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Harry, Interrupted

For a while, I've been complaining that life has been too crazy for me to finish the latest Harry Potter book. No, I will not give away any spoilers, but I think it's safe to say that Harry is sick and tired of waiting for his Quidditch match to begin. My sister's getting married, I'd say. My boyfriend's moving in, I'd say. Well, Samantha's been married for over a month now, and Project Cohabitation is nearing two weeks, but poor Harry is still poised on his Firebolt. And it's not even that I'm too busy to read, because in the last seven days, I have devoured V.C. Andrews's beloved series Flowers in the Attic, a series I was first exposed to in sixth grade because my friend Kimmy's older sister had read it and we wanted to be like Kimmy's older sister. Just like that, I was introduced to the principles of child abandonment, death, rape, and incest. And apparently, I can't get enough, as I re-read the entire series about once every two or three years.

It usually begins the same way, with me casually pulling the second book, Petals on the Wind, off my shelf and searching for a few of my favorite passages. Then, suddenly, I'm reading it cover-to-cover and pushing forward through the rest of them, and by Seeds of Yesterday, I am sobbing for Cathy, because seriously, can the girl ever get a break? Since I still have many of my books stored in my parents' basement, I went shopping to purchase the ones I didn't have with me here in Indy. One of those was the original book, so even though I technically finished the series last night, today I am reading Flowers in the Attic. Next? the prequel. Next? Hopefully, Harry, but I still haven't finished The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and with The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe hitting theaters this December, my goal is to finish the Narnia chronicles before then.

The bottom line? I could finish Harry if I wanted to. But right now, I don't want to. I'm not in the mood, and since book seven is scheduled for release God Knows When, I don't feel the need to rush myself. I am perfectly content searching for Flowers in the Attic information on the Web--critiques, message boards, fan fiction, anything. Reliving these books is not something one should be allowed to experience alone. Last Friday night, as Luke and I drove to Rensselaer, I carefully explained why these books have more substance than Harlequin paperbacks and how V.C. Andrews provides new insights into the human psyche by revealing what individuals are truly capable of doing and feeling when trapped into horrific circumstances beyond their control and why at least the first book should be required reading in college psychology classes throughout the country and how the movie just didn't do it justice. Definitely a fun drive for him.

Somehow I am going to be punished for my own act of child abandonment, even if the boy is sixteen, fictional, and perfectly able to play a game with his friends without my watchful eye. I would not be surprised if Harry himself visited me in my dreams to reveal the end of book six. I can see him chuckling to himself, "That's what the *&^%$ gets for postponing one of MY Quidditch matches."

Coming Home

Big weekend for Project Useless Clutter and Disarray: Luke and I cleaned out his apartment in Rensselaer, a major undertaking that included soaking blinds, wiping window sills, and attempting to unclog the kitchen sink. We spent Friday night in a sleeping bag on the floor, as his bed had been disposed of the week before, and when my cell phone's alarm woke me up at 7:00, after fewer than six hours of sleep, I wasn't sure I could make it through the day. I did, though, for Saturday was Homecoming for my alma mater, and it was the first time in four years that I didn't have to snap pictures or take notes for the alumni magazine. Instead, I volunteered in the registration tent and mingled a bit with people who I don't get to see very often. I also found out one of my classmates is a faithful reader of this blog (hi, Mandy!), and she shared some fun living-together anecdotes with me. I have also received e-mail from someone who was a year ahead of me in school, armed with cohabitation stories of her own. This blog is slowly becoming a safe haven for those who are Living in Sin and couldn't be happier about it. Kind of.

Because so much has happened since I left Rensselaer and Saint Joe in May, I wasn't sure what the weekend would hold. The work relationships I had once enjoyed on a daily basis have now evolved into more casual ties, and I felt a little sad thinking about all the inside jokes and gossip I could no longer be privy to. But it was so great to tell the little $%#@ who approached me in the Beer and Brat Tent to say, "So, you're still here, huh?" and fire back, "Actually, I have a great job in Indianapolis and I'm here on my own terms now, you obnoxious tool."

It's amazing how different I feel, for I truly have reached a point in my life where I am on my own terms, without wanting to apologize to anybody for how I got here. I'm proud of how I got here, because dammit, I have put in my time. The niches in my belt are filled with squeezing in a term paper on my lunch hour, spending weeekends at the office, crying at my desk after meetings (and unfortunately, sometimes in the meeting), and doing my best to follow a work ethic I couldn't fully support. After four years of breaking my back, I was ready for something new.

Right now, Project Cohabitation is still plenty new. After one week, I'm still kind of floating on air, similar to the way you react in the first weeks of romance, where you see everything through rose-colored glasses. It's been hard going to work every day, knowing that when I'm eating lunch in my cubicle, MY BOYFRIEND IS IN MY APARTMENT RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE. With no fear of being grounded for it! My boyfriend, all access, all the time. Monday was wonderful. He woke up with me, we had breakfast, and he sent me out the door with a packed lunch and kiss good-bye. When I came home, dinner was ready and waiting. Was seriously thinking that maybe this whole double income thing was not so necessary after all. Then Tuesday started with me breaking the floater attachment on the toilet and waking up Luke to say, "I think I did something wrong." He wasn't so eager to kiss me then.

We are still learning the ropes in this new life of ours, doing our best to distinguish what can remain "yours" and "mine" while still nuturing the "our." (He refuses to accept joint ownership of my Murder, She Wrote season one box set, while I happily relinquish all rights to his coffeemaker. But with two computers in the house, we both stake claim to the wireless adapter that makes all of our Internet dreams come true.) Still learning to carefully ignore the way the quilt on the mattress scandulously brushes the carpet every morning and instead just be thankful to be in love with a man willing to make the bed. Maybe just one of us is learning that one.

I suppose for every rose-colored moment, a little toilet water must fall.

Stripped - Part II

The revealing continues.

From Luke:

1. If a train leaves from a station at point A at noon and travels at a constant speed of 89 mph to point B, which is 548 miles from point A, will the conductor make it home in time for dinner at 6 pm? (Assume the conductor lives at point B.)

No. But I only know this because you told me so.

2. If you were running late for work and would be fired if you didn't show up on time that day, would you still stop and wipe down the dirty kitchen counter top before you left?

I think maybe, just MAYBE, this question implies that I am a neat freak with her priorities vastly out of wack, because it's always the little things that make me at least five to ten minutes late to work every day. Wait, that picture frame's not straight! Did I categorize each bill pile properly? Are all the cartons in the fridge facing with the labels pointing outward? You know, the usual.

In this case, I would hope I could live with crummies on the counter, but I'm not making any promises.

3. What are those little squishy things in tapioca pudding?

Hell if I know. I despise tapioca pudding. Just thinking about the texture makes me want to wretch.

Great questions, Luke. Sheesh.

Moving on...

From Liz:

1. What is your earliest childhood memory?

Now, do you mean a memory whose existence can be logically proven or one that I might have possibly perhaps made up? If you mean the latter, I can "remember" being six years old and dashing out of the Cherry Point, North Carolina, apartment my family lived in to play in the woods that surrounded our unit and provided the perfect pathway to my friend Melissa's house. Of course, for this to be true, my family couldn't have left North Carolina when I was four. Hmmm.

2. What can bring tears to your eyes?

Picturing my wedding day. "The Greatest Man I Never Knew" by Reba McIntyre. (While we're at it, damn ALL songs that speak of father-daughter heartbreak!) Holding newborn babies. The episode in the third season of Friends where Ross and Rachel break up. Zits.

3. If you could have a superhero power, what would it be?

To fly. I dream about it so much that I'd love to see what it'd be like for real.

From Will:

1. Do you believe that it is possible to be ethical or moral without being religious?

Yes. "Do unto others as you would have done unto you." I think that statement is the golden rule of life, whether you're Catholic or Buddhist or even an athiest. No matter who you think made this universe, here we are, living in it. We have a responsibility to ourselves and each other to make it worth living in. I don't believe behavior is ethical or moral because it's religious; rather, it's ethical and moral behavior that religion promotes. If that makes sense.

2. Which is more important, freedom or security?

When I look at the many countries whose citizens have no voice in their government, whose citizens must abide by somebody else's idea of a just society, I say freedom. When I look at the way Americans have abused freedom, I say security. In the end, I think it's freedom, as freedom can result in security--security in knowing you can make your own choices and change the circumstances you're in. You (ideally) should never have to feel trapped in your situation.

3. Can selfishness be a virtue?

I think it has to be. Selfishness enables you to say that you are important enough to have your needs met. It means you have confidence in yourself and your abilities. Those attitudes are important when it comes to living a healthy quality of life and making positive changes in the world. Too many people subscribe to the "I'm not good enough" club, which, in case you couldn't tell from the name, is not a very productive club. I think it's when you think your needs are MORE important than someone else's, instead of just as important, that turn this virtue becomes a liability.

Thanks for the questions, everyone!

Useless Clutter and Disarray

The Merge is complete.

 

The Organizing is not.

But all the little butterflies are finally gone. I was so nervous last week, bombarding myself with Deep questions: Are Luke and I dooming our relationship? Are we really ready for this? Hell, am I ready for this? But when I woke up on Saturday morning, that cold feeling in my stomach had disappeared, and all I could feel was excitement that we would finally be together again.

As we begin compressing our lives into this one-bedroom apartment, there have been no major problems, only interesting issues that I'm sure every Merging couple faces. Like, we now possess a gazillion dishes, but I can't get myself to throw away the bowl and cup sets I bought from the dollar store my freshman year in college. That was EIGHT YEARS AGO, PEOPLE. The dollar-store dining ware and I, we have a history.

And OK, I know we have more coffee cups than all the Starbucks in Indianapolis, and yes, I am aware I don't even drink coffee, but don't ask me to get rid of the English cup I received from SJC's president's wife for driving her to the bus stop in Merrillville three years ago. And it still hurts that I will most likely have to give up the ugly-ass teacups taking up all the space in one of the top-shelf cabinets. The ugly-ass teacups I have used maybe one time but match the ugly-ass plates my mother gave to me when I moved out of the dorm and into my first (rented) house.

And then there are the questions. Why are you putting your measuring cups in the drawer when I have a perfectly wonderful set that's not missing any of the measuring increments? What will we do with nine pillows and three laundry baskets? If I "let you" display your electric razor, will it be OK if I leave my make-up bag on the ledge of the medicine cabinet? Will you ever remember to dry the bathroom countertop after you wash your face?

Many of these debates have taken place in my head as I put dishes away, shred Luke's old credit-card statements, and watch him assemble yet another Target bookshelf. But there is one thought I cannot keep to myself:

"I'm so glad you're here."

Stripped - Part I

OK, since I received quite a few questions from Wednesday's meme, I'm going to break this up a bit. I'll answer Becky's, Painting Chef's, and Anonymous's inquiries today and the rest sometime over the weekend. That is, if I can find the path to my computer among all the boxes that will surely be cluttering my--er, I mean, Luke's and my--fabulous space.

And now, we delve into the depths of Frema's psyche.

From Becky:

1. If spinach dip were no more, how would you take to filling the void in your life and diet? That is to say, is there anything on the menu of Frema's Favorites that is comparable to the revered spinach dip?

Big fat YES to that one. I adore bacon sandwiches--not to be confused with a BLT, because I don't like lettuce and I prefer the tomatoes on the side. On the side is a very big thing for me. But I'm never good at actually cooking the bacon; my smoke detector usually goes off at least once each time I make it, so I'd probably just stock up on ice cream. Favorite flavors include Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey, strawberry, and cookies and cream.

And this is why my gut hangs over the belt of my pants.

2. What if you had one of those beds that sits directly on the floor? Where do you think the Devil would hide if he was driven out of his former home underneath your bed?

Silly Becky, he would have no choice but to burrow his way through my wall. When I was younger, I used to have a recurring dream in which I was sitting in a high chair (or is it height chair?) and the Devil came bursting through the wall and pulled me down into hell, chair and all. I drew from this experience to write a short story for my an undergraduate writing class and again as a grad student. (Since we're being honest here, I actually just took the undergrad version and made a few changes to it for my grad fiction class, so that "Cecily's" nighmares were really a way to deal with the sexual abuse she suffered from at the hands of her father. Had to make it fresh, you know?)

3. Every potential writer has a fantasty about what kind of writer he or she one day hopes to be. What kind of writer do you one day hope to be?

Throughout my life, I have defined my writing dream in a number of different ways. When I was nine, I wanted to be a writer with an audience. In the height of my authorhood, my third-grade teacher would set aside about twenty minutes after lunch two times a week and let me read my latest masterpieces to the class. Classics included Jane and the Lion, Playing at the Park, and A Collection of Fairy Stories (which really turned out to be just one story, so I had to mark up my pretty cover to reflect the singular). As I hit my teens, I pictured myself traveling the world, autographing copies of my books outside the local Jewel, and giving book readings of Love, Betrayal, and a Baby (BOTH parts!) in my old neighborhood, and people from my past would come to see me and marvel at how my words stirred their very souls.

Then I went to college, and it all went to pot.

Not really, but I did learn that my fiction days are over. I'm not good at making up plots, fleshing out characters, or even just giving the story a damn point. Did you not just read that I turned devilish nightmares into symbolism for sexual abuse?

It was in graduate school that I realized non-fiction was my niche. Still wrestling with that three-week bulimia stint from seventh grade? Write about it. Sad about the kind of relationships you once found yourself in? Write about it. Depressed because even a normally built woman shouldn't have a pouch? You get the idea. The source of material and the opportunities for growth are endless. And I still enjoy having an audience, because I'm vain like that.

So, to answer your question, the writer I hope to be is a writer who never fails to see the humor in her everyday experiences, and one who is always willing to share them with others.

From Painting Chef:

1. What three movies will you watch over and over and never get tired of them?

What a great question! But only three? I'll do my best.

When Harry Met Sally. My all-time favorite movie and one of the most quotable films out there. In fact, I've already quoted it once in this entry. Bonus points to those who can find it.

High Fidelity. I love that this movie deals with real-life issues that have nothing to do with sleeping in Seattle or getting mail or any of that other typical romantic comedy stuff. I love watching Rob go back to the women of his past and see why those relationships failed, and him consequently seeing why he is in danger of losing the woman he's with now. This movie speaks very honestly about the problems and power of love. And also the TRUE significance behind making tapes.

The Wedding Singer. I love that this movie deals with PG issues that have everything to do with sleeping in Seattle and getting mail and all of that other typical romantic comedy stuff. Also very quotable.

Honorable Mentions: Austin Powers, International Man of Mystery; While You Were Sleeping; Chasing Amy

2. Was there a teacher from your childhood who had a lasting impression on the person you became?

Mrs. Erber was the third-grade teacher mentioned in my response to Becky's third question; she really did let me read my dorky stories out loud after lunch. In fourth grade, Ms. Socha would place my stories on the reading table in the back, so that students could choose my story to read during recess. She also humored me when I wrote stories and turned them in for a grade, even though they weren't required for any actual assignment. (Of course, she gave me As.) In high school, my sophomore honors English teacher kept a plastic sword at her side during the reading of Beowolf, and when we read it out loud, she would raise the sword and sang his name each time it appeared.

I had great teachers who fostered my creative side and deepened my love for literature and overall just let me be me. I was very lucky.

3. What's the worst you've ever screwed someone over?

I don't think there's one definitive act I've done to another person that makes me recoil in horror. However, in the beginning of every relationship I've ever had, there is a horrible track record of me pretty much abandoning my family and friends to bask in the glow of infatuation. Kind of typical I guess, but not acceptable. I blame it all on my first boyfriend, the one who would go for weeks at a time without calling me. From then on, I was always secretly afraid that if I wasn't at the beck and call of the guy I was with, he would leave. And I wasn't comfortable enough in my own skin to deal with being alone.

From Anonymous (Auntie Betty, is this you?):

1. Would you ever consider changing your religion if you had the chance?

This is something I have given a great deal of thought to, as I am Catholic and Luke is Methodist; in the end, though, the answer is no. Not because I think the Catholic Church is The Right Church, or even because I am fully practicing Catholic, but because for better or worse, the Catholic experience is part of my identity. Also, I think that if I switched churches, I'd just be entering another situation where I held faith in some of the teachings and questioned the others. Religion is a man-made institution, and as such, there will never be a perfect one. Therefore, I'd rather explore the good, bad, and the ugly of Catholicism while loving God and doing my best to follow The Golden Rule instead of worrying about what spiritual label I should wear.

2. If there were no more Red Apple Jelly Bellys, which will be your second choice?

Oooh, another soul-searcher. How lame would it be for me to say Green Apple?

3. Which comes first in your life, true love or money?

Well, the love of my life is currently unemployed, so obviously, money.

* For those of you who made it this far, mad props. More to come soon.

Frema Revealed! If You Dare

Painting Chef is currently doing this on her site, and it looks like fun. So, read on:

1. Ask me three questions. Any three, no matter how personal, private or random.

2. I have to answer them honestly, and I have to answer them all.

3. In turn, post this message on your blog and answer all questions asked of you.

Bring it on, peeps!

God Bless Betty

I didn't realize how starved I was for platonic companionship in the workplace until today.

Betty is probably fifty years old and answers the phone lines at the lab. Betty lets me in through the visitor's entrance when I forget my ID. On my very first day, Betty told me how to get to White Castle. But today, Betty was my friend.

I had just stapled a 401(k) announcement to the bulletin board and tossed last week's update in the recycling bin when Betty asked, "So, is anything going on?"

For a moment, I was startled, then confused. "Do you mean with me personally?"

"Well, yes," she said.

"Well, yes," I answered back, and proceeded to spill my current life saga about Luke moving in this weekend and that I was a little nervous but mostly excited and opinions are murky and my mother wants me to be married and this wasn't Plan A but, well, doesn't she think Luke and I want to be married, too? Because we do, and I know that Luke is thinking about proposing soon because I SAW THE BOOKMARKED LINKS, PEOPLE. And he knows I saw them, because he showed them to me, because he thinks my family and I don't have any faith that he's in this for The Long Haul. So yes, Betty, there is plenty going on and I have nobody at work to talk to about this with they are all too damned busy with urine samples and infant bowel movements to chit chat with me. And I lent my Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban DVD to the senior lab director in hopes of sparking a lifelong friendship, but alas, it has not happened just yet.

And dear Betty, she just listened and gave grandmotherly advice, and in her own way suggested that we could have upped a wedding just as easily as we upped moving in together. And then I was like, "Huh," and then, "Well, money, yeah..."

Huh.

So, OK, Luke is still totally moving in this weekend, but I have now deemed my House Fund (formerly known as Emergency Fund) as the Wedding Fund. Because really, it makes the most sense.

Thanks, Betty.

Quitting the Day Job, Not So Much

Well, folks, I did it! There was smiling and strutting and sashaying and shantaying and even a little flirty head-turning. Also, the return of The Cleavage.

Outfit number one. It looked great on the rack--just not on my rack. I tried telling the Parisian special events coordinator that Clinton and Stacy would not approve of the one-button jacket for my blah frame. "The three-button jacket really provides better structure," I said at my fitting, but this woman was willowy and gorgeous even at eight months pregnant and working for Parisian, so who the hell am I to have a know-it-all air about me just because I've watched What Not to Wear? However, in this case, I think I was right. My breasts were putting forth their best efforts to somersault out of my bra and into the great wide open. The jeans were cute but too long, and rolling them up seemed inappropriate when paired with my sexy Nine West 100-percent-leather pointy-toe knee-high boots. I loved the jacket's color, though. The blue family is so very in this fall. And I would know. In case you didn't notice, I am a model.

Outfit number two, the one I am considering charging on my Visa because I feel so very Adult in it. Except the boots. My poor baby toes will never be the same. And maybe the jacket, because it's over a hundred dollars and what else can I possibly pair it with? Actually, I'd be happy just getting the skirt. Everything else I can find at NY&C and Bakers. But still. See how Adult I look? I should totally be walking to my corner office downtown with an Italian briefcase in one hand and a Starbucks Frappacino in the other.

My fellow fashionistas (and one fashionisto) in crime. Despite our various height, weight, and hair differences, we all had the same objective: survive this thing without making damn fools of ourselves. Mission accomplished. And hopefully, we found some new friends in the process. All in all, a fabulous time.

At the end of the evening, the Parisian special events coordinator handed each of us a fifteen-percent coupon good for any purchase in the store. However, it's only good until Sunday, at which time I will be at a wedding shower in Chicago, but it doesn't matter because shower or not I'd still have the same amount of cash to spend: none.

Coincidentally, I also have one NY&C CityCash coupon, also good for this weekend only. I so want to be a Responsible Financial Person and just let the coupons expire; after all, what good is a discount if I'm spending money I don't have? However, the part of me that says it's OK to eat half a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey is also reminding me that I have been that Responsible Financial Person all summer and I just switched my current credit card debt to a new card with a zero percent APR on all balance transfers until September 2006 and surely it would be OK to splurge just one more time?

Maybe I should change my nickname to Sybil.

I'm Too Sexy For This Post

Well, it's the eve of the day my modeling career is sure to take off, and I don't feel ready. Never found the time or the twenty dollars to get that professional blow-out I wanted so badly, so my public will have to settle for The Curls. Which is bad enough, as the chances of strutting my stuff on the runway with frizzy hair have now doubled, but we beauty queens are also expected to do our own make-up. I am getting much better at this but still have not yet mastered avoiding The Crease. Girls, you know what I'm talkin' about--you start the day with gorgeously applied eye shadow and end up with it caked in the crevice of your lid. Even with this product, designed to specifically prevent such atrocities, The Crease lives, adding a slight dent in my love for all things Clinique. Am I using too much? Too little? I have heard both answers, as they vary with each counter I visit. Very frustrating.

Plus, upon requesting directions on how to work it, I've been told, "These are your friends, people you know, so just have fun with it." Actually, Parisian special events coordinator, these people are not my friends. They are friends in the MAKING, which means it's very important I don't make an @$$ out of myself. This being the case, the following moves have been considered but pretty much kaboshed:

- Running fingers through hair and shaking head playfully
- Flashing innocent citizens with the inside of my jacket
- Raising eyebrows suggestively
- Twirling
- Kicking a heel in the air
- Voguing
- Gripping knees and laughing playfully a la Betty Boop
- Shaking what my mother gave me

I will totally make an @$$ out of myself.

This post reads as frazzled as I feel, and it's not just the fashion show. It's like my life hasn't had a chance to slow down since I moved here; there's always been something on my plate: graduating, starting my job, helping with my sister's wedding, Luke and I deciding to live together, helping his brother and sister-in-law get ready for a move into their new house.... Today was so crazy that I pulled the White Trash card and ate White Castle take-out in the waiting room of a Jiffy Lube, just to get dinner in. I am ready for normalcy. I eagerly anticipate the days where I can come home, nestle into my beloved reading chair, and devour Harry Potter shenanigans until Luke is finished with dinner. Afterwards, he'll brush my hair, rub my feet, and paint my toes, but not before he's prepared me a warm bubble bath and set my night to music.

Having a live-in boyfriend is going to be great. I just know it.

The Not-On-Top-Of-It Girl

It has come to my attention the meme I filled out last week wasn't quite complete. Apparently I was so eager to share my personal history with all of you that I deleted a few VERY important pieces of information.

One Year Ago, August 2004

Mumbling and grumbling about my job but getting excited to begin my last year at DePaul. Begin watching All My Children religiously, as I am held captive by the baby-switching storyline. Enjoying shopping expeditions at New York and Company, The Limited, and Victoria's Secret, so much so that I become a credit-card-carrier of all three stores by the end of the summer.

Five snacks I enjoy

- Spinach and artichoke dip
- Ice cream
- Red Apple Jelly Bellys
- Strawberries and Cool Whip
- Cheese

Five TV shows I love

- Friends
- Sex and the City
- 24
- All My Children
- The Suze Orman Show

* In my defense about the shopping thing: I tried on my fashion-show outfits last Monday, and the suede jacket I'm wearing for outfit number one is equal in dollar amount to what I spent at NY&C last year.

How Useless Clutter Changed My Life

The Moving Day, it has been set. On Saturday, September 17, Luke and I will officially be living in sin. Exciting! Seriously, though, my stomach is starting to flutter at the idea of being able to see the love of my life every day. And in a city with more than one zip code! We'll go out for coffee and get joint memberships at Cardinal Fitness and snuggle up on the couch after a hard day's work and fall asleep in each other's arms. No more jumping onto I-65 at 5:00 p.m. on Friday to be in Rensselaer by dinnertime. Gone will be the days of an extra bottle of contact solution at his place and extra pairs of his socks at mine.

When I first started spreading the news, I was so bogged down imagining everyone's opinion that I didn't give myself permission to be happy. Now, that's all I can think about. The very first day I met Luke, I knew he was someone special. And as we got to know each other, I learned he had all the qualities I'd been searching for in a man: he loved his parents and had a wonderful relationship with them; he believed in God and the importance of being a good person; he was funny; he didn't judge; he was kind. And I was hooked.

In the more than four years that we've been together, we've had problems. Of course we have. But as each obstacle stared us in the face, we didn't back down and refused to give up. And he has never seen me for anyone other than who I am. The biggest reason my past relationships failed was that those guys never really GOT me. They weren't horrible people; they were just less interested in who I was and more concerned with what my persona had to offer. And I had a few of them. There was Savior Frema, who made numerous attempts to rescue a person who barely gave her the time of day, someone who went MIA for days and even weeks at a time and stole from her workplace and lied about cheating on her and then had the audacity to tell her that her morals were outdated. There was also Trophy Frema, the girlfriend who smiled a lot and always did her hair and hung out with the boys and at 20 years old did the best she could to appear adult to men who saved up for comic books instead of down payments. In both scenarios, she was almost always on edge, always afraid that one day she would slip up and be unmasked as the fraud she really was.

With Luke, I can be me. It's OK to burp and fart and laugh through my nose and cry with my whole heart. He sees me in my favorite lounger capris and still calls me pretty. He thinks it's cute that I still get excited about bunnies and ice cream. When we go out to eat, he always asks if I want to get the spinach dip appetizer, even if he's not in the mood. When my feet are sore from wearing high heels for ten hours, he'll carry me to my car (or at least halfway; light as a feather I am not, people). I have never before experienced a love like this.

But most importantly... he has NEVER stolen Pokemon cards or cash from my place of employment. That alone gives me hope for our future.

Laughter Through Tears Is My Favorite Emotion

This week has been crazy, from proofing employee handbooks to making an ASS out of myself in front of our printer to never washing down the shower like I said I would to having a headache from staying up so late to wondering why my DSL isn't connecting to thinking about this whole moving-in business to worrying about student-loan debt to just wanting to go home and FINISH HARRY POTTER ALREADY and then take a nap.

These were the thoughts running through my head when I made a pitstop to the bathroom after lunch and discovered traces of a Hostess cupcake strategically smeared into the corners of my mouth.

I wish I could say that this was the first time I've displayed food on my face for all my coworkers to see. I really do.

I am a damn FOOL.