That New Hit Song, "Alone in my Principles"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eating Crow

At a wedding a few years ago, I ran into the older sister of a good friend. I had mostly looked up to her; she had recently gotten married. I had recently endured the unfortunate Marital False Start. Not a little disillusioned, I smiled tightly and asked her, "How's married life?"

Her new, curly-haired husband behind her, she shot him a glance and muttered, "Umm, it's an adjustment," in too many Southern syllables. My face fell. I wanted her to tell me I was right before, wrong to lose faith. I wanted her to tell me it was better than she ever expected. She didn't.

I have often thought of her, and repeated that line in jest. But I haven't made fun of late, as life has been full of serious adjustments.

My husband leaves his boxers and shorts on the shelf in the bathroom where he sheds them to shower. Every day. If he wonders, he never asks how said shorts miraculously appear under his pillow each night when he needs them. Nor does he question who made our bed, though he usually exits it long after I'm out the door. These are adjustments.

But mostly the adjustments have had little do "us." I'm aware that my speech patterns have changed. I'm self conscious of the "we" and "My husband" clauses that pepper my language. Of my six inboxes, only two bear the right name. My fingers shake and pause while I decide who I am today. Credit card receipts? Old name. Benefits forms? New name. ID to go with credit card receipts? License. ID to go with work-issued badges? Passport. And so on.

I am relearning the meaning of working for the weekend. I never wanted to be the kind of person who danced for joy on Fridays. However, on the past two Fridays, I could have worn Hawaiian shirts with pride; I was so excited. The Boy felt the same. In celebration, I drank more than a beer and a half. I anticipate the trend will continue. Fortunately, it's light beer.

Saturday we walked miles of city asphalt, stopping for drinks and kebabs at street festivals, buying used cds and clothes. We cooked a heart healthy feast for Dad on Sunday to mark the most important Father's Day yet. On the way home, with the windows open (causing my not quite long enough layers to escape my ponytail and whip me in the face), I squinted and sighed. "I just need one more day," I told The Boy. There's another adjustment. The return of the Sunday night depression. I have not yet discovered a cure for that one.

This week, we look forward to the comeback of at least a little normalcy. Gyms will be visited, meals will be crafted instead of nuked. But Friday will come, bearing the promise of great seats to the sold-out Battle of the Beltway, and I will be there. Light beer in hand.

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.

Using Your Words

On the phone with The Boy, I just said, "Foof."

"Foof is right," he replied. And so, it has come down to this. I have lost my vocabulary.

The rental coordinator, Ira, called today to tell me he "took the liberty" of scoping out Federal Hill this morning. He mentioned newly planted grass and orange caution tape at our wedding site. He assumed I knew about it. I didn't. We're taking a trip over sometime (we're running out of it) to assess the damage and plan the control. How would tulle look draped over caution tape? (In a related story, our wedding coordinator, Marlene, sent us an email a couple of weeks ago mentioning condoms and needles she saw while walking in the park. We appreciated her...specificity.) I don't worry about the pictures; our photographer has already made it abundantly clear that he has no qualms using PhotoShop. I just wish there were an internal PhotoShop we could impose upon our guests.

We sat at the O's/Red Sox game last night for The Boy's birthday (we celebrated it, albeit modestly, against all odds) and I thought I might have gotten in my first girl fight. The stakes would have been higher if I hadn't had the perspective of wedding pictures in mind. The girl behind me talked a couple of octaves too high, and not by nature. Before the National Anthem, when the announcer said that the Boys' Choir would sing their rendition of the song, she said, "Rendition? Like that's even a word."

She called Trot Nixon "Trotty Trot," loudly and often. She cheered for every out, and even for a few bad plays and strikes against her own team. At one point, with a Sox runner on first, she said, confused, "Wait, why is there a guy in a white jersey there? That means he's an Oriole. I thought the Red Sox were up." One of the males around her informed her he was the first baseman. Later, she and her friend suggested staying at least until "halftime," and when I saw them in the bathroom, they regarded the paper towel holder, looked up into it and stormed off in frustration. Apparently, they were not accustomed to manual machines.

We survived until the 8th inning, when we couldn't take it anymore. We stopped for a beer at the Wharf Rat where many, "Can you believe we're getting married THIS WEEKEND," statements were made. At The Home we split a bottle of Asti while finalizing our rehearsal dinner list. Far from romantic, better than nothing.

Daisies, Thongs, and Fender Benders

These adorable little babies are some of our practice flowers. A bit beat up, but they make my day. The morning flower session was mostly a success, but I was not meant to be driving that early on that little sleep with that limited of a caffeine supplement. A couple of curbs were injured in the process, and I turned left on red for no apparent reason. We made it mostly in one piece.

As we left, I noticed that my car smelled funny. Edie and I tried to name the scent. "Rotten Chinese food?" I suggested. She agreed. We hunted around the car. Under the seats. Nothing. As a last ditch effort, I popped the trunk, only to find a couple pounds of 9-day old broccoli. The stems stayed some semblance of green while the flowers were radioactive yellow. The stink is gone.

The rest of the day was spent scanning pictures and skipping between stores. I made two trips to Wal-Mart, two to separate Targets. With flip flops, bug spray, a Tide pen and Melatonin in hand, I ran into a church lady who was full of honeymoon advice. I grabbed McDonald's on the way home as I coordinated Mother's Day with my dad on the phone. McDonald's is my low point.

Sunday morning I was bombarded with hugs and personal sermon illustrations. "This is the last time I can hug you as a single girl!" Fran said. I heard my nickname and last name paired repeatedly by many because it would be the last time they could say them and have them be accurate.

At The Home, Mosotos threw up what appeared to be a lace thong. Not just any thong-- my wedding day underwear. Fantastic. I'm in the market for a new pair.

Later, groggy and irritable and wearing my hot pink i {heart} mom shirt, I waited at the light at President and Lombard. The woman in front of me abruptly threw her car into reverse. I watched her coming toward me. I swore and laid on my horn. It didn't stop her. Teary-eyed she jumped out of her car, handed me her business card and allowed me to compare it to her license. She was nice. Damage was minimal. But who would ever believe a reverse rear-ending?

After dinner for Mom, I sat on the couch squished between Mom, Little Sister and the obnoxious beagle. We looked through two decades of pictures. My younger hands with the old engagement ring. A glimpse into a different life. Mom with two kids at my age. It felt warm, vaguely sad, mostly triumphant.

Like Old Times

"It definitely needs to be lower," Edes said, making eye contact with me in the three-way mirror, where my reflection stood in my wedding dress. She was right. I tried to explain this to the Russian seamstress, tactfully.

"I know I'm driving you nuts." It was my third fitting. A mere 9 days before the wedding, I knew it would not be my last. "I know I asked you to close this up, and you did a great job." I did not lie.

"You want me to open it up," she offered. She took scissors to my bustline, and it was much improved. We dithered about the bustle, the shoulders that are still too big. She pinned and clucked. I have what has to be a final appointment for the 18th.

I worked and ate popcorn and M&M's in my office while Edes borrowed The Boy's computer and internet. "This feels like college," she said, "except we never would have worked this early." She IM'd me from across the room. It was 3:00. In our younger days we would have done that at 3:00, but in the morning.

Later, we hit the O's game in borrowed seats and new hats. We took this picture and sent it to The Boy, who is spending the evening with his father and friends blowing money at Mohegan Sun on day one of his Bachelor Extravaganza. He verified, once again, that there would be no inappropriateness. He's been sending text messages all night.

Today I built a template for a proposal, handled a cake crisis (spice in place of banana walnut) and dodged the rental facility who wants a ceremony "floor plan," which does not yet exist. I coordinated musicians, made wedding accoutrements. Tomorrow morning at 7 :30 I'm headed with my aunt to the wholesale florists to discuss options. I've already set the coffee timer.

I'm whitening my teeth and crossing off days; I'm savoring "singleness" but dreaming of Tahiti.

Anatomy of a No-Brainer

I have been working since 6:30 at my desk in the "blue collar" room with the white board on the wall listing the names of every person who will be at my wedding and with whom they will sit. Are the old people far enough from the DJ? Are the exes far enough from each other? Is it really obvious that one of the tables should probably be named, "The Island of Misfit Toys?" I don't actually have time to ponder these mysteries, but then again nor do I have time to yell at the dog for sneaking the remains of my breakfast out of the trash can. We do what we have to do.

Suddenly, I am on deadline for the consulting job, and a newborn offer for a "real job" sits by my flip flops in a FedEx envelope. They want me to deliver it back to them today. I haven't even given it much thought. I arrived at my interview 45 minutes late because the secure facility was a little too secure. Eight of us sat around a table. We talked. They laughed. And when it was over, my potential boss walked me across the parking lot and gave me the thumbs up with a "just between us" caveat.

Two days later, they are offering me more than I asked for, different than I wanted. But not different than I need. My budding family needs stability, security, health insurance coverage. A job when I get back from Paradise. So, I'll sign my name on the line. In 10 days, even my name will be different.

An Independent Communications Consultant

And, as abruptly as unemployment began, it has come to a halt. At an impromptu breakfast meeting on Friday, I became an independent consultant. No benefits. Thus far, no contract. Just a check and a handshake and a whole lot of work. After two hours on the beltway, I met my current boss at Starbucks, then headed to our day of meetings regarding a proposal for which there will be a review on Mother's Day, but, so far, we won't be needed there. On the way home, after another two hours in the car, my new acquaintance Andy called.

"Christina, our Proposal Coordinator is out sick for the week. So I need to know,"

Oh, jeez. I already had three different "opportunities" waiting in my inbox, not to mention the 9am interview tomorrow or my wedding, now only 13 days away.

"How are your Word skills?" Gahhhhh, I thought. Anything else, I would have had the potential to be woefully underqualified. But word? Please. I could format templates in my sleep.

"Andy, I hesitate to answer that question," I sighed. "My Word skills are considerable."

"Really?" Andy scoffed as if he didn't believe me. "Templates?"

"Yep."

"Styles?"

"Yep."

"I hear you're an outstanding editor. Can you integrate the components of this document so it sounds like one person wrote it?"

UGH. "Yep."

Not only did I end up volunteering myself for something I have no time or obligation to do, I made this guy hate me by answering the following question:

"So where are you going on your honeymoon?"

When I told him Tahiti, he sounded as if I deserved all the work anyone could throw at me.

Sigh. But it's all far better than being unemployed. Now at least maybe I'll feel like I earned the break.

Now, That's a Man You Marry

We sat closely in one side of a wide booth in the corner, criss-crossing arms to put hands on each other's thighs.

"A woman will love a man forever if she can trust him with her fears." Our pastor sat across from us, looking earnestly through round lenses. He had said this to us before. It always makes me wince.

We were at our second pre-marital counseling session, this time on a Tuesday night at a rib joint.

The Boy, who had been buttering a slice of sourdough, held my hand under the table. "I've struggled with that," he admitted. "It's sometimes hard to remember my job isn't always to fix everything."

I stared at him openly . He was right, and we had fought about it. I had promised myself not to sell him out. But life is scary; marriage is scarier. Of course there are fears. We discussed them that night. Aging. Changing. Drifting. I don't need to be told, "That'll never happen," or, "Don't be silly," and I especially don't need to hear laughter. The Boy looked through me when he apologized for saying those things. Promised to try harder, to listen when I am afraid.

That session is already serving us well. Lately I'm afraid. Sometimes trembling, often terrified. But one thing I am absolutely, unequivocally not afraid of is that I'm marrying the wrong person. The day I lost my job I was crushed, embarrassed. I felt I had let our new family down.

"Don't think for a minute you've let me down," The Boy said, no-nonsense. I didn't say it, but I knew taking that job had been a risk. We both did. We had discussed it openly. I felt foolish-- like a failure-- because we faced the worst-case scenario that could have been prevented. But I didn't say any of that.

"You took a risk, honey. A big risk."

Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes.

"And I have never been so proud of you, " he proclaimed. I knew he meant it.

We are concerned about our lack of money. It's not every quarter that he starts a new job, I lose a new job. Not every quarter that we spend thousands on one day of festivities and two weeks of South Pacific marital bliss. We admit openly that this timing leaves much to be desired. We fear. But we are gripping hands, always with fingers tightly interlaced, facing the same direction.

I cannot wait to marry this man, and I usually hesitate to write about things like this. What if it's sentimental, I wonder. Today, I don't care. Honesty, in writing and in life, isn't just for the snarky or funny or bad. And this man makes it worth it for me to look forward. I don't care who knows-- in fact, crickets, tell all your friends.

I'm working on trusting. Doing what I can do and not worrying. Not furrowing my brow. Praying more, focusing less on unknowns I can't predict. Enjoying the wind blowing through my hair while I drive the car I never thought I'd have.

I'm working.

But the next person who asks me what I do all day is going to get a to-do list to last them the next 24 days. I kid you not.

Whiplash

I probably should've known the day was about to take a sinister turn when I heard Mike's voice on the phone.

"This is the second hardest thing I've ever had to do."

I silently wondered what the first hardest thing was.

"What's up?" I asked, maybe a little out of breath. I had been stripping beds in preparation for Amber's arrival later that afternoon.

"You know how we lost that contract yesterday." I had heard but knew little about it-- it had been before my brief time with the company.

"Christina, they've decided to let you go." I had a feeling the sheets would stay in the washer until we needed them to be on the beds.

I remembered the definition of reeling. My body felt lightheaded-- dizzy. Confused. I asked the standard why's and how's. I looked at the calendar on the desk in my "home office." Friday, April 21st. Exactly one month before my ruthlessly impending nuptials.

Mike was nothing but helpful, gracious. Looking out for me. Calling with possible consulting deals.

I dried my tears (with a towel), updated my resume and drafted an email to HR. The HR rep called me back (clearly ignoring my preferred method of communication). She used the words "departure" and "pay in lieu of notice."

"Can you please explain the difference between severance and pay in lieu of notice?"

Judging by her tone of voice, in her opinion, it was a big difference. "Severance," she said tersely, "asks you to give something up in exchange for something else." Confused, because I thought that was the definition of "quid pro quo," and irritated, because her southern lilt and calmness were unnerving, I put the phone on speaker and held it from my face while I groaned. "With pay in lieu of notice, we're not asking you to give up anything!" That was all I could take. I got off the phone as quickly as possible.

Amber arrived with her burgeoning belly. Shortly after that, a basket of daisies arrived with an I Love You balloon and a hand-written card that began, "Pookie." They were The Boy's words, but not in his handwriting. We laughed and Amber and her fetus took me to Coldstone after a couple of moping hours on the couch. Then we got our toes done and walked home in the rain.

The Boy greeted us at the door in his "I'm a Catch" shirt-- the one I got him last time he saved me. We sat on the couch after a long, tight hug. I hid my face in his shirt.

"I sent a prayer request out to the church," The Boy announced, referring to the church-wide emails that often bombard our inboxes. Amber burst out laughing. So hard she cried and had to leave the room. I wondered if he had considered the possibility of my embarrassment. "I ran it by your dad!" He exclaimed. "I thought I did the right thing!" And he probably did. But I still had visions of my Dad confronting Mr. O'Brien, the man who would become one of my favorite teachers, on junior year back-to-school night. He told O'Brien I was intimidated of him. O'Brien made a scene in front of the whole class the next day. When I confronted Dad, he did not apologize.

I explained this to The Boy. "In the future, if you ever have a question that involves potential embarrassment, do not consult him! He has no sensor for that kind of thing." The conversation spanned the weekend.

We faced our previously scheduled shower, reminding ourselves that our wedding is more than a series of dollar signs, even if it doesn't feel like it. For better or for worse started early. In the car, we started facing forward, together.

Today, my first official "business day" of unemployment, I took care of all the supposed-to's. Breakfast. Cleaning the kitchen. Taking care of the dog. Checking my email. Putting on my workout clothes. Then I did my first real act of unemployment. I went back to bed.

Ticking Away

At 6:14 a.m. on Tuesday, I walked outside with Mosotos and saw the Super Shuttle blocking the driveway of the converted firehouse across the street. I pretended I didn't see it and yanked the dog down to the holly bush and mulch patch at the condos on the corner. He peed, and I pulled him back toward the house. He looked at me, confused. This wasn't how we did it, and it was a good hour too early. Poor little dog.

I handed my luggage to the friendly Nigerian man and climbed into the shuttle. It was still a couple minutes shy of 6:23, the earliest time I was supposed to have been ready. "We can wait," the driver said. I knew I had left my sunglasses on my desk. I told him to go ahead. We headed out in the opposite direction of the airport, and the Nigerian's marveled over laborers waiting in the 7-11 parking lot on Broadway. I explained the phenomenon. We delved into a conversation, or really a monologue, on immigration laws, "carboats," Castro and landfill living. We arrived at our destination and retraced out steps back to my neighborhood. The Nigerian was telling outrageous stories of favors passengers had asked him. "Drive me 26 miles back, I forgot my dentures," and "Can you come back in an hour? I haven't taken a shower yet." When I noted that I had driven all over town with them before 7 in the morning, he said, "Do you want to go back? We can stop."

"No," I sighed. "Then I'd just become a story you'd tell other passengers." He laughed heartily.

A full forty minutes after I began my journey, people who were practically my neighbors boarded the shuttle, having had at least 30 minutes more sleep than I did. I learned about their grandfetus and their houseboat. I arrived at curbside check-in just ahead of my grandparents. We sat together on the plane.

I'm fresh off my first roundtrip flight to Charlotte. I didn't miss the 16+ hours in the car, but I did I spend hundreds of dollars and 30 hours to be at my brother's Senior Recital. He wore a long white tuxedo jacket and a faraway expression, sang in four languages, and was fantastic. I flew with my family for the first time-- the whole family. Grandparents from both sides.

Fast food, fast talking-- many voices all at once-- fast trip. Mosotos was beside himself when I returned, exhausted, late last night. And it was nice to have someone to come home to.

I was six miles from The Boy twice while in Charlotte, but we never connected. He was done with training at 5 this evening but can't come home until tomorrow. I'm headed to D.C. way too early in the morning, and The Boy's father will be in town for a quick car delivery/repair trip. Easter on Sunday and I can't believe we're that far into the year. Two separate friends remarked to me, "It just occurred to me how soon your wedding is. It's like really soon." It is like really soon. 38 days and counting. I'm aware that most of my sentences lead to wedding details or worries. Amber reminded me today, "Don't worry friend, this won't last. Soon you'll be putting together wagons and filling sandboxes," she alluded to her afternoon plans. She's right. I'm looking forward to that, but it wouldn't hurt me to enjoy the trip.

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.

Actually...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hookahs, Grand Theft Auto and Coming Out

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

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

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

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

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

Not Quite as Planned

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

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

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

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

Adoption Tips

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really, I don't have a chance.

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

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

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

Waiting for Vizzini

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Care How, I Want it Now

I would love to tell you that Verizon employs customer service representatives that were not raised by wolves. I would love to tell you that they fixed my service the moment I reported it broken. I would also love to tell you that I met Ed McMahon earlier today, and he came bearing a big check. But I'm not a fan of lying. I still do not have a functioning business line or dsl. I still cannot check my corporate e-mail from within the confines of this house. However, I cannot leave the confines of this house between the hours of 8-4, because that might result in my missing the "technician" Verizon may or may not send. Do me a favor. If you reside at 206 Patterson Park, please leave the gate to your alley open, so that said "technician" can get through with his ladder to connect my phone service. Apparently, that's the only way. I guess it's time for me to meet my not-so neighbors.

Last week, instead of attending my first class, I feared I had stumbled upon a divorced women's group. Fortunately, Cameron Crowe's mother was not there claiming that she "finally, finally got in touch with" her anger, but almost. I'm sure our professor, the only male in the room, is wondering about the direction of our class...

Today we filled out an adoption application for a puppy. Not just any puppy. I have decided that when I do get a dog (which probably shouldn't be until after the blessed event-- but you know how it is with should), I would like it to be a Puggle (Beagle+Pug). They are small and adaptable and relatively well behaved. Unfortunately, everyone else in the country also thinks this is a good idea for their respective lives, and the dogs are hard to find and expensive. Yesterday, walking along the water to the gym, I stared at a guy walking his dog and talking on his cell phone. Not at him, though, at his dog. Yes, I maybe even coveted him a little. He was adorable. I said, completely ignoring the cell phone on this man's ear, "Is that a Puggle?" I can't even believe it. Not only did I comment on his breed of dog, I asked him where he got it, what the dog's temperament was like and how much he cost.

My fatal error, however, was in mentioning this encounter to The Boy. Because, much like Veruca Salt, when he gets his mind set on something, he don't care how, he wants it now. I looked up puggle adoption, just for research's sake, and learned that certain breeders are accepting orders now for delivery in 2007. Not only are the puppies not born, their parents could have just been born. The idea of paying $1000 for a dog of undetermined parentage when thousands die in shelters did not sit well with us. Today, on a whim, I stumbled across a shelter in NoVa with 7 Puggles. I feel confident that the application I filled out was more stringent than many adoption agencies. For humans. They asked, if we were to divorce, what would happen to the dog? They asked if we were willing to maintain dog health insurance (we said no), and the contract requires that we complete puppy kindergarten and only feed the dog premium food (organic, no preservatives) for its lifetime. I couldn't believe it. The Boy came home for lunch beside himself. He has already decided upon a name.

"Mosotos." He said, in his Chewbacca voice.

"Well, that doesn't seem fair. Why do you just get to name our dog, who doesn't even exist, this ridiculous name?" I asked him. I reminded him that at the vet, the dog would be identified by this name and our last name. I reminded him that we would have to introduce him to others using this name.

"I know, that's what I like about it," he said. He is not wholly without reason. "If we meet him and he doesn't seem like a Mosotos, we could name him something else. I'm thinking Morotos."
Not only did I never plan on having a dog, I also never considered having to roll the 'r' in my dog's name when meeting new friends at the park.

When asked why he was so excited about having a dog, he said, "It will be like three best friends!" I wondered why two wasn't enough. "Two is great," he said, "but this third is perfect because he won't interrupt us! It'll be awesome!"

I hope he doesn't get this gung-ho about having kids, at least not for a while.

But maybe The Boy is onto something. If I got a little more Veruca-esque I'd get through to the folks at Verizon. I might get sent down the chute with the bad eggs, but at least I'd have a high-speed internet connection.

A Vision all Undone

For any who may have worried, I am (mostly) not dead. Finished up the old job last week, spending lots of time setting up the office at The Home and plotting ways to kill Verizon in its sleep. Adjusting to life as Mork and Mindy, as Tara has dubbed us. My "blue collar"-colored apartment on the third floor is pretty cozy, and that's nice. It will be very strange once The Boy and I are married. ("Oh, I get to marry you? I kind of thought we were just pals who semi-secretly pined for one another.")

Last Wednesday, my last day, I was escorted out of the building and just stood out by my car for a few minutes. Ever seen Guess Who? Where, upon quitting his job, Ashton Kutcher freaks out in the elevator, much to the bemusement of the security staff. He screams at himself, "What am I doing, I can't quit my job!" That's what I did. Then I called my Mommy.

The whole home office thing, so far, is just not working out. This is day 3, and all I have done is watch download timers, hear "good-bye" from the freaking AOL voice, hold for Verizon, wait for Verizon technicians, search for Verizon dialtones and bang my head against the wall. Despite all this, somehow, the laundry has still not gotten done, I still have not gone grocery shopping and I did not get to work out yesterday, and today is not looking any better. I have a web conference in 30, then I'm headed to our Nation's capital for my first class of the semester, for which I am not prepared, because the university neglected to send me confirmation that I had, in fact, been accepted into the class. Writing the Personal Essay and Memoir workshop. Should be...interesting. I usually find that personal stories others decide to write about are not usually as thrilling as they might imagine. Don't you?

So, as if any of this were not mind numbing enough, before it began, The Boy and I have been deep in hibernation. At about this time, I can nearly hear the regret that any of my meager readership has given me a second thought during this time. Hopefully, my amusing life will resume, because what I thought would be monotony and cabin fever is instead uncertainty, inability to catch up, stress and fatigue.

But seasons always change.