Getting Better All the Time

March came and went, alternating lions and lambs, and not a word from me. And people who know about it, but not what it's like, ask "how are you feeling?" Since I know (now) what a miscarriage is like, but also that it can be gotten through, if not over, I think they are referring to the cold that took too long to go away or the allergies that are causing me to cringe and roll my eyes at cherry blossoms. Then I remember. "Oh. That. Things are . . . getting back to normal." And I smile, because I don't think they really want to know that, at the sight of what I have sometimes called "the damn spot," I almost cried with joy and relief. I'm not broken, at least not anymore. Now I can move on, on to more waiting and wondering and considerable fear, but for now I don't feel like I'm stationary, casting a rueful eye over my shoulder at another tearful February.

That doesn't mean it's over, but it also doesn't mean that's all there's been. Another new job, another thing that makes me cringe. "So, Christina," my grandfather asked this weekend, rolling the 'r' as always, "how is the job?" He always asks me this, and although he is prone to interject memories of his days working with engineers, he always listens. Sheepishly I told him, and everyone else, that it's new (again) but I don't hate it. I am with a company who seems to want me to stick around for a while, with a supervisor who asked me, in my third week at work, "Is this really what you want to do? Because if it isn't, we can find a way to something else." It occurred to me that maybe, in these nearly five years after college, all I've been looking for is someone who deserved my loyalty. It would be really nice not to update my resume for a while.

The weekend was heavy on family time. My little sister spent the weekend with us, kind of. The Boy and I attended her concert on Friday, along with her boyfriend. (And it took all I had not to type that in quotation marks.) He has the hairstyle, so popular with teenage boys, that causes him to flip his hair out of his eyes constantly. He does this often, somehow while attempting not to move his neck. It would be funny, except at the end of the night this guy hugged my sister. He tells her, she says, that she doesn't need to wear makeup. He sings Rascal Flatts' "Fast Cars and Freedom" to her. At dinner after the concert, when everyone got up from our table to go to the salad bar, The Boy pleaded for me not to leave him alone with the boyfriend. "So, I heard you wrote a poem," I said, alluding to the way she said he asked her to be his girlfriend.

"Yeah."

"I was impressed when I heard that," I faked a smile. He flipped his hair to reveal one surprisingly blue eye. "Don't worry, she didn't read it to me."

"Yeah," he sniffed, "I'm not worried." And then I gave up.

Thinking about it now, I know what I should have said is much different than what I did say. Which is frequently the problem with me, leaving me to wonder why I have so many people who are still willing to love me. Instead of saying "you're not supposed to be dating," or "he has a stupid haircut," I should have said, "what does it mean to have a boyfriend?" or "what is it that you like about him?" Instead of rattling off reasons why too-young girls give blowjobs and the ominous outcomes this behavior, I should have said, "I'm worried about you, because I know how boys can be, but I know this is an exciting time. I want you to be able to come to me about anything." Well, maybe I could have said that in addition to the blowjob thing. Hopefully she'll give me another chance.

Mostly we rode around. Between a lacrosse game and our grandmother's 75th birthday party and an outlet mall and my house, where The Boy was waiting for Appetizer Night. A few months ago, while we rode from and to similar destinations, she told me, "It's one of my favorite things, riding around with you." So maybe I need to worry less and drive more, with a precocious and terrifyingly beautiful passenger who's still just a kid who looks up to her big sister and doesn't care where we're going as long as she gets to pick the music.

Losing What I Never Had

The days before the news I suspected but still can't always bring myself to say tingled. There was a low buzz, in me and between us, even if we weren't looking at each other, even if we weren't talking, even if he wasn't there. He knew, he said and said it for weeks: when I returned from frequent trips to the bathroom, when I complained that I was hungry again, when I held my breasts steady as I walked down the stairs, when I yelled at him for no good reason, then cried, then said I was sorry in Jamaica. But I was too scared to believe. As if believing ever jinxed anything. Even after my shaking hand, outstretched, showed proof, three times over three days, I still spoke in 'ifs' and 'maybes,' as if everything were hypothetical. As if my uncertain feelings on the subject had anything to do with its veracity.

I cried on the couch about what I was afraid I'd be losing. I vowed to tell our children, and especially daughters, what it really feels like. That it's not only choosing names and a nursery theme and godparents and pediatricians. That, at least in the beginning, it's not all storks and ribbons and cigars and pats on the back. It's also a whole lot of what-if and trembling. And after I cried and sneered at him, drinking my current favorite wine while I had water, I decided the tingling was a very good thing.

When a blood test confirmed what he was already sure of, I started using 'if' a lot less often, and we told my parents. As if it were true. He looked forward and then counted backward, filling in 266 days in a book we read every night. He cleaned the kitchen and made our bed. He worried about me and asked me how I felt. He looked at me, inches from my face when we went to bed, and he smiled that he couldn't believe it. He glowed.

Thursday morning, coming down the stairs, I realized I didn't need to hold my breasts. They didn't hurt anymore. I poked them periodically throughout the morning, willing them to hurt. I worried about the lack of pain. I put it from my mind until later, until I saw a pink streak on white toilet paper. A heartbeat I could feel in my stomach, but it was only mine. My mom called my doctor, who asked to see me immediately. We sat in the waiting room not reading parenting magazines. I tried not to make eye contact with the proud and exhausted owners of severely pregnant bellies around me. He made comments about the weather that didn't distract me. Because I already knew.

The word miscarriage, I've decided, and I've given it a lot of thought, is a terrible word. I recently learned that it's supposed to be the more sensitive term for what is medically called a spontaneous abortion. But maybe I prefer that more. Because if it's a miscarriage, that suggests that I did something wrong. I didn't carry it right; I didn't care enough; I failed. And I've thought that enough on my own over the last week without needing any reminders.

Mostly I've sat on the couch, when I can, or at my desk at work and stared at nothing. Wherever I go I find myself crying in reverse contractions. At first, every three minutes, then every five, and so on. I've only teared up once today, so far. I'm still bleeding and exhausted, surprised by how raw and real it hurts. I hid the book under my bed, aware that all the dates would be wrong but that I wouldn't care as long as we could use it next time. Aware that I was scared of losing the wrong thing, I promised myself that I wouldn't make that mistake again.

Everyone who knows works hard to validate my feelings, as I seem to be the biggest hurdle I'm facing, while everyone who doesn't tries to say things about next time and hope and their acquaintance that lost multiple babies but then became a mother. They are trying to help. But everyone who knows is aware that words never help. I have established rules I do not say that govern my thinking. No one is allowed to utter phrases in my direction that begin with "at least." Such as, "at least you know you can get pregnant," "at least you were only five weeks along," "at least you're very healthy and young." Also, no one can mention God's will. Because if I am expected to run to him for the comfort I have sought desperately anywhere I could get it, I have to believe he is grieving with me; I cannot see him as the source of my grief. Maybe that's bad theology, but it's carrying me through.

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.

Mimicking Didion

In my current class on my tortoise road to an M.A. in Writing, I am studying, analyzing and imitating other, more successful and famous voices in an attempt to eventually pinpoint my own. Several years ago I had begun to feel mostly confident and comfortable in my voice, but taking this class makes me wonder if those feelings were premature and naïve. Regardless, each week we choose one of the voices we've read to imitate in a short piece that can be about anything. This week, I chose to mimick Joan Didion in "Goodbye to All That," an essay I had read before-- it is now underlined in my book in several shades from several moods and times. I ended up sort of liking the outcome, and since I don't yet have pictures from the Jamaican vacation, here it is:

Some days at recess I stood in the shade of the oak tree by the balance beam where Melissa Rose impersonated Madonna. We were six, and I wasn’t yet sure which kind of girl I wanted to be. Melissa sang “Like a Prayer” and jumped into side splits on the gravel. Even now, my groin muscles hurt just thinking about a move like that, but at the time I wished I could be that cool. Melissa wore a permed side ponytail and deliberately torn lace. Sometimes she wore fingerless gloves. I had the side ponytail, but that was about it. My mother told me, in an act I would later see as benevolent and sage, that if I still wanted a perm when I was nine we would talk about it then. I felt left out, with long, straight blonde hair. Fortunately, my tastes matured by the time I turned nine.

Other days I stood with Carrie (whose last name now escapes me) under the same tree, arms crossed in front of my chest. We watched Aaron McKinsey play soccer. Everyone watched Aaron McKinsey. In kindergarten, the year before, my mother had made me blush by pointing him out at the playground. “He’d be a good boy for you to marry,” she said, casually, “but he’s Jewish and his mother isn’t very nice.” I had never met his mother and did not have any understanding of what being Jewish had to do with any of it. Our next-door neighbors were Jewish and, at the time, all that meant to me was that they did not go to Backyard Bible Club with my brother and me or celebrate Christmas, but we got to go over to their house for latkes and to help light the menorah at Hanukkah. My mother bought a roll of blue and white wrapping paper that was just for their presents. To me, none of these seemed like hindrances to a marriage. For one week in kindergarten, I told everyone Aaron was my boyfriend. He sat criss-cross-applesauce beside me at story time every day, and when we played house he asked me to be the mom to his dad. Sometimes he held my hand. My friends told me they were jealous. But by the next week Leah Berenstein was the one who sat beside him at story time, and Aaron ignored me. Leah was the kind of girl who dressed up as a teenager for Halloween every year until she actually was one. I never became friends with Leah, and I convinced my friends that Aaron had betrayed me.

So in first grade, when Carrie and I watched Aaron at recess, it was with mixed feelings we didn’t fully understand—feelings that had little to do with him at all. He tried to play soccer, but Lia kept chasing him. Soon it wasn’t just Leah. Melissa Rose chased Leah, and twenty-one other girls tailed Melissa—we counted. Even at six, I remember thinking this didn’t seem right. Girls chasing boys like that? “No way,” I told Carrie. She agreed. We watched in shock, then disgust, as Leah tackled Aaron and stole his shoe. He got up and ran away with one shoe on. It was a strange mix of jealousy and anger I felt then. Even if some part of me knew Leah was acting crazy, I remember feeling irritated that she was still getting his attention and I was not—after that week in kindergarten, I never did again. It was the beginning of a long process in which I eventually learned that indignation never won a boy’s glance in anyone’s direction.

Compilations and Complications

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Closer Than They Appear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Welcome Christmas, Bring Your Light

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

I am thankful that:

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

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

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

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

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


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

Conversely, I am not thankful that:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poultry Stuffed with Revelations

Admittedly, I am a few days late. But what am I if not perpetually later than I intended to be?

It all started with a frozen turkey. Safeway.com was kind enough to provide us with one free of charge, except for the $150 we spent to qualify. All of this, despite the fact that we had no use for a turkey, as Thanksgiving would be held at my aunt's house where another aunt would tackle nearly all of the cooking.

"What do we need a turkey for again?" The Boy furrowed his already wrinkly brow.

I don't think I ever really had an answer. I told my mom about it, and she also looked perplexed. "You mean you won't use it?" she asked me, her daughter, who cooks nearly every night. "I mean, not for Thanksgiving, but for another time? We'll take it."

I didn't want to give a whole turkey to someone who didn't need it, especially when it arrived and weighed in at a shade heavier than 14 lbs. But how to find someone in need of a large frozen bird? I scoured sites for shelters and food banks, none of which were interested in perishable food. As a last attempt to rid our poorly-designed freezer of the turkey with enough time for it to defrost before the big day, I posted an ad on Craigslist-- FREE Turkey, it read.

I took the ad down about an hour later, my inbox overwhelmed with enthusiastic hopeful takers. A woman who had planned to pick it up at 6 read my mind and thought better of it; "It would make me feel better if it went to someone who really needed it," she said.

Attempting tact, with wording help from The Boy (of all people), I screened the prospective poultry owners. Most were kind-hearted with plans to pay it forward to others who needed it more. Finally, a man named Dave began, "well i am out of work with an injurey and don't have much money and now my ex is having trouble with my two boys..." The Boy christened him winner of the turkey, then met him the next day on the rainy corner holding an umbrella and a sweating bird. Dave was so grateful; we felt more blessed.

"I wish we could help more people like that," The Boy said. And so, we posted another ad on Craigslist, offering last-minute help for Thanksgiving. I felt nervous that night after hitting Publish; I wondered how it would go over and if it would help. In the morning, I parsed e-mails from people telling me their stories; "Thanks for listening," one said. Mostly they were single moms, others out-of-work, all just wanting to provide a day of plenty and warmth and turkey for their families. Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, I only needed gingersnaps, cream cheese, yams and light brown sugar. But I left the grocery store with a buckling cart filled with a 17-lb turkey, a roasting pan, 15 lbs of potatoes, and everything else I could think of that red-blooded, blue state Americans might need on the fourth Thursday in November, including three still-warm pumpkin pies and whipped cream. My winter-white wool coat and I got soaked unloading someone else's supplies, but I couldn't stop smiling. Maybe it was because I knew I didn't have to cook any of it, but I didn't think that was all.

I met Felisha at my front door with bags in hand. I don't know where she lives or how old her kids are or if she had ever cooked a turkey. But I know she had enough for a feast last week.

We were hesitant about the traveling artists/activists. They ventured to see us in the rain for a Safeway gift card and an unexpected pumpkin pie. They cried in our living room, and so did I. Who am I to judge which people need what when? When they left, The Boy and I wished we had given them more.

I wanted to assure them all that we had been in their position, and very well may be again. Strangers have given me exactly what I needed without possibly knowing it was what I needed. A $20 here, a free dinner there. Strangers like that used to show up on The Boy's childhood doorstep with everything his mother needed for their Thanksgiving. "I didn't remember it until just now," he said, after we had given out the last of the groceries. I didn't get to tell anyone. But really, I think we wanted to disappear, thinking that would make it easier to be and provide whatever they needed. I'm not sure if that's what we accomplished, but I know we tried.

But then there was the woman who needed vegetables. I got her every vegetable I could fathom eating on Thanksgiving. I checked my e-mail obsessively and begged her to call, but she never called. Still no email. Now I'm the one who could use a turkey to go with all the fixings.

And, since I am perpetually later than I intended to be, next time we'll tackle "the things I'm thankful for." I'm reminding myself now, to keep from focusing on the zephyr that, for now, wasn't meant to be.

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.

Monotony, Tummy Aches and the Fake Depression

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daddy, Let Your Mind Roll On

This weekend marked our third of four consecutive weekends of company. Last weekend we hosted my "actual" mother-in-law and her husband. As my in-laws are both remarried, things get a little complicated. Though the step-mother-in-law insists that having two mothers-in-law would be, for me, like having "three mothers," I maintain that one is more than enough.

On that weekend we visited Our Italian Restaurant; The Boy operated, manned and wrote the rule book for the moonbounce at the Grand Opening of our church building, and for the first time, I had an opportunity to say, "Also, Chinaman is not the proper nomenclature. Asian-American, please." No, really-- at the dinner table in my own house. Welcome to life with visiting step-fathers-in-law.

Conditions are declining at our B&B. This week, we ran out of Pledge. I finally threw out the once fresh flowers, replacing them with silk flowers in the guest room. I'm running out of linen water, and the laundry is piling up. This week, the office didn't get touched. I didn't get the grocery shopping done until Sunday. Fortunately, our friend visiting from Vermont, Mindy, was kind enough to bring buttermilk pancake mix and a killer handthrown batter bowl as a thank you gift. Groceries or not, we had a great breakfast.

Despite Saturday's chilly rain, The Boy joined Mindy and her friends for the festival. I headed to a baby shower where I joined another newlywed shrugging off "Who's next?" questions and lamenting over that dreaded but oft-repeated query, "How's married life?"

"What am I supposed to say?" She rolled her eyes. "That it's an adjustment? That he has trouble remembering to put the seat down?" I laughed and agreed.

I joined my man and his new friends at an Irish pub where everyone had been there long enough to be thrilled to see me. "I'd like you to meet Danielle-- she's very intelligent and seems like a really nice girl. She just relocated here from Boston," The Boy guided me by the shoulder while supplying me with a beer. I noticed he put the emphasis on the third syllable of relocated.

"Danielle, this is my wife." She smiled and lit up as if she had long anticipated our meeting. I squinted at The Boy, wondering what he had told her. "I really think you'd be great friends," he whispered. "You should also meet Jocelyn," he said later. "She doesn't own a car. She seems like a nice girl." I laughed, realizing my husband hasn't stopped picking up girls in bars. It's just that now he's scouting for me.

Sunday morning we dragged before leaving for lunch with friends at PF Changs. Some of us weren't feeling well. "Mindy," The Boy said, "I think you'll be fine once you get a little Mongolian beef in you. Oh wait," he belatedly attempted to self-censor. We joined six others around a large round table. We stared wide-eyed at our friend who, two days prior, had eloped with the smiling blonde beside him. We tried to know her and presented them with a cake from Vaccaro's with a $7 dark-haired bride and groom on top.

"There was a topper with a blonde bride," I explained at this, my second meeting of the girl. "But she was dragging the groom behind her, and I didn't think that was appropriate. And also, it was like thirty dollars." I stopped talking and ate my chocolate cake.

This beautiful afternoon, I sat with Mindy and, over salads in Canton Square, we shared our life dilemmas. I was glad she came, sorry she had to leave. Thankful for an extra day of real life-- good life-- before the weekly depression set in. A day late, but right on time.

Bienvenue, Welcome

Phase I of the inlaw doubleheader concluded this afternoon. It was opening weekend at our B&B, as it was the first of four consecutive weekends our guest room will be in use. In preparation, we cleaned and wondered if the full size bed tucked into the alcove on the blue-collar colored third floor would be comfortable for a couple. I bought Gerbera daisies, Sunflowers and Black-eyed Susans and placed them in mason jars and bud vases throughout the house. We used pillow mist liberally; we turned down sheets and tucked in corners. We cooked together Friday night in anticipation of the arrival of The Boy's father and stepmother. They were visiting just because.

They are mainstream people who get engaged at Disney World and know people who have had double weddings on Valentine's Day. On their frequent visits to New York City, they are regulars at Central Park, the Phantom of the Opera, and Tavern on the Green. When they visit us in Baltimore, a seemingly magnetic pull attracts them to the Harborplace at the Inner Harbor. The Cheesecake Factory and McCormick & Schmick, Vaccaro's, Starbucks and Camden Yards participate in the periodic parade. And, regardless of where we are living at the time of their visit, we walk to all of these places. Because it was recently my birthday, I was asked to choose a restaurant for our belated celebration. I chose a place in our neighborhood, an upscale mom and pop where the owner greets you at the door. It's got miniature lamps on the tables and original oil paintings on the walls. It's got "character," I'm told. And I was pleased that, given their misgivings, they seemed to enjoy the new experience.

We still walked through the harbor on the way to the baseball game. It couldn't be avoided, although it's about two miles farther this year than it was when they visited last summer. I wore non-athletic sneakers and clear Band-Aids on my heels. We talked without competing with other siblings or events. We sat without looking at the clock before racing to our next commitment. Although probably it wasn't, it felt like our first grown-up visit with the parents, perhaps because it was our first married visit. Not that marriage has made us more adult, but certainly it has necessitated a level of calmness that couldn't coexist with our dating or engagement. We no longer complain about familial conflicts that never involved us until we were challenged with drawing up seating charts. We are no longer preoccupied and apologetically, if inadvertently, self-centered. We lounged with ease, sipping coffee and asking about everyone else's life. And, without unrelenting preoccupation, really listened when they responded. It was a nice way to open the season at the B&B.

Next weekend, The Boy's mother and stepfather will lodge with us on their way home from an extended stay with the other kids. We winced at the awkwardness of the guest room's guest list, but perhaps such run-ins can't be avoided and don't matter anyway. We've banished all the ghosts from our bed; we can only hope that others do the same.

Even at 25, You Gotta Start Sometime

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Urban Decay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Women I've Met

There is a woman who favors paisley and olive drab (the color, not some new dull type of tapenade). I run into her in the ladies room. Frankly, let's be honest. I run into most of the women in my wing in the ladies room at some point. I drink a lot of water these days, which means I lose a lot of water. When I leave the office to head to the restroom, I also bring my water bottle to refill it. It takes everything I've got not to say "cause and effect" every time I walk out that door. I don't do it. But I want to.

So the woman in olive drab. It's not her limited color palette that makes her notable to me; it's her love of dental hygiene. How would I know about her passions when I don't even know her name? Well.

Albeit hesitantly, I have accepted there are people who brush their teeth at work. My time-honored appreciation for squeaky teeth is well-documented. Mere days before I face the inevitable 2-5, I maintain a cavity-free grill. However, this maintenance is not accomplished at work. There are more discrete methods. But this woman laughs in the face of discretion. Not only does she brush her chompers at work, she uses mouthwash and floss as well. Since, to my limited understanding, flossing is a once-a-day activity, I just can't comprehend why one would choose to practice said activity in the dimly-lit bathroom occupied by others. I'm just saying.

In more relevant news, the aforementioned birthday is Friday. It's the first one I'm not even remotely excited about. Sunday I met the incredibly gorgeous 19-year-old cousin of one of my beautiful friends. She had just gotten engaged and asked me breathlessly if, as a newlywed, I felt there were any distinctions between engagement and marriage. I looked at my beautiful friend out of the corner of my eye and laughed a little too devilishly. When we got on the topic of age, the pretty young thing said, "Oh my gosh, I KNOW! I'm going to be 20, and it's going to be sooo weird not to be a teenager anymore!" And, as precious as she was, I wasn't proud of the ugly face I made at my friend. I'd rather not inspire that face among any of the crickets ahead of me on our shared candlelit road.

Ain't No Need to Go Outside

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

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

Pilsner Epiphany

I decided to see if, as I suspect of many traditionally bachelor-related things, it was overrated. After burning several hundred calories at my gym and eating a thrown-together dinner of French onion burgers, herb encrusted oven fries and lemon pepper green beans (which, clearly turned out better than I'd planned), I stood in the living room in my clingy, sweaty workout clothes. "So, the beer in the shower thing," I said to The Boy. "What's that all about?"

"Baby," he said. "Once you try it, you'll never go back."

"Well, I certainly hope that's not true," I twisted off the cap of a Miller Lite, "because I generally shower in the mornings.
And they have a name for that."

I locked the dog out of the bathroom. The Boy had explained how to balance the bottle on the towel rack to avoid slippage or compromising the contents, and I followed his instructions. I turned on the shower radio The Boy had to have to one of the three stations it gets, Mix 106.5. I stood there for a few minutes while Rhianna then Madonna summoned various DJs regarding replays and putting records on. It may have been theme night.

In the rising steam, I gripped the sweaty bottle, careful not to drop it. I was pleasantly surprised. I tried to determine what was so great about this phenomenon of beer in the shower. First of all, I noticed (despite my repeated cries during every Coors Light ad last football season) beer in the shower actually tastes cold. I know, I always thought it was a feeling too. But apparently not.

More than that though, I think I enjoyed the feeling of having time that was mine. I wasn't groggy; I wasn't rushed. I listened to music, albeit overplayed and underwhelming. Occasionally, I sang. I shaved my legs without hurrying or feeling guilty for how long my shower took. When I was done, I used the good body cream. The Bath and Body Works "butter," not the Jergens everyday stuff.

So, in fact, it's not about the beer at all. The same bottle sits un-nursed as I type. Obviously I won't finish it now; it won't taste even remotely cold.

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.

Oh, The Fam!

We are headed to Costco with a cooler in preparation for the Family Togetherness in the Outer Banks. We're pretty excited, and I managed to say that without dropping an "actually" anywhere in the sentence. We've got a bit of a diverse crowd going, so there will no doubt be stories galore. And also, board games.

I'm burning a cd (legally, of course) for the drive tomorrow, and I'm realizing I'm pretty stoked to (finally) have the opportunity to take The Boy somewhere he's never been . The farthest we've ventured south together (if you don't count the South Pacific) has been Virginia. And, while I've appreciated the time to get acquanited with the Northeast, I'm dying to take over the tour guide duties. We used to spend time on these beaches every year. My hair would be streaked nearly white and french braided; I coordinated my socks and keds to match my shirts. I'd be ridiculously tan and happy, nearly getting lost and always getting shin splints while I walked for miles on the beach. My grandfather, who used to be the king of sandcastles, will be with us. We'll see if he's still got the skill, though I doubt there will be any beach toys. We are at a pause in the family beach trips-- no siblings are young enough and no one has kids. Yet.

There'll be a laptop and wireless internet there, but I'm hoping to stay far away. Earlier this week my little brother called and said, "You know how slowly this week has gone? Wouldn't it be great if our time together at the beach felt the same way?" I couldn't agree more.