Tykes on a Plane

When we took our first (cross-country!) flight with two toddlers last month, I expected the worst.  Good thing.

Things I've learned about flying with two little ones:

1. It's not possible to have too many snack options

2. There are seemingly endless uses for a gauzy scarf (blanket, scarf, lovey, burp cloth, nursing cover (I'm no longer nursing, but I can imagine how useful it would be if I were))

3. It's easier than you think to change a baby in an airport bathroom, especially if you have a diaper changing wallet (holds diapers, wipes and has a built in changing pad)

4. The Ergo baby carrier (even though Southwest wouldn't let me fasten it) is a lifesaver on the plane and just in general

5. Three-year-olds think drinkable applesauce is awesome

6. How to pack milk for a (weaned) baby without breaking liquid restrictions: Pre-measure formula in disposable bottle liners, roll the liners up and secure them with tape, then buy bottled water after going through security.  Upside: you can carry on many servings without carrying on liquid and while saving space (don't have to pack multiple bottles).  Downside: the rolled up bottle liners look like contraband, prompting The Boy to say "You know we have to make it through airport security, right?"  Thankfully, though the rolls aroused the suspicion of my parents, my sister-in-law and my husband, the TSA was not curious.

7. Portable DVD players that can hold a charge are well worth the trouble/expense it takes to procure them (we were lucky enough to borrow one) and kid-sized ear buds are worth the expense
8. With the exception of one American Airlines flight attendant, people are more understanding than you might think.  An  apologetic smile and visible attempts at courtesy seemed to go a long way.
9. Though others are, I am not capable of doing it alone. I could not have done it without The Boy (on the way out), and my parents on the way back.

Other lessons from our trip to California:
1. Disneyland may be one of the happiest places on earth, but we wouldn't know.  We spent that day at the UC Irvine ER, as Mirabella had a 104-degree fever I couldn't get down.
2. If you're going to take a jet-lagged baby for walk around the lobby at 6AM in a convention hotel, don't wear your jammies.  No one else is.
3. If your hotel room doesn't have a refrigerator, just ask.   I wish we would have known this sooner. An overachieving desk clerk mentioned it to us and provided it at no extra charge.
4. To get a baby to sleep in a hotel room when you're not yet ready to go to sleep, hide on the floor.  You heard it here first.

While I am grateful we got to spend those few days with The Boy, joining him on a work trip is not all it's cracked up to be. The most important lesson I learned on our trip: I don't want to do it again any time soon.

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.

Respectfully Challenged

"Respectfully challenge," the defense attorney said about me and in my general direction, but without meeting my eyes. I would have been the last alternate on a full jury, and I was disappointed. When The Boy was summoned last week and groaned about missed time at work and wasted time in the Quiet Room, I scolded him. "The very foundation of the democratic freedoms we enjoy in this country is the right to due process. How can we say we believe in this, but only if it's someone else who has to serve?" I said variations of this for days leading up to his appointed day in court and was met with rolling eyes. He came home from the first day, naturally having been selected, complaining of "idiots" who tried to elude jury duty. "Isn't that what you wanted to do?" I asked.

"C," he said, "A trial by a jury of your peers is essential to our way of life. It may be inconvenient, but I never tried to get out of it. It's my civic duty." I couldn't believe he had the audacity not only to reinvent history, but then to fail to give me attribution. But it is kind of typical.

The day of his trial everything was closed because of an "in like a lion" March Nor'easter. I got a snow day and his work was delayed. But Baltimore City circuit court was right on time! When he got home from his trial, he said, "I don't want to talk about it. I have lost faith in our legal system." He got into multiple arguments while the jury deliberated, once when a juror said she thought the defendant was guilty but that she, "wasn't there" so she couldn't be sure, and again when another juror alleged that he could not possibly understand the plight of the (white) defendant because he was white. The Boy, incredulous, mentioned a related (and expunged) arrest in his history, but to no avail. I asked lots of questions. "You probably won't get picked, you know, just since you want to do it," he said cynically.

So Thursday I made arrangements for everything to get done at work in case I wasn't there. After 5 I was on the road, so I asked The Boy to check the website to see if would need to report to court. I did. I called a cab last night to make sure I'd get there on time. I waited on the bench outside our house with my laptop bag full of snacks and things to read and work on. I found my way at the courthouse. I changed my name and collected $15. I waited my turn. I found (not free) wifi in the courthouse, thus spending my "expense pay" before I ever went to lunch on cab fare and wifi alone.

I was summoned. I paraded in front of the judge, counselors and defendant with minor confessions I swore would not affect my judgment. I didn't think I'd get called. And when my number came up, I stood in front of the lawyers, one of whom "respectfully challenged" my appointment as alternate #3. I saw other jurors, upon having been placed in the box, then "challenged," actually pump their fists with excitement or thank the "challenging" lawyer. I was disappointed. Rebuffed, I'm back in the Quiet Room with the others who were challenged. Thank goodness for wifi and vpns.

Second Trimester Grumblings and Adventures

As it turns out, sharing the news of a well-concealed pregnancy is rather awkward. I told my boss earlier this week, and she was excited. Mentioned nothing of leaving or returning or any of that. Bringing it up in casual conversation, after 16 weeks, is kind of strange. "Yeah, so I'm pregnant," I found myself saying to a colleague the other day. To them, apparently, I do not appear to be pregnant. People say, "You're not even showing...that much," leaving me wondering if I should say, "You're right; I'm probably not even pregnant." But the top two buttons on my pre-pregnancy capris are unbuttoned right now, and it's not just because I'm in the comfort of my own home. The top is secured with a ponytail holder, doubling as a button expander. It's not pretty. When the aforementioned coworker told me to have a great weekend, I told him it would involve buying bigger pants. That hasn't happened yet, though.

These days seem to be filled with "Really, when's the next time we're going to be able to do this?" rationalizing. The Boy is still working on the rooftop deck; after I convinced him he should take me to IHOP for breakfast, I accompanied him to Lowe's for balusters and railings instead of scouring Target and Motherhood for stretchier pants and flowier tops. He has grand plans of bathrooms and new paint and, of course, the nursery, but also all kinds of things an infant would hamper. We've been to Connecticut (a short trip involving a picnic attended leisurely by The Boy's former love. Yes, she knew we would be there. No, she did not think it would be awkward. Everyone survived.); Houston for a wedding and Galveston for a day; we're spending the rest of July at home, then we head to the Outer Banks for a week with representatives from both families (two houses); The Boy's mother is flying in for Labor Day and somewhere in between there are weekend trips and visits yet to be planned, a nursery to be painted, blue or pink to be determined (though the paint will be neutral; this house has to sell eventually).

I've started a prenatal Pilates class and have been seeing a chiropractor I'm now seriously considering dumping after he mentioned, quite harshly and not for the first time, that I would quickly be developing varicose veins on the backs of my knees. I asked him what he proposed I do about it (I've already stopped crossing my legs almost entirely) and what he thought he was accomplishing by mentioning it to a pregnant woman who has plenty of those types of changes on her mind already. He was unfazed.

"Really, don't you have a daughter?" I asked, incredulous, on my face on the table, and very near tears.

"Yes," he replied.

"And do you talk to her that way?"

"Well, no."

"Then please stop talking to me like that! You're only making me feel worse!" He went on, flustered, to tell me my red toenails looked nice, but really, if you have to reach that far to compliment a girl, no one is doing very well. I cried to Amber as I walked home. The Boy referred to him in choice words and said he doesn't want me going back there. But still.

The time has come that The Boy has finally (hesitantly) acknowledged the belly, but it doesn't always show like it should. Sometimes, because of where the pre-pregnancy clothes hit, it just looks like I'm a little chubby around the middle. Especially when I'm seated which, obviously, doesn't sit well with me. I wouldn't mind looking pregnant-- I'm four months along today-- but that's not what it looks like to me. I've taken to casually resting my hand (usually the left one) on my abdomen when in public. Unfortunately, this has led The Boy on multiple occasions and a flight attendant to ask me if I'm all right. Not quite the desired effect.

Women say that the upside of pregnancy and weight gain is larger breasts, and I wish I could agree with them. I'm finding mine impossible to contain. The Boy frequently (especially last week in Galveston at the pool) and openly stares at them. "I'm sorry baby," he says when I reprimand him, "they're just ginormous." I'm starting to feel like a circus freak, and I'm nervous because they are not even serving their purpose yet. I complained at the pool, in my tankini, that I wasn't used to the presence of the belly yet. "Don't worry," The Boy said, eyes glued to my chest, "I don't think anyone is getting that far." Excellent.

At Meg's wedding in Houston last weekend, I wore a dress that I thought mostly concealed my pregnancy just because I still could. It did not, however, conceal the rapidly growing mammaries. I asked her about a large chested bridesmaid whose dress seemed more modest than the others.

"Is Kristy's dress pinned?"

"No, it's sewn with a button inside. I told her the only boobs I wanted on display at my wedding were my own."

"In that case, I apologize." I said, flushing slightly. "I didn't mean anything by it, but since I'm pregnant they've been really hard to control."

She glanced down at them for what was obviously not the first time and said, "That's okay, you weren't up there with me and you have an excuse." Well.

And now I've got to look through my clothes, so many there, so few that still fit, to go sit with another preggo at a bar where we will drink water (I'm so over O'Doul's and don't even ask me about St. Pauli Girl NA) and compare notes and listen to her husband's band. Another activity the baby would hamper. Really, who brings a baby to a bar?

I'm just not myself when I'm away

So where have I been since last we spoke?

The Boy took me for a surprise overnight getaway to New York, to a restaurant with a six-month waiting list (he "knew a guy"), a hotel with four stars, and a Broadway show with five Tonys. We went to his favorite bar, McSorley's, in SoHo, where sawdust covers the floors and actual dust covers everything else; where the only beers they serve are "light" and "dark" and they laugh at you if you try to order a bottle.

I walked around midtown wearing $20 Isaac Mizrahi shoes that dug into my heels and The Boy's suit coat because spring hadn't completely sprung in the big apple, and I had to at least appear to be wearing nice shoes. It was New York, after all.

A couple weeks later, I drove to Richmond to meet Amber and got up at 3:30 on a Saturday morning to fly to our other girls in Savannah.

In perfect weather, we browsed all the shops on River Street, ate at Paula Deen's famous restaurant, The Lady and Sons, went to bed earlier than we care to admit and ate and talked and laughed. Not the same as it used to be, but maybe even better. Because now we appreciate how hard easy friendships are to come by, and how they might never come again.

With The Boy's birthday rapidly approaching, we planned a big evening out. A brother and friends crashed on our couch despite the open beds upstairs; the boys played Guitar Hero in the middle of the night and we took a salsa lesson, I in my ill-chosen 4" red patent leather stilettos, they in their socks. The Boy surprised me by mastering a right turn and demonstrating in front of everyone. We ate empanadas at a big table surprisingly placed on the dance floor, but we yelled over the Spanish and it was fun. We rode around in the back of a white limo on somebody's prom night and pretended it made us matter. And for our last stop, at 2 AM, we picked up a large cheese pizza at Nacho Mama's.

And last weekend we stayed at the condo of our gracious friends in Ocean City. We arrived to white roses and a bottle of sparkling cider with a Happy Anniversary sign. That's right, I've been married for more than a year now. When I isolate the marriage part, I can't believe it. It was supposed to be hard, everyone said, and I guess sometimes it was. But in talking to Beth, another almost no longer a newlywed, we decided the hard stuff was mostly circumstantial, not so much marital. Yeah, in the beginning there were adjustment issues. There still are. But we're learning. The Boy stood in front of me nervous and giggling Saturday night before we left for our anniversary dinner. "This has been the best year ever," he smiled. I did a quick review: a layoff, the wedding and ridiculous honeymoon, but then my ailing father, a new job with little security, very tight finances, another new job, a pregnancy and a miscarriage. "If this was a tough year," he wrote in his card, "can you imagine what a good one would be like?" He produced a gold box with beautiful diamond stud earrings (that I have always wanted). It was too cold for the beach, but it was a beautiful anniversary.

And now, here we are, smack in the middle of spring, in the middle of the city for one more summer.

Irie, Mon

"Who goes to Jamaica for the weekend?" I heard a woman ask her friend. I was sprawled on a lounge chair on a little man-made island in the Caribbean sea, so I didn't really care. I sipped Red Stripe out of a tiny plastic cup that reminded me of my college cafeteria.

"Did you hear that?" I asked The Boy.

"Yeah, I'll tell you who goes to Jamaica for the weekend," he said, "people who can't afford to go for a whole week!"

Our Jamaican vacation was fabulous. When we left for the airport on Friday morning at 6:30, the temperature gauge on my car read 9 degrees. When we arrived in Montego Bay, it was 80. We were sweaty on the way to the resort, but figured a 71-degree temperature differential isn't really a bad problem to have. After a buffet dinner on the beach where The Boy said, "I'm eating too much, right? I should stop. I'll stop," before going for a second plate, we bet on hermit crab races and laughed as we competed with the Canadian couple at our table who refused to bet on the "Canadian" crab. We went to bed before 10 that night and watched CourtTV until we fell asleep. The Boy seemed to have reservations about ending a night on vacation this way, but it felt pretty perfect to me.

We spent all of Saturday and Sunday on the beach. Saturday, I laughed as The Boy ran away from something in the water. Thinking it was a fish or crab he had stepped on, I made fun of him. Turns out he had stepped on a sea urchin that had left its mark all over the sole of his foot. I performed surgery on what looked like tiny porcupine quills. That night we listened to a Jamaican band play American covers and we walked on the beach. We sat at the end of a pier kicking our feet over the dark water and talking about Freakonomics, the book that had somehow been compelling enough to make The Boy read it.

Sunday, we swam in a lagoon between the beach and the island. I was floating over some sea grass, when pain blinded me. I started screaming and flailing wildly, "Oh my God it hurts!" I said, then, "Get it off me! Is it still on me? OH MY GOD!" The Boy looked at me and moved mechanically, helpless while I flailed. I couldn't hear anything but my screaming, but I noticed that everyone on the beach was staring at me. No one made any moves toward us. The Boy helped me limp out of the water. We assumed I had been stung by a jellyfish. "I'm sorry for embarrassing you," I said, trembling on my beach chair while tears stung my eyes, "but I can't tell you how much it hurts." My knee turned deep red and strange marks that looked like lacerations sliced across it. We decided to go to the nurse. As we walked down the beach a little boy approached me.

"What stung you?" he asked. I told him I thought it was a jellyfish. He made a face. He was the nicest stranger I had encountered that day.

"I just know all those parents are saying, 'Don't worry, honey, that lady is crazy. The ocean and all of its creatures are our friends,'" I sniffled, "But you know what? They are wrong."

The nurse asked me what had happened. I told her I thought it was a jellyfish, but I wasn't sure. "It really hurts," I added. "Does this look like a jellyfish sting?"

"I don't know what stung you," she snapped, " I didn't see it."

"Well, is this typically what jellyfish stings look like?" I asked, gesturing to my knee that now appeared to read CE in garish, red raised print. The Boy later tried to interpret what God could be so desperate to tell me that He had to write it on my body.

"I've never seen anything that looked like this," she said, "But I don't work here very often." I could not understand how a nurse in Jamaica had never seen a jellyfish sting. We concluded something far more sinister had attacked me, but we couldn't be sure. I wanted to consult Wilbur, the ancient Jamaican who wandered around the island with a paddleboat full of handmade souvenirs. If he had spent 35 years working in the water, surely he had encountered a sting like this. But talking to Wilbur would mean reentering the water, and I wasn't quite ready to do that. "I bet he's never been stung by a jellyfish," The Boy joked. He made a similar joke about no less than fifty people, including many guests we encountered at the resort and Bob Marley.

Despite our injuries and my stubborn skin that was determined to burn despite my frantic reapplication of SPF 15, we had a great time and 4 days/3 nights felt much longer. I finally devoured Zadie Smith's On Beauty (every time I opened the book around The Boy, he began to pontificate pointlessly about the merits of beauty in his best Sean Connery voice ). The only real tragedy befell The Boy when he finished his book. "I'll never read another book again," he said quietly as he finished the epilogue. I looked at him quizzically. "There has never been another book like this, and I'm sure there won't ever be again." He pouted for a couple of days, even once we returned home and I took him to Barnes and Noble to prove him wrong. No luck so far.

I talked to my brother on the phone last night. "You guys must be really rich," he scoffed, "who goes to Jamaica for the weekend?"

I laughed and explained that he had it all wrong.

Here to Stay is a New Bird

I never intended to be part of a family that traveled for Christmas. It is a well-known and certifiable fact that very few of my intentions and visions for the way my life would progress have come to pass. Per se.

Perhaps my expectations stem from the way my mother's life panned out differently than mine. Though they had grown up forty miles from each other in Maryland, she met her husband at her small-town college in North Carolina. Thus, as a child, I saw both families at every holiday without ever having to travel. I woke up in my own bed every Christmas morning. I was vaguely aware that others handled it differently, but it never occurred to me that there was any reason for that other than preference. That the people who travel for Christmas would want it to be different had never entered my mind. It's starting to now.

Despite enrolling in a small-town Carolina school and becoming engaged to a small-town Indiana boy, marriage at 21 was not meant to be my happily ever after. Mom married her college athlete and sweetheart and graduated pregnant with me at 22. I graduated a month shy of 21 with a fiance overseas who everyone knew I was never going to marry. Everyone but me.

The following snowy February left me with a roadmap reevaluation and few answers. What now? So finally, four Christmases after the one that broke my heart, I am starting to see where I am going instead. Which is, apparently, to New England. At 25, my mother had two babies. At 25, I am a newlywed on the pill. I have still not reconciled my expectations to my reality, however happy it is. But, after last night, I have learned something about families who travel at Christmas.

Mainly, they probably do not provide their coworkers with a variety of cookies in cute holiday tins. This is the first year I have not baked and wrapped and sprinkled and given the week before Christmas. Instead, last night, I did laundry like a person possessed, picked up dry cleaning, and sent my gracious husband to Petsmart for a travel sedative and to Walmart for tampons. In preparation for the week of impromptu high school reunions that always manages to constitute our trips to Connecticut, I made time to get my hair highlighted. Finally, my new blonder bangs falling in my eyes, I stared at a bed full of clothing with nothing to wear.

"I'm sorry to be throwing all of this at you at once," The Boy said, reading our commitments to me off a crumpled piece of paper, "but I have never been this overwhelmed."

I reminded him that this night paled in comparison to the ones leading up to our wedding, but remembered that he had spent those nights texting me from bars and hotels with his pals while my overworked bridesmaids and I maniacally tried to scrape together some semblance of a proper wedding. I was happy for him in retrospect, jealous of him at the time.

We discussed the best way to handle family conflicts, anticipated awkward confrontations, and I nervously penned a conflicted and carefully worded e-mail to The Boy's former love regarding our inevitable presence at the same functions.

I bathed our confused Puggle at midnight and slumped on the wet tile while drying him with a hairdryer so that he wouldn't go to bed shivering and wet.

The presents are wrapped and ready to go, but they are not decked out with ribbons or bows the way they have been in previous years. No one is receiving cookies. We will be staying at my brother-in-law's new condo that he has not had time to move into. We are bringing toilet paper and hand soap, an air mattress and towels. We are probably forgetting everything.

We gathered the dog's blankets and toys, treats and medicine, food and bowls, wondering how he would fit in the car. We pictured him perched precariously atop blanket-covered luggage on the backseat.

As we finally prepared to go to bed, The Boy asked, "How do people with kids do this?" I had been wondering the same thing all night. Initially, this question left me longing for more years of careful child prevention.

"We better hurry up and have kids," The Boy said thoughtfully, "So we can make sure we are the first and everyone will visit us for the holidays."

We are still not sure if the dog and the pillows can both make the trip to New England. Suddenly guest room preparations and grocery shopping don't seem like such a terrible fate.

Finding Good in the Lost and Found

When revisiting the past, it seems the elapsed differences do not whisper subtlety like the sameness does.

"That's the swing where Tara and I sat every night after dinner, eating frozen yogurt and watching boys play...the frisbee that's like football. Ultimate frisbee," I pointed for The Boy. The sameness: the swing is still exactly where it was seven years ago when my frizzy hair and skinny legs met Tara's blue dress and husky voice. The differences: I forgot what the game was called that we were "watching" back then; my hair's not so frizzy, and my legs, at least by my standards, would no longer be classified as skinny. Tara still has the husky voice but not, I suspect, the same blue dress.

To reach the swing, I had to pass a difference. "There used to be a bench there where Mike sat to read Rick Reilly's column every Tuesday afternoon when his Sports Illustrated arrived. When I walked by he would say, 'C. Don't go to work,'" I chuckled to The Boy, "and half the time I wouldn't." The Boy smiled at this story, as he had long ago adopted the phrase from stories I'd told. He says it to me often from his pillow, next to mine, with a fake Southern accent, and especially on Mondays.

Of course, these are minor. There are differences that scream, and there are those that don't have to. Starting six years ago on those grounds, I began a process of pining and losing, growing and finding. I have to believe, and I believe I do, that I found much more than I lost there. Saturday I sat in the new football stadium beside Amber, one of the heartbreakingly loyal and fiercely loving friends I had found, lamenting the things we had lost. The Boy watched football on my other side, and I looped my arm through his, basking in how ordinary the moment seemed; how unlikely and beautiful it actually was.

Years earlier in that town I lost years on a Lost Boy who made me, inadvertently, lose myself. But I found myself again soon after and with a vengeance.

I looked at The Boy who followed me to that same one-stoplight town just to see the setting of so many stories. The Boy I, logically, never should have met, let alone married. The unlikely Boy who had become my favorite person and biggest love. We bought coffee at Broad River. We walked through the quad, and somehow it all made him think about what he had lost, or rather, never had the chance to have.

"This just looks like a college, you know?" he said, echoing my seven-year-old sentiment. He said it made him long for an experience he had long ago decided against. He had worked long hours before and after classes he commuted to. He never had a dorm or a roommate or a swing on the quad. I mirrored his wistfulness, realizing that experience had teamed with other hard ones to bring him to me, in his current state. But it still made me sad.

The things I found cannot be separated from the people I found, and differences in them are just as apparent. I met Amber in our first class on the first day of school. We had been paired together to interview each other. She was wearing a sweater even though it was August, and she admitted she had dressed as the mascot at her high school. I knew we would be friends. This weekend I hugged her and her two-year-old and helped bathe her two-month-old. The Boy, though he would not go near him at first, held the baby to his heart before we left.

"So, do you think we can have one of these?" I whispered.

"Not soon or anything," he prefaced, "but definitely."

Edie, on the other hand, had initially descended on my life whether I liked it or not. And at first, I had not. We had been assigned to each other as roommates; I tried to switch rooms before I had even met her. The night before orientation, our unassuming RA interrupted my new roommate's shower to announce my presence. Edie met me, my siblings and both of my parents while wearing a bath robe and a towel turban. She thought I was weird because I hung a poster of a barechested Brady Anderson in close proximity to a photograph of Mother Teresa. I thought she could eat me for breakfast. We remained roommates for the better part of six years. In my wedding program, though I had known her as long as the others who were labeled, "College Friends," she was marked, "College Roommate." And only she understood the distinction. We talked this weekend about her relocation, adjustments and plans, and a gay hairdresser who had become a real friend.

On the way home Sunday, we stopped in Greensboro so I could see my boys. Or rather, the men who used to be my boys. They were joined respectively by Mike's wife, whom we all met in college, and Tripp's new girlfriend-- and I had a hunch she wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. Sameness and differences. I introduced them to The Boy, who loved them as I knew he would. "If for some reason they were ever local," he said later, "I feel like we'd be boys." I was thrilled he felt the way I figured he would; my love of these people justified, despite its defiance of the time/space continuum. When we ordered lunch, Tripp, ever the token thinker and philosopher, ordered his sandwich with green peppers, but not red. The waitress soon returned and informed him that, though she thought it was stupid, he could not order only one kind of pepper. "It's all or nothing," she shrugged.

And this may have been one of the bigger differences I saw. He did not appear to contemplate; he said, "All." Though I may have fabricated the metaphor, I smiled at the pretty blonde beside him, at the irony of progress abundant all weekend, and at the relief that not everything good goes away.

Carolina in My Mind

My paternal grandfather, the remaining Pop Pop, has picked up an unusual habit.

"Boop-boop-be-doo!" He said in a sing-song voice several octaves higher than usual. "Christina," he said, rolling the 'r' as if the rest of the sentence were also in Greek, "do you know who says that?"

"Betty Boop," I answered, having already heard how his pastor informed him of this fact, which had apparently been a complete revelation.

"I already told you?" He asked. He seems to be ratcheting up the unintentional comedy factor as he racks up the years. Throughout the week of Family Togetherness in the Outer Banks, this conversation happened even more often than his public service announcements that he wanted to be alive to meet his great-grandchildren, and, at nearly 77, he is not getting any younger. We talked procreation planning with my mother and more reluctant father.

"I don't remember planning any of you guys," Dad said.

"Well," The Boy replied too quickly, "if we get pregnant, it'll be a failure of modern medicine." I'm going to have to warn him against making strong statements about that which cannot be controlled. And also that we will not be pushing the kid(s) out together so we will not claim to be pregnant. I digress.

Stuck in traffic on 95 South last Saturday morning (then 64 East, then every road southeast of that), I wore my floppy hat so The Boy could live out his lifelong dream of driving to the beach with the windows down. Personally, I doubt the alleged longevity of this dream, but that's how important he made it sound.

The traffic didn't bother me, but then I wasn't driving. I had to apologize for not wanting to leave at 5 am because, The Boy assured me, we would have beaten the traffic then. As it was, we beat The Fam by a couple of hours. The Boy suggested I thank him for nixing the family caravan idea with which I had previously flirted. Once we crossed the Wright Memorial Bridge and picked up the keys to the house, he smiled sheepishly. "Okay. I'm getting a little excited."

Turns out there was nothing fake about what I had initially dubbed our fake vacation.

"If this is fake, what would you consider a real vacation?" The Boy quizzed me as we unpacked the car.

"Well, you know, I mean, it's not like one we planned. Not like Tahiti."

"I hate to tell you this, baby, but if Tahiti is your only example of a 'real vacation,' you might never see one of those again."

Perhaps so.

Nothing could have been finer than last week's Carolina. I relished guiding The Boy past Jockey's Ridge, through Kitty Hawk and into Nags Head, where a younger version of me took over. I remember bent-knee cartwheels on those beaches, getting wiped out in that part of the ocean. I'm told I described the taste of the ocean as "wet salty popcorn." I remember hunting sandcrabs at night using flashlights and wearing sweatshirts.

Only the wiped out part happened on this trip, but I still remembered.

We had waves for two days, calm for the rest. The Boy grilled chicken and pineapple for my family who sat at a sunny dining room table with 12 chairs. Everyone fit; my mother glowed.

"What do you call this?" Pop asked, spearing a slice of grilled pineapple.

"Grilled pineapple," The Boy said, choking on his own. Pop was rather taken with The Boy already, but his mastery of unusual fruit preparation seemed to have him hooked.

"You know, Christina," he said, again with the rolled 'r,' "Your husband fits in very well with this family. And how wonderful too, because it's important for him to be around family when his isn't always as close." While his quirks have gotten away from him, his perception has certainly not.

Little Sister was beside herself, as she has not grown up on that beach. She giggled as older boys watched her walk by in the parade of bikinis I never would have been allowed to wear.

I giggled because this was the first vacation I'd brought a boy on. Only he was The Boy, and we got to sleep in the same bed without a second thought. We felt a little awkward anyway.

Wednesday, while our suitcases sat on our shared bed, packed and ready to go, The Boy and I stood on the beach. "We don't have to go, you know," he said, though it felt like a foreign concept. We decided to stay another day. We took turns calling offices from his cell phone, while waves crashed in the not so distant background. I mentioned my guilt as I waited for one of my coworkers to pick up. "It's a rubber ball, baby," The Boy reminded me of our metaphor that keeps jobs in perspective. All the other balls we juggle are glass.

We walked back down the beach instead of back to the house. We drove through Brew Thru because The Boy couldn't imagine having driven by one and not going through. He taught Little Sister to play Texas Hold 'Em and Five Card Stud and came to bed shaken after giving an impromptu lecture on abstinence.

"I know you said sometimes you think it's a little too much," Pop said the next day, "But that husband of yours really does fit in. You have to realize what a gift that is." And I do.

Today The Boy called me from work.

"I think I have to stay late, but I'm just not feeling it. I just want to quit working and go to the beach every day with you."

"We could do that," I replied, "but not without building a lean-to and living off the land."

We've tabled that idea, but only for now.

Too Hot to Handle

I'm smoldering, yes, but not in the preferred way. The new job presents, with its remote parking, 40-degrees-cooler-than-outside temperature and known sexual harrasser, unique wardrobe challenges. First, footwear. I've cracked. I mean, not to the level that I wear sensible shoes all day long, but I do flip flop across the radiating pavement with a jacket/blazer slung over my bag. I continue flipping into the office, as I haven't yet figured out how to seamlessly change my shoes while "commuting." By the time I reach my second floor desk I'm already cold and donning the jacket. Now, where it gets tricky. In my first seven weeks on the job, despite the at times triple-digit outdoor temperatures, I wore pants. On purpose. I have ventured this week to skirts, capris and even-- dare I admit it-- Bermuda shorts. I hope I'm not too risque.

The weeks have kept us longing and the weekends have kept us moving. I attended my first baby shower as a married woman. I had not predicted the pseudo pressure from strangers, though maybe I should have. I glanced across the room at the adorable girl in the white pants, married just a year. She graciously admitted she and her husband just weren't ready yet, amid increasingly pressing questions. "For one thing," I swooped in attempting to help, "We can still wear white pants." They laughed. I looked around at my friend's happily crowding life. I'm pleased that I don't dread it, but also that I don't need it yet. I asked The Boy if these contradictory feelings were strange. He didn't think so.

We ventured up to Pittsburgh with the Old Roommate. Feeling sheepish about our preconceived attitudes, we couldn't believe how pretty it was. I teared up at the wedding the bride said she thought would never come while my husband squeezed my hand. "You were the most beautiful wife I have ever seen." I smiled at his statement, and not only because he said "wife" when he meant "bride." In the bathroom at the reception, I winced while I peed as I overheard a bridesmaid sniffling that everything had been different since she got married. Because even if it's mostly good, it's true.

I discovered IC Light; The Boy discovered PNC Park. We walked through an unfamiliar city holding hands, looking up, and wondering if our life would ever be set against a completely foreign backdrop. For now, we'll settle for planning frugal and far out visits to our increasingly far flung friends. Something's got to distract us from the thick haze of this Baltimore summer. I may be the only person to utter this, but thank goodness for BGE.

Inspired by Holden Caulfield

Alas, I cannot tell you the situation with The Creep has gotten any better. Instead, it's only gotten formally documented and awkwardly silent. And also, I kind of hate the Radiohead song I had previously loved for years. So there's that.

It's possible that many had assumed I had become one of those girls who gets married and gets lost. And it's possible, a little bit, that I have. But only a little. The bit of monotony I've found I have latched happily onto. The married part of married life is just fanfrickintastic. It's the life part that's causing a little trouble. At the gym Tuesday I smiled at the girl with the large, sparkling solitaire huffing frantically next to me on the elyptical. I hoped she saw my double rings and that I was on the elyptical. Maybe not still, but again. If a little halfheartedly.

The long weekend in New England was certainly long. And it is never boring. I got more sun in three afternoons on the Long Island Sound than I did in a week and a half in French Polynesia. I've never been so happy to see tanlines. We crashed a ridiculous beachfront party and saw fireworks that made me gasp and arch my neck to the sky so long and hard that the crick lasted for hours. I thought the fireworks would fall on my head. They weren't the only ones I saw that weekend, and that's not necessarily great.

Rock Star Brother (in law) called today with big news involving a tour with Scott Stapp, formerly of Creed fame, but more recently of sex tape scandal with Kid Rock and Christmastime fisticuffs with 311 fame. That Scott Stapp. I advised that he enjoy the ride while grasping his dream. But more importantly, should he find himself in a crowded tour bus with mutliple naked rockstars and groupies, that he run fast and far.

Blame it on the Rain

Nothing is the same as when I left, except for my skin color, thanks to unprecedented cloudy skies in Tahiti.

I'm married now, with the doubled rings, license, and maiden/middle name to prove it. That, I love. I love that The Boy is now my husband. I love that, despite our new shared habit of popping melatonin on restless nights, at least we are together. Our room. Our bed. These are things I've had no problem sharing. (I just wish my shoes could inhabit the space with us, but, alas, it was not meant to be in this house.)

The honeymoon was gorgeous and blissful, even if the weather was not. (The iPod and docking station, pictured above, were named Honeymoon MVPs). It was an adventure; it was romantic; we felt more together than ever. We relished being so. far. away. We vowed not to check e-mail and were never tempted to. We reminded each other we were 8,000 miles from home.

Until breakfast on Tuesday, our second morning in Bora Bora. The Boy, who fancies himself a pseudo meteorologist, predicted sunny skies by noon. He had been right on the previous day-- the only day of the entire trip when we witnessed a sunrise and sunset. We talked about our plans for the day, which included jet skiing and riding ATVs in the mountains. Jerome, the concierge, shattered the reverie, presenting me with a slip of paper with an American number. I remember the word, "urgent;" I recall the phrase, "as soon as is possible," in a stilted French lilt. I followed him to the front desk, leaving The Boy with coffee and the check. I made rambling conversation about the weather.

My hand shook as I held the phone in Jerome's office. My mother was the only one who had our emergency numbers. But she wasn't calling. If something had been wrong with her, Dad would have called-- no question.

The Boy materialized at my side, clutching my hand. My aunt talked too calmly. She mentioned Dad. Said he had "fallen ill;" something about "episodes" and "blockages." My mind couldn't keep up. I had to remind it that "fallen ill" was different than "fallen." I heard "five bypasses" and stumbled. I gasped and sobbed and shook my head. I begged my aunt to talk to The Boy, who hadn't heard a word.

On the way to our gorgeous bungalow, the sun began shining. My eyes were swollen slits and I didn't hide my tears from the other honeymooners. I remember telling The Boy, "I feel like my feet aren't even touching the ground. This can't be real, right?" He didn't respond. When we arrived in the room he spun quickly and caught me, though I hadn't even realized I was falling. We spent over $100 in international calls just to get on earlier flights. I wandered from room to room with random articles in my hands. I found myself plucking stray eyebrows in the magnifying mirror, then swearing at the phone that wasn't ringing. I cried.

We sat for ten hours in three different airports. We traveled for thirty hours, in the same clothes, no meals, no showers. Antsy and anxious, we opened all of our wedding presents when we got home. They are still scattered around the dining room. Thursday, before we visited my dad for the first time, I wrung my hands in the elevator. At my wedding, my father looked the best I can ever remember. I wasn't prepared to see the worst.

Yet again in a matter of days that felt much longer, The Boy held me up. Dad smiled weakly and asked how our trip was. Tubes and oxygen, bruises and blood crowded his bedside. I kissed his face and scratched his head. He didn't look like my dad. He was swollen, but looked smaller. I still cry for him a little part of every day.

He is healing, stabilizing. Will eventually be better than normal. Thank God for warnings and second chances, I tell everyone. And myself.

We are thankful, distracted, burdened. Heavy. Trying to create a beginning at what feels inexplicably like an end. But we are grateful for a life full of promise. Each night longing for sleep, clinging to each other.

Pre-Marital Absurdity

Florida: Come for the empty promise of sunshine, stay for the torrential rains. Witness The Boy walking on water. Take a good look, I feel certain it's as close as he'll ever get...

We took his mother to her first baseball game in Ft. Lauderdale and we established a plan of attack for our rapidly (rabidly?) approaching Blessed Event. We remembered why we're doing this. On the plane home, we played hangman (as always), with words like "Mosotos" and "Tahiti." The Boy video taped me saying I would not freak out about the wedding and that "everything would be fine." He has already played it back for me twice since then.

I have done enough fake calligraphy that I feared my finger cramps would never go away. Yesterday, The Boy carried two boxes of double-bagged invitations to the post office and weighed them a second time, just to make sure. "There's no turning back, you know. Not now," he told me when he returned. And I did know. And it felt fantastic.

My grandmother accompanied me to my gown fitting and took pictures that make me wonder how I'll actually feel about how I look at the Blessed Event. I accompanied my mom to search for her dress, and The Boy's mother called to inform me that, instead of wearing a dress "the color of water," as she had originally planned, she has now purchased a dress that is cream. When I reminded her that my dress is ivory, she said, "Yes, but it's a dark cream. It doesn't look anything like yours." I felt rather stuck, assuring myself that no one would get the two of us confused, but I also wondered if maybe Betsy at BridalMart was right-- maybe I do need a veil. Just so people know that I'm the bride.

Thank you for indulging my insanity-- this has become my world. And if you've never done it you're going to have to take my word for it; no matter how much I've tried to avoid this consumption, it is in fact, unavoidable. If you're not interested in the inevitable insanity, I suggest you take a 45 day vacation-- or longer-- from this publication. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Not to mention Pilates and teeth-whitening and tanning. And various other clichés.

No Time to Say Hello, Good-bye

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

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

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

Turkey Redux

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look, baby.”

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

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

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

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

Portable Home

Skipped class last night only to encounter a frantic Boy. The alleged night off became Outback takeout on particle board desks while we collaborated on deadline. But it was kind of fun in an I always wish I was Keri Russell’s Felicity kind of way. As long as I heard her Kate Bush-inspired soundtrack in my head, I could persevere.

The result of all that collaboration is that I’m not ready to go. And I’m supposed to be ready to go in less than a couple of hours. With half of the duo known as the grandparents and the entirety of their house now gone, traditions are being re-thought. Thanksgiving has moved, for my family, to Virginia, and now that I’m half of a we, I can’t justify traveling to see the family who lives near us. So tonight, we head to Connecticut for what I believe is the longest trip in our brief history. And what is definitely our first joint holiday on purpose.

The Mother will still be in New England at this time, so I will also be experiencing my first divorced holiday. Multiple dinners at multiple houses for different reasons than that has happened before. At least both of our families don’t live in the same state. I can’t even fathom 3-4 Thanksgiving dinners.

I just received the fourth terse phone call of the day from The Boy, who keeps sneakily trying to push our departure time up. I wish I would have anticipated that when I could not drag myself from bed this morning. Last time I was outside it felt like the Wizard of Oz, and I know New York, Jersey and Connecticut are all expecting snow tonight, so I guess we should get on the road. I know how people here get with even a hint of rain, so if they’ve heard the forecast for New England, we could be in trouble…

So I’m stuck between elation and sadness, in the vast middleground of melancholy, as I try to remind myself that no matter where I am on Thursday, things will never again be like last year.

The Cemetery and a Stale Grilled Cheese

My old stomping grounds have turned into a graveyard. Burial grounds. And everyone knows you shouldn’t stomp on the departed, even if the parting was not so dear.

As my unfortunate Marital False Start had its roots at said grounds, it is only reasonable to expect certain ghosts to appear. Such as the inevitable “I thought you were married” exclamations or the uncomfortable practice of omitting an obvious name from discussions. I expected such instances, so I was prepared.

I was not, however, prepared to hear Best Friend from College’s husband yell, at the football game, “C! This guy knows Leland!” Leland is not his actual name, but a mocking nickname my “friends” assigned to him. He didn’t know it was mocking. They didn’t think I was serious.

To this day, I would prefer to refer to this guy as “Mulligan.” I cannot offer an excuse for having dated him…or maybe it’s more like, as Jennifer Love Hewitt’s Amanda said in Can’t Hardly Wait, “I mean…I know why I started dating him, but…I just don’t know why it went on so long.” Friends and loved ones offer remembrances that are far from complimentary. I cannot argue; they’re right. So, obviously, that’s one that’s better left in the past. And it was the last thing I expected to encounter at The Cemetery.

Making matters worse, the guy who admitted to knowing Mulligan happened to be False Start’s roommate in his senior year. So, you can just imagine how that conversation went. I don’t think I need to crystallize it for you.

Otherwise, I saw ghosts whose names I could not remember, ghosts with whom I avoided eye contact, and ghosts whom I hugged ferociously. I ate at Yamato Express, my chicken teriyaki measuring stick to which no other Japanese restaurant has ever been able to compare. I saw my brother starting out “on his own.” My friends and I pointed out our successors. Then we ate Dairy Queen and went to bed at the Red Roof Inn before midnight, talking about birthing centers. And things have changed.

But before all of that, Mom and I went to buy a wedding dress. Again, but for the first time.

Our trip took hours longer than it should have, and the day began with my attempt to leave the house at 4:51 a.m. I had meant to leave at 6:00. I am never early, least of all before dawn. In my anxiety about oversleeping, I inadvertently reset my clock, resulting in my being all packed up and ready to go at nine ‘til five. I laid back down in my clothes for an hour. Then, attempting to back out of the space I probably could have just pulled out of, in my haze, I slammed into the car behind me. I did a thorough evaluation of damage from inside my car, and decided it was minimal.

When we finally arrived in Burlington, I was annoyed that I could only take three dresses at a time (a rule we promptly broke) and that I was virtually invisible to anyone with a nametag. Finally interrupting Betsy’s conversation, I asked if I could borrow a bra.

“We don’t do that anymore,” she said, “the bras were getting destroyed.”

I tried not to appear upset. Because I traveled hundreds of miles in pursuit of the dress at this store.

“Most girls just pull their straps down,” she said.

In my head: “This is my wedding dress. I am not pulling straps down. And anyway, I’m wearing a racerback bra.” I said none of this, just huffed over to my mom to relay the news.

Then, I had my first inexplicably emotional bridal moment. My eyes welled up with tears. Mom put an end to that nonsense and attempted to buy me a bra. I tried it on and laughed hysterically. B and D do sound similar, but the difference is marked.

With the proper underarmor (including proper undies—I remembered this time), I began trying on dresses. This store is supposedly “discount,” and apparently the term extends not only to service and undergarments, but also to the existence of the fitting rooms. There aren’t any. There are stalls. Like for cattle at the Indiana State Fair.

So, in my coral Hanes Her Ways, I began the three-and-a-half hour process that resulted in my trying on the same Monique Lhuillier knock-off dress three times. It was so much more than I planned to spend, but so much more beautiful than anything I’d seen. As I walked back to the stall after the second attempt, Mom said to Betsy, “You know which one we’re leaving with, right?”

She responded, “Of course, she’s just making sure she does.”

We walked out with THE dress. And, if it really looks the way I think it does, I couldn’t be happier.

Sunday involved church and lunch with the lost boys who deliberately mortified me over my story by repeating one of the lines ad nauseum and then, when I didn't pick up on it, they acted out the final scene as we said good-bye. A grilled sandwich has never caused anyone so much heartache.

Mama, I'm Coming Home. . .Sort of

After The Boy’s meeting with the self-proclaimed Bishop of Baltimore ran late (what? Pentecostal preachers have their own, unique sense of time? You don’t say!), we missed our flight to Hartford. We didn’t, as Brother’s Middle Eastern drivers’ improvement teacher would say, “get sweaty,” because Southwest usually has flights there every 45 minutes or so. Not on this Tuesday afternoon. We were delayed two and a half hours.

We arrived at Bradley International at 4:47. Doors opened at the Meadows at 5:00 and Rock Star Brother was set to go on at 6:00. Somehow, we made it to our $100 rental Hyundai (no, really—there are drawbacks to being under 25) and to the hotel where everyone else had already checked in. The guy at the desk looked concerned when we told him we planned on walking to the concert.

“Uhh, is it just going to be the two of you?” He asked. “Just be careful around the bookstore. I mean, it’s safe and everything, but you’ll probably get hustled.”

We were glad to find free parking at the Meadows. We met up with the siblings and assorted friends and made it into the arena just in time. Just in time for me to have it out with three separate “staff members” because they would not allow us access in front of the stage. Even though, because they were the first act, there were hundreds of empty seats. And even though I offered to allow them to escort us back to our real seats after Rock Star Brother finished. And even though I volunteered to show them The Boy’s ID to prove his relationship. The Sister and Other Brother managed to get down there with a couple of self-important friends. Hope they enjoyed the show. But RSB and friends did wonderfully, and it was really exciting to see him in such a big venue.

We were back in the area by 9:30 yesterday morning, so a full day at the office and a 7:30 meeting today and I feel (and, honestly, look) like a zombie. I had planned on leaving for Carolina after work today, but something came up, so it’ll be another early morning for this tired soul.

Tomorrow, if we ever get there (I’ll see you when I get there), marks the beginning of The Search. Mom and I (and maybe Best Friend from college and The Roommate) will scour racks of discount wedding dresses in Burlington. As we sat to discuss wedding budgeting and planning with the parents last weekend, BigJohn, without a hint of sarcasm, said, “Why don’t you take that other one down with you and see if you can make a trade?” This, only a week after, loading groceries into The Boy’s trunk, I noticed a familiar balled up plastic garment bag. Emblazoned with the words, and I am not making this up, “All the Right Choices.” My skeleton found a new, if temporary, home. The Boy said, “I ride around all day with irony in my trunk.” For those who may remember The Marital False Start of 2002, I feel like I need to qualify every wedding planning statement with “No, really!” or, “For real this time!”

It’s like those chicken sandwich ads, “Try it again, for the first time.” Oy.

This weekend Dwayne Johnson and I will also descend upon my old stomping grounds for Homecoming. I always have mixed feelings about this, as it usually resorts in my feeling out of place, heading for the hills and wondering why I wanted to visit in the first place. Hopefully, it will be more pleasant than I anticipate.

If you're going to be there too, hit me up.

Verbal Scenery for Your Day

Venturing up to Hartford this afternoon for the Rock Star Brother's BIG show with Audioslave and Seether. We are trying to fool ourselves into believing this is a mini-vacation so that the insane logistics don't render us suicidal. Wish us luck on that one.

In the meantime, since I can't really post, I thought you might like to see one of my recent pieces.

And, not that you would, but don't even think about disrespecting me or my work by ganking it (see licensing below). That kind of insurrection will not stand ... man. That being said, enjoy. Or don't. It's up to you!

Crossing Paths at Cross Street Market

On Sunday afternoon at Cross Street Market, no one shops. The wide aisle dividing the building is usually crowded with bodies buying stargazer lilies, steaks, pies, and salmon. But on Sundays, the only part of the market doing business sells beer. Around wooden barrels and stools, crowds congregate—as diverse as the drinks in their hands. Watching football or not, Cross Street’s patrons occasionally collide, but they never intersect.

This particular Sunday concludes Cross Street’s grand re-opening celebration. Mayor Martin O’Malley ceremoniously cut the ribbon after the $1.3 million dollar renovation, but the market never actually closed.
The bar area is transformed; exposed duct work and beams make way for tin awnings over each refurbished bar. Brick tiles shimmer on the floor, though, judging by the crowd, they probably won’t for long.
The new Cross Street Market feels a bit more sashimi and bottled beer than crabs and kegs. A sushi chef in a Ravens hat rings a bell—order up.

A pony-tailed teenager flip-flops by, wrinkling her nose. “It smells weird in here,” she remarks loudly.

Eating a seaweed roll, a middle-aged man talks with his mouth full.

“It’s the younger generation’s appreciation for the older generation.” He nearly shouts, “You gotta like it. There’s a sense of fair play in the world.”

His blonde companion chain smokes and smiles. The cement bar around them is littered with empty Heineken keg cans and the market’s infamous four-dollar, 32-ounce beer cups. In front of the blonde sits a half bottle of chardonnay. It is empty.

The couple leaves behind only the bottle and two cigarette butts, lying in an empty oyster shell.

They walk past two round men in Ravens jerseys watching the game at the end of the bar. The older man’s bald head and hoop earring gleam. He laughs and slaps the younger man’s black jersey. The younger man hunches over. His fuzzy blond hair reminds no one of the man whose name he wears. Deion Sanders isn’t really here.

By another T.V., Ravens shirts hold plastic cups and huddle around an overturned barrel. A rumpled man in a flannel shirt interrupts the mass of purple. His enthusiasm is his ticket into this crowd. When officials call a penalty against the Ravens, he shouts disapproval the loudest. He stays.

A woman in a Steelers jersey and red lipstick stands at a bar looking lost. She is not invited to approach the barrel.

Farther down the bar, football does not exist. Poster-board signs declare, “We Need 1’s, 5’s and 10’s. No 20’s, 50’s or Fake 100’s. We Have Plenty.” Two women sit below the signs, drinking Coronas.

“This is what I mean about playing these mind games,” one says, mercilessly separating an oyster from its shell. “That’s the part that rises my blood pressure, and due to my unhappiness, I will not have good health.” She swears, “I knew better. I knew all along he was leaving. I felt it.” The other woman nods and sips her beer.

Also tuning out the game, grey-haired men with wrinkled jackets and puffy faces stand around a picnic table that holds no plastic cups. Drinking Budweiser and Amstel Light from bottles, they laugh as one man casts an imaginary fishing line. Somebody’s grandson looks on from his stroller.

Back at the magnetic barrel, a bearded man in a straw hat and Ravens golf shirt approaches. He holds a plastic cup of Guinness that is big enough to share. The circle widens to accommodate him.

Late-twenties men and women in baseball caps mill past the barrel, oblivious to the 16-3 Ravens score that could mean this season’s first win. They stay across the room.

The woman at the bar rages on, interrupting herself only to order six more oysters. “He said, ‘I did not purposely not call you back,’” she lowers her voice, then bellows, “But you’re not sorry neither? I was just sitting in disbelief. It’s the principle of the thing.” The silent woman excuses herself. She walks several feet behind her to kiss a man slouching on a barstool, watching the game and nursing a beer.

Half the room celebrates as Ray Lewis makes a tackle and pounds his chest. Although his shirt wanders around the bar, Ray Lewis isn’t really here either.

Blocking a T.V., the pony-tailed bartender wears a shirt that reads, “I see drunk people,” and shells oysters. She assures a patron that he is not eating live oysters.

“I kill them when I open them. When I cut the muscle, I’m actually cutting the heart.” She laughs a mock evil laugh, not noticing the man’s look of horror.

Once her friend returns, the woman at the bar finishes her beer and sighs, “I just gotta get some anger out right now. But not today.”

Powerless Lines, Quality Time and Running in the Dark

Despite the devastation in the Gulf states, Dad and I soldiered on to Texas on Thursday. Which was probably not the best plan, but I wasn't about to question BigJohn. (A word on the ultracatastrophe that is Katrina: I am not, and have never claimed to be, a journalist. Therefore, I am not going to pretend to be now. If you guys want to donate, you know where to look, and that's not why you're here anyway. My saying more on the subject seems only to minimize it, which I refuse to do.)

We stayed in Alabama Thursday night, then nearly ran out of gas Friday in Mississippi. We were too far north to witness the worst of it, but there were trees and huge road signs down all over the place, and the power was out at most of the exits. When we stopped for lunch at 1:00, we saw a mile-long line at a gas station that didn't even have gas. We were told some of the people there had been waiting since 5:30. I had to wonder what made these people panic; most of those we saw were not evacuees, but North Mississippians scrambling. The picture at left is of our gas line. It was at least a mile long when we found the end of it, and we sat for three hours. We could only use the air conditioner whenever we moved the car (sometimes an hour passed in between moves). We still felt fortunate to have gotten gas at all, as there was no guarantee that, at the end of the line, we wouldn't just be stuck.

We caught up with brother east of Dallas near 11:00, where I had three harrowing insect encounters within five minutes. They're not lying about the fire ants, I can tell you that. A night in a run-down motel (not too much choice regarding accommodations), a quick lunch with brother and his pals and a trip to Best Buy (their favorite place to play), where Danny grabbed my face and said, "Stay here as long as you can," and we were already off to the airport. So no QT with the bro, but it was good just to see him and that he is happy. Dad and I were the last two to check in, but we boarded in time and spent the last of our quality time together-- and I do not use that phrase in jest. Amid conversations about politics and consequences, engagements and mistakes, baseball and God, Cat Stevens and credit, I found my relationship with Dad never really got lost, even if I did. So, thanks be to God, time, The Boy, and Dwayne Johnson for that.

Sunday brought lots of showing off (the aforementioned) Dwayne Johnson to various churchmembers who "just knew," then Little Sister and I began our, as she put it, "significant plans." We went semi-successfully shopping and packed a snack to eat in the park, where I saw not one but two Sunday brides who made me act like a crazyheaded woman and get jealous that it wasn't me. (I don't know if you picked up on it, but I'm not so much digging the planning of this blessed event.)

Little Sister and I cooked dinner and watched movies and made each other laugh. Monday's great plans were shot to hell with a migraine, but we managed to get some discount shopping in, where Little Sister purchased an outfit for picture day that didn't quite pass my fake-maternal inspection. I reported it to the Grand Poobah of these issues (aka, Little Sister's real mom), at which Little Sister got angry. I had to tell her that, although I am always on her side, it may not always feel like it. I think she's starting to figure out that I'm actually on Mom's team. I feel like Darth Vader. (I apologize, I really don't care enough for that series to make vague references to it.)

In all of this meantime, The Boy spent the weekend in Connecticut at various picnics and what have you's, even managing to get his father to offer to contribute to our (thus far non-existent) honeymoon fund. The hearty laughs at "Fiji" as the answer to the question, "Where are you thinking about going," confirmed my thoughts that that might be a better anniversary destination. I have yet to see The Boy since last I posted, and, given the choice between the company of him or Dwayne Johnson, I definitely choose him. The Boy maintains that that's not what I might have said two weeks ago, but he is incorrect. And anyway, even if he isn't, sometimes we say things we don't mean.

All of this engagement has inspired me to try to act like a grown-up. Which is fine and good until someone notices, and then it's just embarrassing. For example, at 7:45 am in the 5th floor cafe.

Hawaiian Shirt Guy: "WHOA!" (pretends to faint) "Christina?" (looks at his watch) What are YOU doing here?"

Me: You know, getting married, have to be responsible, etc.

Undaunted by the mocking, this morning I went running at 5:30. At first, I feared that the other runners might shun me, since they have not seen me before and have no guarantee, even from me, that they will ever see me again. But they spoke to me. It was like being accepted into an exclusive club. It felt good. Maybe I'll even do it again someday. Because, let's be honest, I am getting married. In college we called the pre-marital scramble for fitness the LGN (Look Good Naked) plan. I'm not trying to brag or anything, but I've also never had terrible issues with self-esteem, so I've amended the plan to LBN (Look Better Naked). And so, I should get on that.

Tomorrow brings a morning meeting with an events coordinator at Reception Option #2 and dinner with the would-be caterer. Hooray for progress, because I can't wait until these details are ironed out. Raise your hand if you'd like to be on my list of "delegates" (i.e., people I delegate the rest of my wedding planning to)...