride bought her dress "almost a year ago" in August. I cannot understand the logic behind this policy, but the baby is crying (again) and my self esteem is waning. I fork over the full amount and take the dress. Donna puts Emerie in her seat and pushes the stroller, insisting on walking me to my car. She commiserates with me about a similar experience she had when her kids were young (in which a salesperson did not take her child). As I secure the baby in her seat, Donna asks if I am okay and hugs me. If a stranger is giving you a hug, chances are, you're not okay. I weakly ask her if the woman in black is her manager and tell her I really appreciate her kindness, that I want to ensure her manager is aware of it, and that if it weren't for her I would have left without buying a dress. She graciously waves me off and I proceed to a more remote section of the parking lot where I nurse my child in the driver's seat.

So thankfully, I made it to term and had a healthy baby, Emerie Jane, at 39 weeks via C-section because she was breech and refused to be moved. And she is precious and most days are not as stupid as the one seen here, but heading out unescorted into the world with my daughters reminds me of a feeling that overwhelmed me when Mirabella was born: I've never felt less competent than I have as a mother. I believe I first uttered those words when I locked myself out of the house and a six-week-old Mirabella in. Thank goodness for God's provision and sweet, healthy, forgiving children.

Are You My Mother?

I walked into TGI Friday's at 5:30, printed coupon in hand, and saw my daughter light up and yell hi, both arms outstretched. She hugged me with her whole body. The Boy had picked her up from day care so I could go to band rehearsal, and we met for dinner in between because I have become adept at scoring coupons for free meals. Mirabella was restless, lunging from lap to lap. I produced a plastic container of animal crackers.

"How do you have cookies in your purse?" The Boy asked.

"Mommies carry cookies in their purses," I explained. He looked flabbergasted.

I'm not embarrassed to be seen in public with spit up, drool, or cookie stained garments. I'm not fazed at work when I reach for my planner from my tote bag and a Sesame Street play thermometer or block falls out. I'm getting to the point where I'm no longer bothered when my child yells, squeals or shrieks in public. It's a little embarrassing when she says "hi" to passersby at the store, increasing her volume the longer they do not respond, but mostly that's funny. But one of her latest habits is deeply upsetting.

Aunt Nae, her day care provider, is at the top of her list of favorite people. I have mostly come to terms with this, and mostly I am grateful. If I have to be away all day, which I do, at least I'm able to leave her with someone who adores her (and whom she adores). But. Recently, Mirabella has learned to call Aunt Nae. She does this when she has finished her nap, when another child takes a toy from her, when she wants some milk, when she's not getting her way. And now, apparently, when her parents just aren't cutting it. Last Sunday in the church nursery, she had parked herself at the top of the slide, as is her custom, waving and shouting hi to the people below, with no regard for the children waiting to slide behind her. One of the kids pushed her out of the way. She squealed, "Ahh Na-ay! Ahh Na-ay!" I pretended I didn't know what she was saying.

One of the volunteers said, "Who is she calling?"

"Oh, um . . . Aunt Nae. That's her day care provider," I blushed.

Later that day in the grocery store, I had let her have a sip (or 20 gulps) of my chocolate milk. She had taken the straw out and spilled the milk all over her shirt. I pried it from her milky hands and moved it away from her. Again, she shrieked in frustration and yelled, "Ahh Na-ay! Ahh Na-ay!"

Since then? She calls Aunt Nae after she has said "ahh-dow" (all done) and we have not retrieved her from her high chair fast enough. She calls her if she can't reach a toy she wants, if we take something away we don't want her to have, if we force her to sit (not stand and walk across) the couch she has recently learned how to climb on. And last night, the kicker, after I had put her to bed I heard her on the monitor, calling softly, "Ahh Na-ay."

The other night while I worked on the computer in the office, I heard her downstairs calling Aunt Nae, presumably because The Boy hadn't rescued her from her chair fast enough for her liking. I then heard him correct her, "No, not Aunt Nae, Mirabella. Ma-ma, Ma-ma." At least he tried.

Running like Zacchaeus

On Christmas night at my parents' house, everyone was hungry. For the first time ever, emulating my Jewish friends from childhood, we ordered Chinese delivery. It was delicious. After we ate, The Boy asked to see my fortune. It said, "Good luck on your journey," and so did his. "Are we going somewhere?" he asked. Oh, the foreshadowing.

The next week, while at Ikea for the second time in three days, I tried to convince myself I did not need a reasonably priced six-pack of cinnamon rolls, a young man in his early twenties handed me a tiny handwritten note. "God bless you," he smiled as I read the words, "I am here to help you with anything you need. Love, Jesus." I didn't think much of it, other than that it was a much more welcome approach to proselytizing than I'd previously seen. No fire and brimstone on a tract. It was nicer.

After we got home, The Boy offered to take me out for…well, just to get OUT. We had enjoyed company in the form of his mother and sister for the last week, but the lack of personal space coupled with my crowded mind was starting to make me lose it. I sat on a bar stool nervously shaking my leg and enumerated the list of things that had me frantic.

"I love your mom, it's not your mom. It's just…work was stressful before I left, then there was the trip to Florida, then there was Christmas and company and the birthday party and now these work changes that may or may not happen and the questions of what's next for us and it's all really good, but it's all back to back to back and I just need time and space to process and I'm never alone and I'm so tired and I can't. I've loved this time at home with Mirabella and she's getting to a different stage where I feel like I'm missing more and it makes me wish I could think about being at home, but I know I can't, so what is the point? But at the same time, I have these ambitions to do more at work, and I'm not sure how to reconcile the two. We talk about growing our family and I want to have faith that God will provide what we need, but I'm not sure where the line is between faith and stupidity. I feel I might be on the verge of a crisis or something."

"Oh, baby," he said, "I'd say you're there. You've given me a lot just now. There's a lot going on in that head of yours, and you can't fix it all, not at once." He reminded me of all the things I already know. But mostly he listened. And this is the way I tell it in retrospect, which is different than the way I accepted it then.

I started to accept that things are harder than they have to be because I've been fighting where I am right now. The roles, responsibilities, challenges, geographical location-- all of it. As if accepting it and learning to be content would relegate me here forever, I rage against it all.

Sunday morning at church a guest speaker, once a missionary in the Philippines, told a story about her beloved dachshund, Zacchaeus, and how he was so anxious to see the whole neighborhood that he pulled at his leash, thereby walking restrained and wheezing for the entirety of his walks. She had a personal epiphany when she told him, "Zacchaeus, if you would just stop running and obey, it would be so much easier!" The words stung me too. Pastor Danny followed, admonishing not to "rue this day or your current position." And I guess that's what I'm doing when I complain about hating where we live because I can never find a parking space and we never have enough room or wanting to be home more or wanting to be in a better financial predicament. There is so much that is good, and there is even more that I just don't know. Sitting, waiting, wishing never got even Jack Johnson anywhere.

As we were leaving church, Nikki asked how I was doing and I wonder if my eyes said it all. "You need to borrow this book," she said, producing a well-read paperback copy of The Shack from her coat pocket. "Take four hours and read it today," she said.

When we got in the car, The Boy said, "Well, was all that loud enough for you?" My head swam with conviction and change. At home, though I didn't have four hours, I did make it about halfway through the book. I stopped at a page where Jesus talks with the protagonist about how humans were made to live in the present, and that when we live in the future, through worrying and speculation, God is not with us there. It painted it so clearly for me, and I saw myself in it.

I have been living in fear about the state of the world, the state of our finances, the possibilities of my job, the fact that my life may never look like I thought it would, that I might never be able to be the mommy I had hoped, at least not in the way I had hoped, that I might never reconcile work with life and dreams, that I might not have another child, or that the walls might crumble if I do, that balance might not actually be something that can ever be achieved. The list goes on. And I say that my favorite Bible verse is Exodus 14:14, "the Lord will fight for you, and you shall keep your peace," and I probably say that because I wish I felt its truth in my heart. What's always felt truer to me, though, is Mark 9:24: "Lord I believe; help my unbelief!"

After this low point and apparent epiphany, things feel different, but not much has changed. I have been without house guests, which helped a little, but we will be welcoming The Boy's father and stepmother tonight for a belated celebration we are looking forward to. I got some news at work that had potential, and I could have let it consume me, but I didn't, which was fortunate because it turned out to be nothing anyway. I have worked hard for four days not to live in fear and to let go. And I guess four days is a start.

(And no, all of this did not overshadow a fantastic time with my girls in Florida or a joyful Christmas with my family and overly-gifted daughter, but I'm trying to live in the present, remember?)

So I don't know how long it's going to take to get to wherever it is we're going, but I know where I am and I'm working on fully living here.

Strangers with Admonitions

Elliot squawked and laughed his maniacal, hyena laugh into the darkness of our bedroom, and that can only mean one thing: I had hit the snooze too many times. Elliot is the radio personality I reluctantly invite into my half-consciousness each morning, and he begins his day at precisely 5:48. So if he's on, I'm not supposed to be in bed. I hear Elliot most mornings.

"Ow!" I groaned upon receiving a sharp knee to the back.

"What happened to 5:30, man?" The Boy mumbled into my hair.

"12:30 happened to 5:30, back off." I referenced the ungodly hour we got to bed after unpacking from our gloriously long weekend, but he was right. I had a doozy of a day ahead of me that I had dreaded for the entire 10 1/2-hour drive that usually takes 5 hours, so I got up.

As I walked briskly in the cold to my car two blocks away and an hour and a half later, a black dog lunged away from her owner, who was trying to unlock his front door, and right across my path. Her retractable leash stretched in front of me, then encircled me. Attempting to free myself from just such an entanglement on the beach two years ago left me with a scar on the back of my knee, so this time I didn't move.

"I'm so sorry," he said, a face full of freckles under a backwards baseball cap. "Zoe, come on." He called her and she wound around again. I just stood there dumbly until he wrangled her. "I'm really sorry," he said.

"It's okay. Have a good day," I tried to smile.

"You too," he said as I walked away, then, calling after me down the sidewalk, "I hope you have fewer obstacles."

And that's where it all took a turn.

I won't bore you with all the details, but let me sum up.

Me: "Hi, can you please transfer these files from point A to point B so I may send them to the printers?"

They: "Did you fill out the paperwork? Did you get the guy to sign it who is on vacation until past your deadline? Did you talk to the person who is away from her desk all day? Did you wait at your desk for half the day after printing the nearly 500 pages that, previously unbeknownst to you, need to go through a post-review pre-printing review? Did you contact 'finance focals' in three different time zones to ask the same question without getting an answer?" And this is just
a sampling.

I had told the man who sits by me about my strange encounter in the morning, and he witnessed the veritable ropes course I encountered all day.

"Did you get a good look at the guy?" He said, straightfaced. "Are you sure he was even a real person?"

I'm tempted to lurk around his house to see if I run into him again. Or maybe I should hide? Who knows what my ominous, fortune cookie-esque neighbor might say next time.

Tongue-tied Flagellation

Call off the hounds; here I am. Thanks for checking back in. Think I can blame it all on the pumpkin pictured below? Think again.

Miles separate me from many of the people I love. Most of them would agree, to my face (and some have), that I'm terrible at keeping in touch. The ones who have stuck with me are the ones who do not take an unreturned phone call or email-- or several-- as an unspoken write-off. I'm not proud of it; I don't like it about myself, but it's true. I could blame it on being a mother and a wife and full-time employee, and I wouldn't be untruthful, except that this fact predates my current predicament. I have never been good at it.

My freshman year of college, I learned that a high-school friend was mad at me. "I thought we were close," she said, when we talked.

"We were," I agreed.

"Well it really hurt me that you didn't think I was important enough to keep in touch with." I was kind of baffled. Then, we lived in a world without the now-disruptive Facebook, Myspace or text messaging. Without any sense of malice or irony, I tried to explain that I figured since I was in North Carolina and she was in Pennsylvania, we were done. I wasn't sad or upset about it, I just figured that's how it went. She, clearly, had not. I wince now at my certainty then, but that happens a lot these days.

Another dear friend, Mindy, lives in Vermont. A couple years ago, I intended to call her on her birthday, which I always remember. Time got away from me. So instead of calling her a few days late, I didn't talk to her for at least several weeks (and if she's reading this, I'm sure she'll correct me that it was much longer than that). When I sheepishly answered the phone I explained to her, again, in all sincerity, that the reason I hadn't called was because I hadn't forgotten her birthday. "Well, I was upset that I didn't manage to call you on your birthday, because I really did remember. But then the more time passed, the worse I felt for not calling, so I just kept not calling." Because she's one of the ones that love me anyway, she laughed at my flawed logic. Still, I wish I could tell you this was an isolated occurrence. It is not.

Unfortunately, it's gotten worse. Whereas I used to think I was really busy, now I know it. And another friend, now in Texas, who has never minced words about my severe inadequacy in this area, reminds me we are all busy-- I'm not the only one. I can't argue with her point, and it's not for lack of feeling guilty or having good intentions that I don't call.

In the not yet 10 years since high school, Alex has been in Pittsburgh, Charleston, San Diego, and Southeast Asia. He called a few weeks ago to tell me he and his lovely bride have recently moved to D.C. Compared to how separated we've been, we are practically neighbors. But his call remains unreturned. He is perhaps the most persistent and patient of them all. He is the only reason we remain friends, and I'm so grateful for his persistence. If I were him, I wouldn't waste my time on me.

I don't know how people like Jennifer in Salisbury can remember not only to call and text on birthdays but also to send homemade gifts and handwritten letters. Instead, I intend to send photos of my baby playing with the gift a far-flung relative sent, but I never get around to taking or printing the photos, so I don't send the thank-you until it's embarrassingly late. I hope I've crystallized it for you.

All of this to say, yeah, I've been busy, but that's not why I haven't been here. It's been more than three months since I've written. The same friend who rightly says, "we're all busy," on one occasion told me, "I can't really believe you haven't had a few minutes alone in the car when you could have called." She was right then, and it applies now. Of course there have been occasions since August that I've been putzing around online, wondering why other people can't find the time to update their blogs. But a lot can happen in a few months.

A few months, in my daughter's case, is the difference between pureed foods and finger foods, crawling and walking, one tooth or four. For me, it's gone from barely making it through the week day to being noticed and weighing opportunities. It's losing touch with many I love and then, shockingly, hearing from a ghost I haven't known in years. So on my first day back to you, with all of that behind me, what do I choose to talk about? What do I say?

I guess I'll echo the ghost, in typical, understated fashion and say, "it's been a while," and go from there.

Not Really Not Guilty

On Wednesday, I was a defendant. Thinking better of the grey pants I had intially chosen, I wore a skirt and uncomfortable heels because that's what I remember Winona Ryder and Paris Hilton doing when they went to court. I was the best dressed person in the court room, but it didn't matter.

It all started a couple months ago, when a Transit Authority officer appeared in the middle of the road and motioned me to the side. I despise this; it is terrifying and not the first time it has happened. I am a reasonably defensive driver, but why would I assume a law enforcement official, or any individual for that matter, would be standing between two lanes of opposing traffic on a busy road? I pulled over and might have sworn, realizing I did not know the speed limit on that road. I prepared this defense, then scrapped it when I saw a speed limit sign (the first posted on that road) directly ahead and mocking me while I waited. The officer was friendly, despite my terse responses. Mirabella wailed.

"She probably wants to be moving," the officer offered, "mine were always that way." I wanted to remind her why I had stopped and that I was not interested in small talk. After taking every bit of ten minutes, she returned at my window with a $90 ticket and apologetic smile. "I had to give you a ticket; 43 in a 25 is a bit fast. But I would fight it." She would repeat that suggestion, making me wonder why we couldn't just skip a step and forget the ticket. It was my first speeding ticket in over 10 years of driving.

I decided to take the officer's advice. I did a dry run of the drive to the court house and promised myself a trip to Starbucks when it was over. I practiced how I would plead and what I would say with The Boy the night before. And in the morning I waited. A lot. Immediately I noticed that "District Court of Maryland," the phrase that encircled the seal above the judge's bench, was not centered. I could not believe how much this bothered me. I kept thinking if they would just scoot it a little to the left all would be well. I turned around every time Court Room 5's door opened to see if my officer would show up. She did not. At least 50% of the defendants failed to appear, but oh the ones that did...

I learned that in the future, should the officer show up and I really am guilty of the charges, pleading not guilty will get me nowhere. I had suspected this. I was hesitant even to go to court, because I do not understand the concept of pleading not guilty when clearly I was doing whatever they said I was doing. Kudos to Maryland for the "guilty with an explanation" plea. This seemed to work better for most of the defendants.

There was the guy who looked vaguely like someone who would have gone to my high school who was charged with driving with expired registration and no tags. He politely explained that he was in the middle of a nasty divorce, and his ex, unbeknownst to him, had removed and returned the tags. " I didn't even believe it when the officer told me why he pulled me over," he explained, "I had to see for myself." The cops seated behind me snickered; "Cut him a break," they said. The sympathetic judge lowered his fine and removed all points from his license.

He was not as forgiving to the diminutive teenage girl who pleaded not guilty of speeding in excess of 20 miles over the limit, and following too closely as she changed lanes. Repeatedly. Her defense didn't make any sense, ("He said he was right behind me, but I didn't see him" and "I was not following that close"), yet she chose to CALL A WITNESS. Really. The blonde girl she called had allegedly been in the car with her for the stop. She angrily disputed the officer's claims.

"Were you the one driving?" the judge asked.

"No, she was texting the driver," one of the cops behind me scoffed.

The judge noted that the offense occurred on the same day the girl in question had been in court for a previous speeding ticket. "How long have you been driving?" he asked.

"Almost a year," she said, dejected.

"Where are her parents?" the cop behind me wondered aloud. I had to second that emotion. The judge upped her fine to more than $500, and I wondered why she hadn't just paid the initial ticket.

The large, smiling woman wearing what appeared to be a modest beach cover up was charged with not displaying her tags properly. Though she acknowledged she was guilty, she pleaded not guilty and mentioned that the officer was very "cordial" during the stop which, she noted, occurred on her way to church. After her sentencing, in which one charge was dropped and her fine was lowered, she asked to approach the bench. "No," the judge said with a straight face.

Finally, when all of the police officers had left, about ten of us remained, and apparently, we all had the same officer, who just happened to be in County court that morning. Hallelujah. I was the last person in the room. "Ma'am, since Officer Miller is not here, you want to plead not guilty, right?" The judge asked. I tried not to smile as I accepted my papers that said there would be no fine. Not even court fees.

And now, lessons learned:

1. The speed limit on half of South Clinton Street is 25
2. They really do monitor it
3. Always, always appear in court for moving violations. Unless you have already paid a fine, which one girl did, causing the judge to add another fine once he noticed that she has had five offenses in just 2 1/2 years of driving. "I'm also going to send you to driver's improvement class," he told the girl, who protested because she'd already been there. "Well, you're going again," he replied, "apparently it didn't work the first time."

I might just start showing up in District Court for the stories.

Closer Than They Appear

Back to life, back to reality-- better as an En Vogue hook than it is as a mantra. Despite The Boy's insistence that I would need many coats in New England for Christmas, I did not. It was balmy, for December, and another rainy Christmas. It was also bittersweet. Due to the various home improvement, life reshuffling and Christmas preparations crowding our house and marriage, I realized on the quiet ride up the turnpike that we had been less than connected, or at least less than we'd like. So, that got fixed in Connecticut.

We slept on an aerobed in my brother-in-law's unfurnished condo. When we woke up Christmas morning, he with a hangover and I with severe sleep deprivation that might as well have been a hangover, he laughed. "This is probably how a lot of couples start out on their first Christmas." My allergies and I were glad we do not sleep in such close proximity to the floor in our natural habitat. Christmas felt weird being away from my family and their home. It's also not typical for me to stay up into such wee hours the night before Christmas without carols or wrapping or candles. It made me sad, and we promised it would be different next time, no matter where we were.

We celebrated the twin brothers in laws' 30th birthdays, which was a blast. I wore the KILLER shoes The Boy got me (which, apparently, are now on sale). I spent some time with my sister in law and got to know the boys' girlfriends a little more. We didn't see everyone we wanted to see; we hit more houses than I ever had on a major holiday; and surprisingly, the dog behaved spectacularly for the vast majority of the trip. So it was good, all in all.

New Year's Eve (day) was spent at the Terps game The Boy managed to wrangle tickets to after two years of trying, and he was a very good sport when I insisted he wear a red Maryland shirt. When he complained the borrowed t-shirt was too baggy, I half-heartedly pouted, "Fine. Wear whatever you want." Despite pairing it with dress shoes, he wore the shirt anyway. We returned home for football, homemade fondue, and steak on the couch. Despite condolences from friends and strangers alike and my own silent worries that our first married New Years should be a bit flashier, I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

And now, our house has been stripped of its Christmas cheer; gold glitter and green branches sit in boxes in the basement along with faux red berries the dog refuses to believe aren't real. It looks naked and seems vaguely sad, but I'm eager to move on.

Here, in the second official week of January, I am officially unsure what happens next. I anticipate being on the receiving end of an Uncomfortable Conversation at work this week, but I continue to lay low. The Boy and I are awaiting news that would change just about everything, and it's taking longer than we had hoped. I'm working on trusting and waiting, seeking and being still. Admittedly, I'm not much good at ignoring logistics. I'm trying hard to stop offering my services to my God who seems to relish taking longer than I planned. Being here now, that advice I laughed at in college and now dole out to just about anyone who will listen, seems to be getting harder.

Monotony, Tummy Aches and the Fake Depression

8:55. Chris Berman and The Boy tell me the game I'm about to not watch is a rivalry. The Giants and the Cowboys just kicked off. Hank Williams, Jr., though he was just standing on the fifty-yard line, does not sing about his rowdy friends. The cheerleaders, though they flanked Hank on the line, do not dance or kick on cue in the song Hank does not sing. Instead, we watch a taped performance in which Little Richard screams and allegedly plays piano, but I just inexplicably called him James Brown.

9:01. Plaxico Burress scores a 50-yard touchdown. I have long been of the opinion that some men were destined to be in the NFL, and their mothers knew it, so they named them accordingly. Lawyer Malloy. Peerless Price. Adalius Thomas. Burress fits with these guys.

9:03. The Boy, dressed in white Adidas pants and a brown t-shirt my dad gave him that reads, "I'm probably lying," shakes his hiney vigorously to the tune of Fall Out Boy's off-key insistence.

The 8 minutes you have just relived is meant to depict how my life has fallen into a predictable pattern. I just plopped on the couch beside The Boy, after preparing dinner and lunch and coffee and halfheartedly cleaning the kitchen. I feel sad that it's already almost tomorrow. It might be the darkness that always falls too soon, but somehow all this monotony still strikes me as unpredictable. I can never believe, whether I slept or not, how quickly "7:00" comes. Of course it isn't really 7:00, hence the quotation marks; The Boy and I take turns sneakily setting the clock forward, all the while trying to forget the difference between now and what we think now is. It still doesn't help. Likewise, I can never believe how quickly 7:00 pm comes and goes. My gym bag lives in the trunk of my car. I haven't worn my Sauconys in far too long.

My doctor informed me that I should do more yoga. "The relaxing kind." I insisted, indignantly, that yoga wouldn't help. I neglected to mention the yoga that I do involves a "butt ball" and a woman who reminds me to tense up those muscles I "sit down on." She also encourages me to check in with my hamstrings. "Notice what they are saying back to you." She does not relax me; she makes me contemplate the most efficient means of committing homicide from the downward dog position.

Minutes before this exchange, I slumped in the plastic chair against a particle board desk, having slipped my olive green pumps back on after being dismally disappointed at the scale.

"We haven't seen you in awhile," The tall Brit with the voice from the outgoing message had remarked, glancing at my chart. He motioned to the scale.

"It's hard to get in here," I mumbled, recalling my conversation with him several months prior, when I attempted to make an appointment for a physical. I was told there was an opening in March. I did the mental math, realizing I could be 7 months pregnant by then. Not that I would be, but I needed a way to visualize how much can change in that time. I did not book the appointment.

"You have to schedule your sickness to be seen here," The Brit chuckled. I did not.

Fortunately, as The Boy had become increasingly concerned with my doubling over multiple times daily, he offered to make the appointment for me. I was curled into a series of punctuation marks on our bed; he was worrying via office telephone. I let him call the doctor, and I'm not sure what he said, but it worked and I had an appointment the same day. I tried to blame my sleepless nights on a steady stream of company. But, given the fact that I lacked sleep due to discomfort regardless of who was sleeping upstairs, I acquiesced.

The Boy insisted on leaving work early to pick me up. I resisted, but he won. I dressed nicely in an attempt to feel better.

To my surprise, my red-haired Russian doctor did not examine me. She did not check my blood pressure, temperature or pulse. She didn't touch my stomach or prescribe medicine or tests. We sat at her desk and she asked me how I felt. She interrupted me to tell me I am more stressed than I realize.

"But how can that be?" I countered. "The most stress I've been through recently is over," I reasoned, approaching the five-month anniversary of my windy wedding and my father's (untimely) brush with (far more untimely) death. She said something about how people never get sick during the war. I didn't hear what came next, because I was too busy thinking, "there's no way that's correct."

As I argued, feeling my face and neck flush with splotches, as they are prone to do when I'm impassioned, I realized I was losing.

"You're coming across very anxious," she said.

I swallowed a lump in my throat, wanting to throttle her. She wanted to prescribe an antidepressant; I wanted not to feel sick every day. I wanted not to worry everywhere I go or every time I make plans. What if I don't feel well? What if I'm no fun? What if I can't leave early? Of course I'm anxious; I always feel miserable! She insisted the cycle went the other way around. I quit arguing and accepted the sample, but I haven't taken the pills and I'm working on a second opinion. I made it to the Saab and cried frustration at The Boy. We visited another pharmacy for another herbal remedy I didn't believe would work. I'm not sure if it's working or not, but I really miss my Diet Coke.

I've bought a new Nalgene bottle and lots of Crystal Light on-the-go. I just finished a dinner of grilled chicken breast, brown rice, asparagus and charcoal capsules. I'm doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing--definitely don't feel better yet. But then, I'm sure it's all in my worried mind.

Give a Girl the Correct Footwear, and She can Conquer the World

Last Tuesday I surveyed the backseat of my car. A 12-pack of diet cherry coke, a couple of empty water bottles, a Bible and several Tupperware containers lay beneath four pairs of shoes. Linen stiletto mules and black, wing-tipped pumps were strewn across the floor, their heels pointed menacingly in the air. Another pair of shoes, flats, peeked out of my attaché. How did it come to this?

I find that my life has come to be defined by the foods that I eat but, more importantly, by the shoes that I wear. Unconvinced? Let’s walk through Tuesday. 6 a.m., red and white Sauconys for running around the park. 8 a.m., chocolate brown, peep-toe stiletto pumps (Parker and Tara—don’t they sound super cute?), a triple threat Power Bar and a Big Gulp diet coke on the way to work. 11:30 a.m., a 100 calorie pack of Ritz Snack Mix and dirty, white canvas Nike slides from my bottom desk drawer for walking with the ladies in the office. 12 p.m., back to the peep-toe pumps and, shortly thereafter, a rosemary chicken Lean Cuisine. 4:45 p.m., camel-colored suede moccasin flats for powerwalking up steps and across quads for my class and a six-inch tuna on wheat from Subway on the way.

And so, really, my new hobby is changing my shoes. Maybe I was inspired (or shamed) by the flats-wearing pedestrians in D.C. (Although, unless it’s flops in the summer, I’m not so inclined to wear actual flats. I’m working toward a compromise. Last week it was Nine West olive green, round-toe low-heeled pumps that I got for $24.98, but saw elsewhere ON SALE for $59.99. Really, you can’t beat it.) Or, maybe all this shuffling is bred out of necessity. Two weeks in a row, I got a little overzealous with a callous shaver and skinned the bottoms of my feet. Any idea how painful it is to walk excessively on raw feet? (You don’t have to raise your hand, but should you be unfortunate/compulsive enough to know this type of pain, try Band-Aid’s cushioned blister bandages. Really, they're remarkable.)

Or maybe— and I’m kind of assuming this is true, all the while hoping it isn’t— I am finally learning what “grown-up shoes” really are. In college, in preparation for an induction ceremony, I took inventory of my closet and saw scores of four-inch platform shoes. It occurred to me that my impending graduation would need to breed some changes in my life. One of them, I felt certain, was that I needed more adult hair. I vowed to cut it. (And, after the unfortunate marital “false start,” as a symbol of my “independence,” I did chop it. But that was several years ago, and here I am, a bona-fide adult, growing it out again.) But I also decided I needed grown-up shoes. And, for the record, my dad told me I was ridiculous, while insisting that it really isn't necessary or possible for form and function to marry. Obviously, I think you know where I stand on this matter.

I bought a pair of square-toed, stacked-heel black dress shoes from Payless. They slid off the back of my heels, so I stuffed the toe with toilet paper. I hadn’t done that since I was six. Dressed for my induction ceremony, I walked through the dining hall to get rid of my tray. On the way, I had to pass a table full of football players eating Sunday dinner. I knew they were watching me as I approached; I assumed it was because I looked so sophisticated. I tried to play it up with nonchalance as I walked by, but my stacked heels skidded on the floor and I fell, tray in hand, to my knees. There I was, directly in front of their table, on my knees, with my tray. I think one of them helped me up. They just stared at me. One said, “Oh my God, are you okay?” I don’t know if I answered him. I yanked my skirt down and walked (more carefully, but still with purpose) to return my tray. On the way back, I leaned into the table, “And thanks for not laughing directly in my face, guys. Really, that is impressive.” And my cheeks were really red.

Anyway, so, the moral of the story is, those were obviously not grown-up shoes. Grown ups do not deliberately laugh in the face of blisters and hammertoes and wear stilettos under any conditions (except for those crazy girls in New York. I could never live there. The implied footwear peer pressure is too much for me). Sometimes, coolness be damned, grown ups suck it up and wear loafers. I’ll have to remember that later today as I walk by the cute little undergrads and try not to feel frumpy.

Can You Ever Just be "Whelmed?"

Feels like I’ve been far away from here for a while. And, alas, this is what happens when I am writing because I have to (i.e., in class). I have to force myself to remember that the whole writing thing is because I want to. But here I am!

Where to begin? Saturday I learned a great deal about The Boy who is to become my husband. Walking up to the registry desk at Hecht’s, he cut me off and announced, “Excuse me, we need to get a gun.” I (glared at him) and explained with a weak smile, “We’d like to begin a registry.” Thus began an entire day’s worth of apologizing for a man who looked like the one I know and love, except for that crazy expression in his eyes and the rapidity and volume with which the inappropriateness spewed from his mouth. (Admission: I know, he’s usually inappropriate, and thus the partial basis of his appeal, but this was out of control.) We watched, bemused, as Carol, who has been a team member for six years, but you wouldn’t know it, hunted and pecked every letter of our lives (“How do you spell Christina? Is it t-i-a?”). Once the boy finally received the scanner, he was disappointed. “Do you have one that looks more like a gun?” He asked. My eyes spent more of the day rolling than in their normal state.

We began with china, and I didn’t have many opinions, but he did, so I deferred (a theme of the day, for both of us. It's actually one of the things I love most about this little partnership.). At one point, the list of suggestions we were working from seemed to differ greatly from the options in front of us, so I meandered around the department looking for things they did have. The Boy said, “Wait, just wait a minute. Can we please just go and get a butter dish? I can’t handle all this jumping around, and if we’re not careful, we’ll forget that altogether and then we won’t have anything to serve butter with, because what are we going to use? Our casual butter dish? So can we please just go and get a butter dish? Please, it would make me feel a lot better.” As he scanned a crystal butter dish neither of us even liked, I swear he sighed with relief.

It was the Twilight Zone, complete with a six-foot-tall Halloween decoration that looked like Uncle Fester. It had a sensor that caused it to speak when anyone walked in front of it. A seven-year-old blond, buck-toothed kid discovered this feature, and parked himself in front of it. In ten minutes, he set it off no fewer than 25 times. One of the lines it said was, “Just wait and SEE what will happen if you do that again.” The Boy yelled, loud enough for all in the vicinity to hear, “Yeah, kid, just wait and SEE!” Along with various other declarations of how he really felt. Finally, he stormed across the aisle and stomped on the power switch, much to the horror of mothers passing by. I smiled apologetically and steered him to pots and pans, where I learned of his affinity for all things Teflon. We finally got out of there, hours later, but just barely. I think he had, at that point, developed a facial tic.

We decided a snack (and maybe a beer, for him) would be a good idea before our next store. In TGI Friday’s, I cringed as he tried to order an appetizer, “Yeah, can I just get the chip-the-chip-these chipdips, please?” I explained to the waitress, “We just registered for our wedding; he’s a little shaken.” Thankfully, she was not bitter but newly married herself, and she steered us away from our next destination and toward…that’s right, The Great Beyond. Apparently, there was time.

In The Great Beyond, The Boy was far more relaxed. Except for his wanting to march back to Hecht’s to tell them what a real scanner gun was made of, and announcing loudly in the shower curtain section, “Honestly, I just don’t know what to do—I think we’ve run out of colors to use,” he acted mostly like a normal person.

A nice double dinner date with couple friends at a fabulous (unbeknownst to us) little bistro (outside of which, Nicole Kidman is shooting a movie—show of hands, did anyone know that?), then football (for him) and homework (for me) on Sunday, and that was our weekend.

I was actually excited as I approached Massachusetts Ave on Monday evening, as surely this would be my first incident-free trip to D.C. for class. It was not to be. In all my excitement, I missed my turn to find the elusive parking lot and got hella turned around. And it was raining. And I was yelling, particularly at the incredibly obstinate pedestrians who litter the streets of Washington. Don’t get me wrong—I have no problem with pedestrians in general. But you can’t just walk across any street you want, whenever you want and swear at cars that really should just hit you. Ugh. Having said that, I deserved about 85 percent of the yelling I got. Now, a numerical recap of my drive to class:

Cars that honked and made hand gestures at me: 7
One-way streets I drove down the wrong way: 1
Cars I honked at for almost killing me: 2
Cab drivers I made hand gestures/yelled at: 5
Pedestrians I thought mean thoughts about: 409
Number of times I uttered, “Are you freaking kidding me:” 1,786
Times I circled Dupont Circle: 4
Times I drove past N Street, but not where I needed it: 3
Minutes late I was to class: 9
Mistakes I made on the way out of the city: 0

In better news, Tuesday’s trip to class was completely incident-free! Hooray! We take our victories, however microscopic, wherever we can get them.

Also occurring this week, I finally earned the right to say, “I’d tell you what I do, but then I’d have to kill you,” after a 17-month sitting, waiting, wishing period.

It seems we will probably close on the house within the next week or so, if I can manage to stop flipping out and threatening to cancel the whole thing. Fortunately, I’ve only been doing this with my mortgage broker, who also happens to be The Boy. He tells me I need to relax, and he’s probably right. My perspective has needed a bit of adjusting lately.

Other than that, my new hobby has become changing my shoes. I’ll elaborate on this later, as it really has become too essential to my life just to mention as an aside.

Evading Disaster while Counting Blessings

I feel I would be remiss if I did not update you on that impossible dream I alluded to yesterday, that of escaping Week 2 of Class #2 unscathed. Take heart, there was no recreation of Christina’s Homewood Wilderness Adventure; however, further proof surfaced that I am, in fact, a moron.

I assert that the trouble stemmed from the fact that it took me nearly two hours to get to campus from work (a scant 30 miles away). I had left myself a little less than this amount of time, so when the parking lot that was 95 North extended onto MLK, I had had enough. I was proud of myself for cutting across and finding my way. I pulled into the same parking lot as before at 6:10, a mere five minutes before my class was to start. Last week, Professor/Julia Roberts voiceover artist mentioned that lateness is a blatant sign of disrespect for her. Clearly, I did not want to appear disrespectful, as I had done everything in my (considerably insignificant) power to be there on time. My first challenge was to avoid the temptation of walking the perimeter of campus to get to class (at the center of the center quad). This might not sound like a temptation, but with the construction and closed sidewalks, and given my escapade on the way to class last week, this route is the only known. I just did not have that kind of time.

So, I hiked up my (light heather grey pencil) skirt and walked up the multiple sets of stairs as fast as my (black, leather, stretched out from Little Sister’s use) flip flops would carry me. I followed another student around a couple of buildings on the only available sidewalks and realized quickly that this route was exactly what I needed. I probably should have told her that, because she kept looking suspiciously over her shoulder at me, even taking a longer route, although ending up exactly where I did, to avoid being tailed by me. Then I realized she was a weirdo if coming to the conclusion that there are other students taking classes at the same school at the same time as she is so frightening. Instead of apologizing, I laughed at her. But only a little, and not too loudly.

Of course, I could not head straight to class. Because I had been in the car nearly two hours, had consumed no fewer than 100 oz of diet coke that day, and because I always have to pee at the most inopportune times, I (remembered from last week that the restroom on the ground floor is out of service) ventured upstairs. I screeched into class about a minute or two late, of course the last one there. All conversation ceased when I plopped into my chair, and I smiled. Prof/Julia didn’t seem to hate me, so crisis averted.

In class, we had to practice our interview skills on each other. I interviewed a woman who told me that, unlike me, she had nothing interesting going on in her life. She then proceeded to tell me how she moved here from California 10 years ago to care for her mother, who had had a stroke. If her mother was still around and she so yearned for California, why did she stay here, I asked. She told me that shortly after her mother began to recover, her younger sister died suddenly of cancer. And three other siblings got cancer shortly thereafter, leaving 10 children to raise. My classmate became primary caregiver, at various points, for 10 girls, sometimes driving them to schools in three separate cities before heading to the fourth for work. Her siblings gradually recovered, but just this summer she had to bury her only son. She spoke plainly and firmly, and, searching her face for emotion, I saw calm sadness in her eyes. “So, when I say there is nothing interesting going on in my life,” she explains, “It’s because there isn’t. Only caretaking. And pain.”

Although her story was heartbreaking—she had given so much and, seemingly, gotten so little—there was an air of grace and contentment about her. “I don’t make plans anymore,” she said, dismissively. “Nothing that’s happened to me is what I planned.” I thought, despite how overwhelmed I have felt lately, maybe I was the one with nothing going on in my life. And I felt grateful.

Preparing to leave class, I got into a discussion with Prof/Julia, as I discovered I was the last student in the room. I was rummaging, as usual, for my keys. But I searched every section of my bag twice and I couldn’t find them. I sought a custodian who referred me upstairs to another custodian who, eager to help, had me call Security from the elevator.

“Isn’t that door gonna close on you?” The voice said, through the intercom.
“I don’t know, he’s holding it with his foot,” I replied, while the custodian echoed the same.
“Are you sure you left the keys in the bathroom?” The voice asked, and I shook my head.
“Well, you have to come past Shriver anyway, don’t you? Where’d you park your car?”
“Umm, I’m sorry, but I’m new here and I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I’m just hoping to be able to find my car when this is over, but without keys, it doesn’t do me much good anyway.”
He didn't laugh and said that no one had turned in any Toyota keys.

The custodian began searching the trash cans for my keys (I acted surprised at first, but then remembered that time in 7th grade when I came back from PE and couldn’t find my clothes—they had been stolen from my locker. Ms. Geist threatened to keep us all in the locker room until the clothes resurfaced, so, miraculously, they did. In a trash can. And I was actually widely accepted and well-liked.). I thanked him for his help and decided it was a possibility I had locked them in my car.

I made it to the lot with no trouble to find my keys glistening in the lamplight, right on my passenger seat. Thank God for the microcosm of college campuses; I called security and a truck pulled into the lot within five minutes. He circled the lot, looking for my car, and if we had been playing hot/cold, he was getting absolutely frigid. I walked across the lot and said, “I think you’re looking for me.”
“You the elevator lady? A very handsome man in his sixties asked.
“I am. It’s all the way over there,” I pointed, sheepishly.
“Is it too far to walk?” He asked, offering me a ride. I told him no, I could probably beat him there.
“Okay, fine, wanna race?” He asked, and pulled ahead of me. He won.

It took about ten minutes. I had to be his assistant and hold the flashlight, he had to try, twice, to convince some guy that his Plymouth Voyager was probably not stolen, just misplaced, and we gained a spectator by the time we finished, but finally I got into the car. This man was so adorable—if The Boy looks and acts like this guy in 40 years, I’ll be a lucky girl. I mean, I am anyway, but you know.

So, I finally got home to poor Little Sister (and the very excited beagle and blasé mutt) around 10:30. I slept in a waterbed with a 12-year-old and a self-centered beagle that woke me up 15 minutes before my alarm went off. See, this is one of the reasons I don’t have a dog. Today I ate my lunch that Little Sister had meticulously packed in a brown paper bag and written my first and last name on in green magic marker. She is cooking dinner tonight and expecting some “bonding.” I am a zookeeper at the moment, but it’s a happy zoo.

At Least Partial Triumph and Enthusiasm

What a day this has been, crickets. And by “day” I mean "several months." Honestly, I’ve lost count.

The day began with another parking ticket (that's THREE outstanding tickets, ah, ah, ah) and another meeting re: the "Everything Will Stay Exactly the Same!" Merger. But then I found out I will most likely NOT be losing my job within the next 10 days. Which is nice.

Week 2 of class #1 was far more successful than Week 1 of classes and NFL season combined. (It’s not hard to be more successful than my NFL Week 1. I was eliminated from my last-man-standing pool. I know, it’s shocking. I still can’t believe it.) Although I made a rookie error on my way to class last night, I recovered beautifully and found the correct parking garage (i.e., the one that gives discounts to JHU students) on the heretofore elusive N Street. It’s good to know that N Street isn’t hanging out with J Street, somewhere out in oblivion. So, obviously, that was successful. My professor found my story idea for the first assignment “provocative” and “creative.” And also “complicated.” We’ll see which of those two ways it will go.

Today, I’m hoping against hope to avoid a repeat of the Christina’s Homewood Wilderness Adventure from last week. You’d think this outcome would be within my control, but really, I’m just not sure. In anticipation of disappointment, I brought flip flops.

The weekend: the game went well, because I did not allow myself to watch it. The man on my right ate seven hotdogs in about a half hour. I have never seen his equal. His brother confided in me, “I think he might die.” Seems a surety to me, at some point, anyway. The one on my left got cinnamon sugar in his hair because I’m not very good at “maneuvering” (how’s that for a subtle shout-out, Gilly? Ahh, the wonders of stat counters…). Later that night, I pretended to be my version of single (which, I guess, is some people’s version of married) by watching back-to-back-to-back episodes of Felicity on the couch in my bathrobe.

I got a haircut I’m not too fond of on Saturday, but thus far my mom has been the only one to notice, so I guess it’s not very drastic. Believe it or not, it really is surprising that this news has escaped The Boy’s attention, given his usual over-attention to detail in this arena. For example, in the rain one day, “Wow, honey. You’re hair’s lookin’ a little frizzy there,” or, on a day I did nothing to my hair, “I like your hair like that. It looks 20 times better than the way you normally wear it,” or, the next day, immediately after I had dried and attempted to straighten it, “Oh, so you’re back to wearing it all flat again, huh?”

Little Sister’s team did not win their soccer game, but she was the MVP of the game. Watching her, it occurred to me that she touched the ball more in half her game than I did my entire two seasons. You should have SEEN me run though. With the grace of a gazelle. It is widely observed and admired. Really.

I was only about 10 minutes late for the 7:45 am Sunday call. My punctuality was noted and appreciated. With that extra time, I set up two superfluous mic stands. The potential benefit for my ineptitude in this area is that it might get me out of doing so much work. I’m still undecided if there is a benefit at all.

Sunday afternoon we revisited our future casa, and I mentioned no fewer than 12 times that I would like it better with shutters and flower boxes in the windows. The Boy could have sworn it had exposed brick. I think we’re going to have to fake it. So far, I haven’t been privy to much of The Boy’s handyman prowess, beyond what he tells me, but I sincerely hope he’s more Bob Vila than Tim the Toolman Taylor. Time will tell. Sometimes I think maybe it’s a blessing that I won’t move in until May… a return to Sundays on the couch for this dynamic duo, which was nice, and ç’est ça for us.

Tonight I begin the multi-night sleepover with Little Sister and Tucker, the beagle. She called last night, “Aren’t you SO excited?! I told EVERYONE at school that my SISTER is watching me! It’s gonna be AWESOME! I’m cooking dinner on Wednesday. Can Tucker sleep with us? You don’t mind if I sleep with you, do you? We’re going to have SO MUCH FUN!” Fortunately, she has enough enthusiasm for the both of us. Or, the three of us, as it were.

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.

It's me, It's me.

Well-Dressed Skeleton in the Closet Needs a New Home

One of the great benefits of writing a blog no one knows about (ergo, no one reads) is that it's perfectly acceptable to take a little time off. In this case, quite a bit of time off, but as I predicted, I did not receive any letters of sadness or scorn, so I feel confident that it's just me and the crickets here. And this is absolutely the only place where that is true.

Amber sent my digital camera back to me after I had left it in Richmond at her one-year-old daughter's (Addison) party. I was sorting through drawers and closets, not entirely ready to delve into the commitment of packing (I also received my new lease today), and I came upon something in my closet I should have exorcised years ago. And I wish I were being metaphorical. Let's assess the situation: I am in a fabulously exciting and serious 9-month relationship that will result in blissfully ever after. What would be the most appropriate thing for one to do, in my position? Exactly. Sell the unused wedding dress in the closet. So I hung the dress on the bathroom door and took pictures with little contrast to speak of. [Also, and this just begs to be said-- the dress is gorgeous. I had forgotten how stunning it was. It's tiny; I don't know anyone who would be able to fit into it, including myself, but it's just beautiful. I would buy it. You know, if some part in the back of my mind didn't believe it was cursed. And if it weren't already mine.] With not a little residual humiliation, I managed to write the ad header, "Gorgeous, Brand New Size 2 Wedding Gown, Never Been Worn" without any self-loathing, lingering doubts or attempts to defenestrate myself. (You have no idea how long I've been waiting to use that word in a situation that didn't seem forced. What an accomplishment.)

So I posted my ad and almost immediately got a scamming reply and another denying all scamming, although the format and verbiage might as well be lifted right from the warnings on craigslist. A note to aspiring scammers: Be aware of what others are saying about you, because really, episodes like this are not only unsuccessful, but rather embarrassing. I actually feel for this person who is trying to scam me. Also because she's a deplorable speller, but that's an entirely different thing.

The boy is in the Dominican Republic and is it a little bit forgivable that I felt better when I read that it would thunderstorm there? He keeps calling several times a day, usually for only 2-4 minutes at a time. This morning at 4 it was to say that he loves me and misses me and wants me to be involved in everything. But I think that call was a bit lubricated. Today we bumped the time allowance up to 8 minutes or so. I asked if it stormed last night and he asked if I had checked the weather. "Aww," he said, "You looove me!" And it's not that I believe in the old adage, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," quite the opposite, really, I think it makes the heart forgetful or delusional at best. But in this case, I think it's making me realize that I'm in it even more than I have admitted so far. I have been surprised by my feeling on it. But then I have overheated, overpriced flashbacks of the rum-soaked Bahamas where even the chicken tasted like rum, and I can balance it all out a bit.

Okay, so this has actually been fun and, since I write multiple e-mails about all the same things daily anyway, blogging it is.