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Beauty and the Prick

The beauty is ... well, me. The prick is from the nurse's needle that broke the surface of my skin yesterday because, after two weeks of insurance glitches, I said to hell with Anthem and their refusal to hand over my new insurance card and just kept the damn appointment to follow-up on my cholesterol.

(Or by the time I remembered to call and cancel on Thursday, the doctor's office was already closed and my appointment was the first one of the day and I didn't want to piss off the nurse because she's nice and all but has a bit of a Homie Don't Play That complex. Would you want to trigger the Homie in your health care professional? I didn't think so.)

Anyway. I get to the office and engage in some friendly banter with the receptionist, who's become a kindred spirit through all this insurance nonsense, and then I get weighed, and then I get pricked, and then I twiddle my thumbs until the doctor delivers the verdict.

Turns out he's got good things to say. While the actual test results won't be available until early next week, he reports that I've lost four pounds since my last visit, a sure sign that my cholesterol is on its way down. He said that I'm the exception, because most people who come in for this kind of follow-up have either gained weight or simply refuse to be weighed, a sure sign that they fell off their diets. He congratulated me for making such great progress and left instructions to call on Monday for the numbers.

And the whole time he's talking, all I can think is: there's no way I lost four pounds. No. freakin'. way.

Because at my last visit, I remember the nurse weighing me in at 133, and that made me ecstatic, because on the visit before THAT I was 139, and I said, "I lost six pounds?" and because she has a Homie Don't Play That complex, she wasn't about to patronize me, so she said, "Let me check on that," and then a few minutes later she was all, "You're right!" And then I cried tears of joy into the camera and thanked the Academy for making this miracle possible.

At yesterday's visit, I weighed 135, which at first didn't bother me because I was on day two of my cycle and therefore blamed the extra poundage on Aunt Flo's water-retaining suitcase. That is, until Mr. Doctor started talking about extra weight sentencing patients to cholesterol hell. THEN it totally bothered me, and twenty-four hours later, I still can't tell which of us is the crazy one. Was that glorious visit a figment of my imagination, or did Mr. Doctor skip over the last page in my file?

Who knows. It no longer takes three jean wears for the denim band to accommodate my pouch, so maybe he's on to something. Either way, I'll find out next week. Cross your fingers.

In other news, I cannot BELIEVE I forgot to mention last week that Amalah answered my question on the Wednesday Advice Smackdown! Here's how it happened:

Last Thursday I was checking my Gmail, minding my own business, when I discovered the following message:

Hello!

So I read your comment AGES AGO about having a question in the July batch of advice emails (Right? Am not hallucinating this?) (Man, I gotta cut back on the shrooms.), and I was all, "Oh! Frema deserves special treatment, because I love her!" So I was decided that your question would be the next one I answered.

Except...um...I don't seem to have it. Which is probably completely my fault -- I may have not labeled it correctly or something. So! I would like to answer your question, either the original one or any other new question of your choosing, since you know, JULY.

Bah.

Amy

And I was like, "Holy crap! The goddess of the Internet is talking to ME!" So I wrote a really long reply that spelled out my question of what to do about sunburnt shoulders, originally submitted because I was wearing a strapless dress in my sister's wedding and needed advice on how to cover them up. I went on to tell her that now is actually the PERFECT time to be answering this because I'm getting married in May and the dress is strapless, thus resurrecting the problem all over again. I may or may not have ended my monologue with, "This e-mail will stay in my Gmail box FOREVER." Nerd.

And then, heavens to Betsy, I was on Amalah.com.

Amalah did a great job of whittling my rambles down into a short and comprehendible read, though there are a few words peppered here and there that only those privy to my original e-mail would understand. But still, me! On Amalah.com! Mine was the last question, so do a little scrollin' and witness the glory for yourself. Also, if you read the comments, you'll notice our own Number Twelve was the first to post. A happy, happy day.

This One's For The Children

Lately I've gotten into the habit of thinking about my children--not children I have right now, of course, but the ones I hope to produce someday. Except less about the actual kids themselves and more about the material items I intend for them to inherit, items that will provide them with both a rich family history and tangible keepsake of A Mother's Love. In January, when Luke and I ordered pictures from Dan and Samantha's wedding, three wallet-sized orders were placed for pictures featuring the two of us, the newlyweds, and my entire family specifically for inclusion in Amelia, Lucy, and Nathan's baby books. When Luke's brother and sister-in-law offered us prints from their daughter's first-year photo shoot, I requested four; one five-by-seven for framing and three wallets for possible scrapbooking projects. In both scenarios, three seemed like a good number because that is the maximum capacity I've set for my womb, and naturally the best representation for that would be two girls and a boy because I'm better with girls' names. Even the possibility of a fourth throws all my plans out of wack, because THAT kid would have to steal my five-by-sevens and therefore come across as Mom and Dad's favorite. Perhaps the others could be appeased with Mommy's old diaries--who WOULDN'T be excited to know that the woman who gave them life used to make herself throw up?

Anyway, last night was relatively tame for Luke and me, so I figured it was about time to start filling out the engagement book we received from the wonderful Lost A Sock at the beginning of the year. I imagined myself writing pages about the start of our romance; pasting in photographs from our formative days; transcribing sage advice from family and friends who know us best. That is, until I actually put pen to paper. Then I was all, "Mommy is a freakin' idiot."

My first mistake? Messing up the "B" in my non-Internet first name. THE FIRST LETTER, people, and I had already doomed the entire book. In my signature B--as in signature standard, not signature hand-writing--the two vertical buttocks are interlocked tightly together with a perky little loop similar to that of a bunny-eared shoe lace. However, this B was wildly out of control, as if each buttock were experiencing some sort of hive-inducing allergic reaction to the other.

To make matters worse, I have the brilliant notion to fix the B by tracing over it several times, which not only doesn't bridge the gap but instead plumps up the right vertical buttock, which is just plain embarrassing to the left one. It's as if the pen was possessed with the penmanship of a nine-year-old boy who sees dead people.

Anyway, I'm disheartened but determined to press forward with the Creating of the Special Memories. The middle of the first line is divided with an "and," so I write our names in the appropriate spaces, tossing in an ampersandish symbol for good measure. I get to the second line but can't figure out what it's for, so I scribble in our wedding date. Then I get to "who were married on the ____ " and the lightbulb goes off, and I shout, "Aw, f*&^."

At this point I have a few options:

1) Invest in a bottle of white-out and get cracking so that Amelia, Lucy, and Nathan don't think their mommy is an idiot who can't follow even the simplest of instructions.

2) Buy a new copy of the journal and start over, because everyone deserves a white-out-free engagement book.

3) Leave the book as is and spend the rest of my life making it up to them.

Frema Had A Gun

That's a lie; Luke was actually declared Master of the Barcode Scanner here on Saturday night while we spent THREE HOURS moseying down aisles of bedding, kitchenware, and household appliances. Like those towels? Beep! went the gun. Can't decide on a dish pattern? Then Beep! Beep!, because would it really be so horrible to own multiple dish patterns? Between the two of us we already have four: White, Plastic Wal-Mart Tropical Paradise, The Ones With Rust On the Edges From Drying Under The Pots, and That One Brown Plate My Mom Got From The Thrift Store.

I've always had mixed feelings about registries and bridal showers. While I enjoy participating in them for others, I didn't think Luke and I necessarily qualified, as the whole point is to help a couple join their lives together, and we already did that in September. We have a plethora of bedding and kitchenware and household appliances. Never mind what kind of shape they're in (see our dishes), but we have them, so the only reason to register would be to get new bedding and new kitchenware and new household appliances, and how greedy is that? When I started sharing these ideas, though, I thought my family and friends would go into cardiac arrest. I heard everything from "But you deserve a shower!" to "If you don't register, people won't get you anything at all!" I don't completely buy into either of those sentiments but finally decided that OK, we can have a shower, and fine, we'll register, and if anyone is offended by our actions, nobody's pointing a barcode scanner at their heads. They can RSVP with a big fat "no."

As we oohed and aahed over photo albums and vaccuum cleaners and syrup dispensers, I remembered another reason to be wary of registering: the possibility of getting emotionally attached to our wish list. Before we went in, Luke and I had no idea what we wanted. By the end of the night, I was feening for "our" red, white, and blue country-style quilt, matching luggage set, and ultra-savvy coffee pot. (And I don't even drink coffee; it was that cool, people.) It's hard not to think about what you might get when people come out of the woodwork firing questions like "Where are you registered?" and "What do you need?" And every time, I can't help but think that really, we don't need anything, but it sure is touching to see how much loved ones want to help you prepare for your new life. That's something you just can't register for.

In other news, the last few days have been chock full of other accomplishments as well. We completed our tax returns, found a way to pay my almost seven-hundred-dollar car insurance premium in cash, discovered there was no mold in my bahsketti container*, and caught up on three episodes of All My Children (apparently I have the will power of an Elmer's Glue stick). We also took stock of our wedding finances and realized that almost half of The Big Day is paid in full. If that doesn't put a little kick in your step, I don't know what would.

* I still threw the container away, though, because eeew.

Bahsketti

Because Luke's birthday dinner on Tuesday seemed to go well, I thought I'd go all out and play chef two days in a row. The main course? Spaghetti. I know, I know--the possibilities with my Betty Crocker cookbook are endless.

Though I've made pasta several times before, I screw it up approximately 78.6 percent of the time because of the fact that I never remember the temperature at which the noodles need to cook. I always think I'm supposed to bring the water to a boil but then reduce it to a simmer once it's time to add the actual food. In every instance I think, this time will be different, this time I've finally got the steps down, this time there's no need to verify my course of action with the back of the spaghetti box. And in every instance, I produce a lump of noodles that give the illusion of being appropriately prepared but actually bear an uncanny match in taste and texture to the individual straw units that compose a barrel of hay. We should've just thrown the stuff straight from the pot to our front lawn and raced to see who could execute the best dive.

Luke and I made it through a collective seven forkfuls before scraping our plates into the garbage disposal. Later when I inquired about the pasta's chances of making a suitable lunch, he thought there was a good chance it'd be just fine, as sitting in the sauce overnight just might be the ticket to appeasing the taste bud gods.

At 11:36 a.m. I learned that the pasta was not just fine. I learned that if it tastes like straw on Wednesday, it'll taste like straw on Thursday, too.

This time I only got through two forkfuls before I raised a white flag and clung to the nutritional value of my Fig Newton two-pack and Capri Sport Ice Berry juice box. However, I was eating at my desk and couldn't bring myself to just throw the spaghetti away, what with all the starving children in third-world countries and not wanting to be labeled Messy and Wasteful by the man who changes my trash liner. So I packed everything up again with the intention of sending all the little noodles back to that great big pasta box in the sky later that night.

And it would've worked, too, if I'd actually remembered to accompany my lunch bag to the car. I'm taking a vacation day tomorrow and shudder to think what I might return to on Monday. Mice? Mold? Place your bets and freak out accordingly.

So Worth The Onions

I once broke up with someone the day after Valentine's Day. As a sophomore in high school, I dated Jon for one month and sixteen days, our courtship initiated on New Year's Eve while sitting on the stoop of my front porch. On February 15, we were hanging out in my room, and miracle of miracles, I was even allowed to shut the door. This was huge, as my parents preferred my dates to consist of me and my suitor playing Mortal Kombat on the Sega in the living room with my seven-year-old brother. I think they were just so happy I had attracted a boy who not only had a GPA higher than 1.7 but also intended to pursue medical school that the possibility of grandchildren conceived out of wedlock wasn't such a bad idea. With my track record, it wouldn't have been unreasonable to assume he was my last chance to cinch a connection to any man who dared to finish high school.

When it came to boyfriends, I had a few strengths. I knew how to make out, maintain awkward silences for as long as thirty minutes in order to avoid conflict (both on the phone and in person, how talented was I?), and pretend not to notice that joint sticking out the pocket of your flannel hoodie. Hell, I did it for five years. However, these strengths did not apply to transitional men, because life was too short, I wasn't that good an actress, and besides, Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, was totally going to come crawling back to me sans hoodie and drug-free.

Anyway, we're in my room, me making small talk, him making a pencil sketch of fall trees in bloom as he was both a doctor-in-training and aspiring artist, and we fall into the topic of some bet we' recently settled. What the bet was about, I have not a clue; maybe we were gambling on whether or not Mel Gibson's scraggly mane in Braveheart was real or if Ross and Rachel were in fact each other's lobster. I only remember that the winner had the power make the loser do whatever he/she wanted, and I was the loser. Jon decides that he wants me to kiss the person of my choice. I decide that Jon has devised a clever way to propose our first kiss; also, that I have no interest in exploring a first of any kind with him.

"Can I pick the dog?" I ask.

Of course, this leads to The Talk, how it's not him, it's me, I'm in a Bad Place, blah blah blah. The poor guy was on the verge of tears, which back then I thought, "Soooo lame." If only he'd been a pot-smoking, comic-book reading, high-school dropout. Then I would've put him on a pedestal.

Stupid girl. Also, bitch.

Ten years later, my actions are much more appropriate for the occasion, only now it's less about Valentine's Day and more about it being Luke's birthday. Not only did I surprise him with some kick-@$$ presents, I also cooked a chicken fajita dinner ALL BY MYSELF, because I'm domestic like that, and bought a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream cake from Dairy Queen. Note to self: buying food is much, much easier. It's also less likely to smudge your mascara.

However, Luke had a kick-@$$ surprise of his own, which I discovered at work when pulling out the Care Bears fruit snacks from my lunch bag. It was a Charlie Brown Valentine's Day card with an inscription that read, "I love you so much, Frema, and I can't wait until the next Valentine's Day because we'll be married for that one."

I almost cried, which is really saying something, because you know me. I never cry.

Not So Much With The Cutting of the Cord

Last Friday I worked at home so that I could take full advantage of my potty-mouth vocabulary while attempting to learn the latest desktop publishing software, as I am now required to become Graphic Designer Genius for work. Anyway, this meant that I could schedule my lunch hour to coincide with All My Children's weekly cliffhanger, and this one did not disappoint. I'm not even gone two weeks and already Kendall and Zach have called it quits, Dixie is waltzing around Pine Valley mascarading as some masked butterfly woman, and Erica's learned that the doctor who was supposed to terminate her pregnancy all those years ago actually stole her fertilized embryo and implanted it into the uterus of his barren wife, thus creating a son. And if that wasn't enough, it's rumored that several characters, including a long-time veteran, are scheduled to bite the daytime dust.

The idea of missing out on even further storyline payoffs has spurred the overturning of my previous decision in order to make one that is more respectful of my AMC obsession but still acknowledges there must be Boundaries: I'll record the show every day as before, but if there's no time to watch it, I'll just tape over that day's episode and move on. In this way, my love for soaps has already proven its worth by helping me to realize that in The Big Picture, nothing can be gained by holding onto the past. Only when you fully embrace each day as a wonderous and spiritual gift will you be able to enjoy the moments that make up your life. Myrtle would be proud.

Or maybe she'd call Bullsh!t. You know, whatever.

At the end of today's episode, Janet From Another Planet blew up the local Mardi Gras ball to smithereens. Am waiting on the edge of my seat to find out which PV residents meet their makers (that is, until one of them resurfaces in two years claiming it wasn't actually Ethan who died but his twin brother, Thorn Ridge, who served as an evil Ethan imposter. Drama!). Even Luke acknowledges that unveiling these fatalities tomorrow is a must, even though it's Valentine's Day, the celebration of his 32nd year, and the day of his second interview with a local county newspaper. Priorities, people. Priorities.

Food, Glorious Food

Every Thursday at work, the lab and non-lab employees are united by one common goal: corporate take-out.

Every Thursday between the hours of eight and ten-thirty, approximately thirty orders are placed for foodie no-nos like high-school style pepperoni pizza, barbequed ribs, quarter pounders with cheese, beef manhattans, and chicken fried steak sandwiches with patties equivalent to the circumference of a basketball with some local diner-food type place. By noon, the guilty-pleasure goodness arrives in droves, each order protected by the sanctity of a styrofoam doggie-bag, and the smells permeate the entire building, announcing its presence better than a loudspeaker page ever could.

I rarely wait until noon to eat--I've usually started munching on the pretzel logs or fruit snacks meant to accompany a sandwich by nine--but yesterday when the clock struck twelve I was feasting over Campbell's Homestyle Chicken Noodle Soup in the break room with a colleague who recently graduated from my last place of employment and just might be my only work friend. Anyway, it was me and my soup and Marissa and her tuna and we could do nothing but salivate over the greasy deliciousness surrounding us on both sides. When lunch was over, I was still hungry, and wondered what harm there would be in dashing over to the nearest White Castle to order a cheeseburger. There's only about a pinky finger's worth of meat on those damn things and the price of one could be paid for with the pennies in my pocketbook. How bad could that be?

Somehow I resisted the urge, and fought the bad voices again when I just happened to pass the vending machine that I didn't just happen to pass at all, because it's actually nowhere near my cubicle, but I still managed to hit C5 for Rold Golds instead of D3 for the Snickers I really wanted.

Since I was informed of my slightly high cholesterol in December, Luke and I have done a good job of keeping healthier foods in the house. We bake instead of fry the majority of our meals, and he makes a special point to include some sort of fruit or vegetable with dinner, something we weren't so good about before. But it's been really hard, and today it hit me how just much pleasure I get from the act of eating. I may not like a lot of stuff, but if I enjoy something, it's hard to digest it in moderation. A half-gallon of ice cream doesn't stand a chance in our freezer because I'll smush seven scoops' worth into each bowl I have. The idea of spinach dip as merely an appetizer is a foreign concept to me, and I'll eat it until the gas bubble in my stomach says it's time to head to the bathroom. Bacon isn't a side; it's the stuff that the best of sandwiches are made of, sandwiches that I don't bother to clutter with lettuce or tomato because they get in the way of the bacony goodness and besides I don't like lettuce.

I was supposed to have a cholesterol follow-up last Friday but cancelled it because of some glitches with my new HSA; now I've got another week and a half to make even more of an effort to cleanse my body of all the fatty foods I stuffed myself with prior to Christmas. I've heard from countless individuals about how just adding oatmeal to my diet should do the trick, but never in my life have I tasted such a heavy, lumpy, tasteless food, no matter how many spoons of cinnamon sugar are shoveled in there. Luckily, God invented Cheerios, which I like just fine, and we've drastically cut down on our meals out, but I'm still scared to see the results. Not because I'm afraid I'll die a premature, artery-clogged death, but because if it hasn't gone down, my doctor will propose medicine, which will lower my cholesterol but also eliminate any immediate plans to get pregnant, and while we're not trying now, we will sometime, whether it be in January 2007 or this August or at the Lees Inn at eleven fifty-seven p.m. on the night of May 12. Anyway, I don't want us to put off our hopes for a baby because the new Mrs. Fatty McFatterson (yes, I'm keeping my name) (no I'm not but I don't want you to think I'm implying Luke is MR. McFatterson) can't keep her damn hands off the Breyer's. Definitely good motivation.

But it's hard just the same.

Aww, You Guys...

In honor of 1992, I'd like to say, Boy, do I feel salty.

I wrote the first couple of sentences leading into yesterday's entry mainly as a joke, to point out the types of things people are willing to comment on, so imagine my surprise when you all felt you had to defend yourselves for not announcing your presence. However, another part of me was looking forward to seeing what kinds of comments the soul-baring might bring about, like maybe other married people would share the thoughts THEY had running through their heads when they were getting ready for the altar, or what they thought about those close to them when they went through it, and I kind of hoped my comments section would bear witness to some sort of Lifetime love fest with all the relating and the reflecting and the wisdom-sharing, so I was a little bummed when that didn't happen. Anyway, didn't mean to call you out, homies. That's what DeLurking Week is for, and you all did wonderfully for that. I don't think I ever actually said thanks for reading, so seriously, thanks for reading. I love those of you who visit and say nice things, and even those who say snotty things, because it means somebody's paying attention.

In the almost two years that I've been maintaining this site, I have been transformed. Before I knew blogs existed, I had dreams of writing but no motivation to do so. What was the point in pouring energy into a first draft that would need countless revisions when I had no way to share it with anyone short of a book deal? If I was only in this for myself, I'd be content just listening to the tangents that run through my head all day long. This Web site allows me to make myself heard, so there are no excuses. It's write or bust.

And for the most part, I do. Incidents that were once dedicated to a few lines in e-mails to friends are now fodder for Internet comedy. Now I have a reason to bother tackling deep thoughts once deemed too hard to verbalize. Now I can make them tangible to the entire world. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have a real shot at achieving my dream of becoming a published writer, even if "publishing" means nothing more than hitting a button in my Blogger account so that my "essays" can be sought after by those with PC access and a few spare minutes to kill every other day.

Today I'm slightly nervous about the state of my blog, seeing as it's 99 percent likely that Amalah will answer the question I submitted in July for her Wednesday Advice Smackdown, and her Web site is to me what Ann M. Martin is to children's literature and pre-teen baby-sitters born after 1980. I feel like I need to do something special in case she stops by, like blow out my Internet hair and pick out the broccoli that's stuck between my two front Internet teeth.

Except that broccoli will never get stuck between my teeth. I hate broccoli.

Stick to the Funny, Frema

What? I get nineteen comments about bridesmaids dresses but only three when I bare the depths of my premarital soul? Are you people made of stone?

Anyway, on Sunday night I didn't go to sleep until almost one-thirty in the morning, so by lunchtime yesterday I was seriously weighing the pros and cons of pulling a George Costanza and stealing a nap underneath my desk, which would have been easy to do because my the leg room is equal to the size of a one-bedroom apartment and my cubicle is tucked away in a dark and ominous corner where no employees dare to venture except when perhaps they need a letter of appeal to an insurance company or something. When I came home, I fell into bed, and then Luke fell into bed, and three and a half hours later we woke up ONLY because my sister called to say she didn't have time to talk. (Yes, you read that right.) So, not only did we miss the first half of 24, we were also about to miss our eagerly anticipated grocery-shopping window, unless we were willing to make a mad dash to the car before the sleep fully left our eyes and run through the aisles like crazed contestants on Supermarket Sweep while we heard, "Your Super Target is closing in ten minutes. Please bring your Super Target purchases to the front" over the loudspeakers, which we were not, because at the moment our VCR isn't a fan of recording sound and there's only so much Jack Bauer I can do without before my brain melts into the couch.

For dinner, we split a package of beef-flavored Ramen soup and Care Bears fruit snacks and tried to get on with our lives, but twenty minutes later Luke was like, "But I'm so huuuuungry," and truthfully so was I, because I normally get the whole pack of Ramen, so then I was like, "We can go to Wal-Mart," but neither of us were huuuuungry enough to leave the apartment, and besides, we HATE our Wal-Mart, where the clientele consists of men with rosaries tattooed on their neck and women who stash extra wads of Kleenex in their shirt collar. I told him he could've made a grilled cheese with the last hot dog bun, but he passed and had a bowl of Cheerios instead.

Now, what do you have to say about THAT?

Wedding Forecast: Pensive

A surprisingly productive two days took place in Merrillville this weekend. In addition to making another hefty deposit on our hall, Luke and I finally, finally booked a DJ and selected a hotel for our wedding night, two chores that had elevated themselves to the current bane of our existence. For the first time in a while, I'm allowing myself to get excited about this wedding.

I'm also feeling reflective. On the drive back to Indianapolis, the two of us talked about how the life-changing nature of an upcoming marriage shakes up all sorts of thoughts and questions you previously assumed you'd buried. As a person who spent so much of her earlier years looking for acceptance, I now find myself taking to the mirror under the pretense that my eyes actually belong to someone else, to people who, for better or worse, influenced my core.

I think about the two major relationships I was a part of before I met Luke and wonder how they're doing, if they think of me, what they might think if they knew I was about to take a husband. I remember entering into each one with levels of infatuation that almost swallowed me whole, believing that this time I'd finally met someone who understood and appreciated my countless little complications and wanted to be involved in all aspects of my life, not just the part that liked to go out with his friends on Saturday nights. Each time I thought, "This is it, now I'm happy," and just like that, I'd see signs that this person was just another alteration in my romantic wardrobe, like a pretty suit that seems to fit at the store but clings too tightly to your stomach once you've brought it home.

In the last one, I knew months beforehand that I'd have to break up with him. I also knew I didn't have strength to do it without "just cause," so I carried on in this probationary manner until one day he almost left for work without kissing me good-bye. I can see myself laying in bed, holding on to the covers, watching him put on his shoes, locate his wallet, grab his jacket in silence, even though he knew I'd been up for the last half hour. It wasn't until his hand was on the doorknob that his head popped back in a kneejerk "Shit!" reaction and he walked over to give me a peck on the lips. And then I watched him go, already starting to cry, because for some reason, that was It, The Last Straw, because I knew with every fiber of my being that I should have been acknowledged before the bottoms of his heels had settled into his Nikes, not after, and certainly not as an afterthought.

I think about the girlfriends I have and wonder which ones are sincerely happy for me, which ones think I'm crazy, and which ones can't believe that I'm doing it first. I wonder if some of them think I'm desperate to get married because I'm planning a wedding with someone who's still looking for a job.

I think about my parents and wonder if they're as ready as they think they are to receive grandchildren from their oldest daughter, a girl who still enjoys chocolate milk and needs twenty bucks from time to time.

I think about a male friend of mine, someone who served as my biggest crush and confidant through all of high school and most of college, and wonder if he ever realizes that countless sexual encounters can never compare to the affection found in one back rub.

I think about the girl I was ten years ago, who wrotes pages of journal entries about how confused she was, how lonely she was, how sad she felt knowing that her whole day depended on just one phone call, and it's been three weeks, why the hell won't you act like a man and call me, you son of a bitch, and wonder if there's a way to let her know that she doesn't have be angry anymore; that everything turned out just fine.

Because it did.

Figures...

...that as soon as I wipe my hands clean of the whole meme thing because surely I have more sophisticated witticisms to share with you, the biggest inspiration to wannabe professional "blobbers" everywhere posts her first one. Meanwhile, my own blob has been without an update for days because I have nothing sophisticated or witty to say.

That's not really true. On Tuesday I sat in on a meeting between two scientists who discussed the intricacies of DNA technology, and I had no idea what in the Sam Hill these people were talking about, and I thought, "Hey, if I blogged about this, I would talk about how even though I dropped out of my high school physics class, I still have to pretend I sort of comprehend what multiplex short tandem repeats are, and I would compare it to when you're spacing out on the phone with a friend and you suddenly realize there's a pause in the conversation that probably means it's your turn to speak, so you snap back with some kind of 'Hmmm. You don't say?' type of remark, and then your friend's like, 'What?' because she wasn't really done, just stopped to catch her breath, so your comment turns out to be the equivalent of expressing snort-nosed laughter right after someone sets you up with, 'So a priest, a duck, and a rooster walk into a bar.'"

See? Witty up the wazoo.