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Not Exactly An Appropriate Follow-Up

At my job, it's no secret that the two divisions comprising the company, administration and laboratory production, are constantly at odds; the production team is infamous for organizing lunchtime pitch-ins and "forgetting" to invite those on the other side of the building. It's kind of like West Side Story, only instead the Jets and Sharks snapping their fingers menacingly in city parking lots, you have confirmations and extractions grilling ten pounds of chicken on the breakroom patio with no intention of sharing.

To retaliate, client services decided to host a little shindig of their own (of course, they neglected to spread the word to the rest of us as well; the vicious cycle, she continues!) and generously invited me to sample a piece of their chocolate éclair cake. Turns out another fellow joined in the fun and was too hot and bothered by the seduction of mid-day dessert to even think of plates and appropriate utensils. No siree, he just dipped his index finger into the crevice of the serving spoon AND LICKED IT IN MY PRESENCE, which in turn forced me to attack the cakey éclair goodness with my dollar-store fork and knife and scurry back to my corner of the universe before someone questioned my blatant disregard for Iron Chef cutlery.

Why anyone would want to escape corporate America I'll never know. The blog fodder alone is priceless.

It can also provide a buoyant conclusion to a very long week.

Thank you all so much for your kind words and prayers. They mean more than you know.

Ten years.

Last night, after ten years of treatment, my mother's sister, my Auntie Debbie, died from brain cancer. Arrangements are being made for this weekend, so I'll be in Chicago until Monday.

My aunt was diagnosed in 1996, when she was only thirty-nine years old. She is survived by her husband, a son who just graduated college, and a thirteen-year-old daughter. She had five sisters and several nieces and nephews who loved her very much.

Please keep her family in your prayers.

No, I'm Not Dead From E. Coli Poisoning

I suppose I could've picked a better time to post my spinach-dip recipe, eh?

Sad as I was to hear about the number of people who grew sick from the latest bout of E. coli, this most recent outbreak is actually the result of fresh bagged spinach, not the frozen kind, so those of you who made yourself a batch over the weekend can thank your lucky stars Frema isn't a staunch advocate of fresh produce.

Anyway, I've dragged out the whole Q-and-A thing for so long that by now most of you could care less about my favorite family vacation or the contents of my junk drawer, but there are still nine questions to go, so buck up and shut your piehole, or something.

Art Nerd Lauren wonders:

Which of your electives in college was your favorite?

I took several college-level courses in high school and as a result started my freshman year with fifteen credits under my belt. Having those credits would've allowed me to double major and still graduate in four years, but I couldn't find another subject that held my attention the way creative writing did. Instead, I dabbled in other disciplines like social work, religion, and political science. It's hard to pick a favorite, but I think I'm most proud of myself for enrolling in Political Theory. Growing up, politics wasn't commonly addressed at the dinner table, so it felt good to get a better handle on a topic that was ultimately foreign to me. We also read some wondeful books, including Brave New World, The Jungle, and Atlas Shrugged.

(The latter is what actually sparked my interest in the first place, as I discovered Ayn Rand through a writing contest at the age of sixteen and fell in love with the characters in her books. Rand's name is rarely mentioned in academic circles, so it impressed me that my professor thought enough about her controversial ideology to touch on her works in his class.)

(I'm such a freak. Does anyone else even know who this woman is?)

What was your favorite teacher like?

I had several favorites, and their common character traits included a genuine love for their disciplines and a willingness to play Devil's Advocate; to ask questions that make the average Joe uncomfortable in a quest to see life through a broader worldview. Dismissing class ten minutes early was just a bonus.

How much of a different world is academic administration type work than regular corporate America?

Before I answer this, it's important to note the many similarities attributable to a traditional office environment. Pointless meetings. Colleagues who don't take you seriously. Two-hour road trips for five-minute appointments. Forced "resignations." Middle management, how we toil for thee!

For me, the most significant difference lies in the level of passion for my work. Education has made a tremendous impact on my quality of life, and through my job at Saint Joe, I was happy to fight for the cause. I loved assisting with admissions events and mingling with prospective students. I enjoyed sharing stories about being the first person in my family to go to college with parents desperate to provide strong career opportunities for their kids. I worked a lot of nights and weekends, and the pay was just mediocre, but I couldn't have asked for a better emotional payoff.

On the flip side, I worked a lot of nights and weekends, and the pay was just mediocre, so when my current boss approached me about a job with his laboratory last spring, I jumped at the chance to advance my career into uncharted territory. So far, I've published with a national magazine (twice!), guided the company through a major branding overhaul, and tried my hand at graphic design. The salary and benefits package is more than generous, boasting of paid sick days, full vestment of employer matches to my 401(k) upon deposit, and monthly contributions to my health savings account.

The downside? It's PEE, people. I write stories about therapeutic drug monitoring and liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry instruments and how to detect adulteration in urine samples. The emotional payoff is much less tangible, but somebody's gotta put those addicts in their place, right?

I hope to continue with the caring and the sharing tomorrow; in the meantime, can you believe I heard the following financial incentive publicized on the radio the other day?

"Free cooch cream with every costume!"

Eating the Joneses' Dust

The first time I moved into a house, I was working in Rensselaer, and I was twenty-three. Armed with a co-worker from Saint Joe to fill the role of Roommate, we found a two-bedroom house on a corner lot in town available for rent and signed our lease just three days later.

It was perfect, with two full bathrooms, bedrooms with hardwood floors, a utility room for laundry, and a one-car garage ideal for storing recycling bins filled to capacity with empty wine bottles; plus, with two adults splitting a six-hundred-dollar payment, it was refreshingly affordable. I lived there about eight months, and during that time I took great joy in raking leaves, eating smores on the back porch, entertaining friends with food and drink and games. It was the first time I'd lived anywhere that could be described as cozy, that radiated a sense of permanency, even though I was only renting and my roommate and I had no plans to live out a Will and Grace spin-off. It was with great sadness I decided to leave, but David wanted to live with his boyfriend and I took that as a sign from God to find my own pad. I stayed in that apartment for a year and a half, at which point I moved to Indianapolis, fast on the heels of a job that promised career advancement and a paycheck large enough to cover my student loans.

The experience of living in that house has stayed with me, and it rises to the surface every time Luke and I talk about buying our first home. Two weeks ago, we circled several local neighborhoods to solicit information about places currently on the market and determine where we might get the best bang for our buck. One Sunday, we stumbled upon an open house for a budding townhouse community on the outskirts of Indianapolis; Luke had brought up the idea of a townhouse several times, as they were rumored to be less expensive than traditional houses and provided their owners with handsome profits upon resale, so "just for fun," we decided to check it out.

What it is about hardwood flooring that ignites hot passion in my girly parts, I don't know, but the minute I saw it, I fell in love.

The sales rep explained that building within the community started about fourteen months ago, and the several remaining units were in the final stages of construction. There were two models available; this one, the Fenwick, had an upstairs, downstairs, and finished basement and was the cheaper of the two we saw. There were two bedrooms, one and a half baths, and an open space designed for an office.

The master bedroom. This picture only captures half of the room's square footage.

Sexy closet space. More drool.

What started out as a harmless walk-through turned into an hour of crunching numbers and exploring the possibility of an October closing. Just for fun.

We were left alone for a short periods of time while the sales rep visited with other customers, allowing Luke and I to review our potential mortgage payment that reflected zero money down and an offer on behalf of the builder to pay off our lease and all closing costs. Visions of breakfast nooks and creamy white carpets danced in my head. "We could totally afford this," I told Luke confidently. "Sure, it'd be a little tight, and I'll have to keep working, but if we have a kid, I can totally work from home. Totally."

"We'll see, honey," he said.

It wasn't until we left the premises that my head began to clear and I realized I had actually volunteered to chuck my SAHM dreams for hardwood floor panels.

In a time where our friends are buying property, starting businesses, and producing offspring, it's easy to feel like we're losing ground in the race to Adulthood. Dinner parties are out, unless our guests would enjoy eating their food off our coffee table, which is what we do every night because one of our chairs is parked in front of my computer and neither of us has the motivation to move it. There's no room for a dog or a filing cabinet or a home office. There's no counter space in the kitchen, so we have to clean as we go. We'll reap unmeasurable benefits from our new commitment to stay out of the buyer's market for another couple of years, but in the meantime, the idea of celebrating New Year's 2008 in our one-bedroom apartment isn't something we look forward to.

I suppose every family has their cross to bear. My parents have lived in apartments for their entire married life; they didn't buy the building my siblings and I grew up in until they were thirty, and they chose to stick with apartment living so my (now deceased) grandmother could tag along, allowing her to maintain her independence and have access to 'round-the-clock help, if/when it ever became a necessity. When we moved in, there were four kids, two per bedroom, and when Donna Lyn was born, Geo was promoted to his own quarters, leaving four girls to share one room. Sad as they were when I left for college, my parents didn't let their grief prevent them from breathing a sigh of relief that Donna's dresser no longer had to compete for hallway space with the vaccuum. The situation might not've measured up compared to the three-hundred-thousand-dollar house my aunt and uncle owned in a posh Illinois suburb, but my parents made it work. There was no other choice.

Luke and I could've bought that gorgeous townhouse without a down payment and hoped for the best. We could've staked our claim on the American dream at the cost of being house poor, knowing an accidental pregnancy would send us into a financial tailspin. Knowing a job loss or major medical expense would probably lead to foreclosure. But it wasn't a choice we could live with.

While lurking on message boards to learn more about today's mothering culture, I "heard" from a variety of women who were violent advocates of staying at home with their children no matter what, who lamented over the current society that labeled the one-income family a luxury instead of a necessity; women who were college-educated and admitted to having the potential to garner respectable salaries yet still registered for WIC to make ends meet. Obviously I'm all about women tending to their kids full-time; it's the very reason Luke and I are waiting to try. However, the idea of middle-class suburbanites utilizing benefits originally designed to keep single parents and poverty-stricken families out of homeless shelters leaves a bad taste in my mouth. But those women aren't worried about the opinions of a judgemental twenty-something who's never had a baby. They had to make a choice they could live with, too.

What hard decisions have you made for your family? Which are you most proud of? Which do you get the most flack for? What would you change if you could?

In Which I Talk About Children For the Last Time Until I'm Actually Pregnant. Promise.

For the last few days, I've experienced a perpetual state of famish (famishment? famination? Who the hell knows?), which I've used as an excuse to double ice cream servings, dip into Betty's candy jar once again, and yesterday, eat two lunches. Lunch number one consisted of a sensible ham sandwich and two pieces of fruit--one to accompany the sandwich, the other intended as a mid-day snack. Somehow, I managed to eat all three items before ten-thirty, and seeing as I volunteer at a local elementary school on Wednesdays and don't step foot into the office until nine forty-five, this act is doubly impressive. By eleven-thirty I was ready for round two, so I joined the billing staff in their exploration of a new hot dog place located behind our industrial complex. After reading and seeing the eye-opening works of one Morgan Spurlock, I've sworn off major fast-food chains (except Steak 'N Shake, because their shakes are to die for and I don't want to feel guilty for suporting their efforts so I hope their quality standards are top notch) and was therefore relieved to learn the joint uses one-hundred-percent beef and makes their french fries from scratch. Literally. I saw them peel the potatoes with my own fat eyes.

You'll be happy to know that Frema's first food menu was quite a success; the sole variation took place on Saturday, as we received passes to a local amusement park as a wedding gift from my brother- and sister-in-law and spontaneously decided to redeem them. After step class last night, I rolled up my proverbial sleeves and got to work preparing the cantonese beef chow mein recipe, which I've made once before, so at least I knew going in that the suggested thirty-five minute prep time would take no less than an hour and a half. It went pretty well, except I added four uncooked cups of rice where the book called for cooked, so after simmering on the stove in excess water the entire time it took to prepare everything else, the rice was finally deemed a bust and tossed in the trash.

There's been no menu-planning this week, as most of our dinners have included some sort of leftovers. I get paid tomorrow, though, so I'll get back on the saddle before our next shopping trip. Luke's biggest concern is buying two weeks' worth of fresh produce only to watch them spoil after a few days in the fridge, so weekly Target runs may be key to this new, organized lifestyle. How often do you all shop? What's the lifespan of your most popular non-canned, non-boxed items? Do share your secrets.

In the meantime, I'll share some of mine.

Judy, my new Internet Exercise Buddy, asked:

Which person, alive or dead, famous or not, would you most like to meet and converse with?

When I was eleven, the answer to this question was Eddie Furlong, who ROCKED as John Connor in Terminator 2 and appeared in my dreams as the boy who introduced me to my first French kiss. I'd pop in the VHS tape and spend entire afternoons rewinding his first appearance in the movie. ("She's not my mother, Todd!") The hair, so flippy! The mouth, so pouty! My mother didn't like us taping posters to the walls, so Eddie's Teen Beat spread was awarded full custody of the laundry hamper.

Alas, I'm an adult now, with a laundry basket unsuitable for pre-teen celebrity pin-ups, who doesn't follow current events very well, so there's no deep-seeded wish to meet any historical or political figures. Can I say my internet friends and leave it at that?

Which is your greatest guilty pleasure: sweet snacks or salty snacks?

Sweet snacks. Ice cream's sweet, right? I love candy, too. But is that sweet or just sugary?

Marriage-101 wants to know:

What one thing would you like to accomplish before you die?

Have a baby. Turn my pooch into a six-pack. Pay off my student-loan debt. Kick the @$$ of the acne that's plagued my face since the age of thirteen. Stay married. In that order, of course.

If you could go anywhere in the world, expenses paid, where would you go?

Somewhere hot and beachy, like Aruba or Hawaii. I'd spend my days swimming in crystal-blue water, shopping in yuppie boutiques, and eating at fancy restaurants. Absolute Heaven.

What is your dream job?

My love for writing started when I was seven, when I wrote my first short story: We'll Never Eat Candy Again. It was about two little girls who steal five bucks out of their mother's purse and spend it all on junk food at the local mom-and-pop. It was only six pages but featured a table of contents, chapter headings, and an "About the Author" section. From that point on, I told people that I wanted to be an author. And while I might not write the best-selling fiction books that little girl dreamed about, I did grow up to be a writer. I write magazine articles and relish in the byline. I publish press releases on the Internet and take pride in the compliments I receive on my writing style. I maintain this blog and experience genuine delight in sharing my silly thoughts and stories with the world. I think it's safe to say that my dream job has become my reality.

That said, my current position in the life sciences industry doesn't inspire me to my full potential, and the idea of exploring teaching or counseling positions in local school districts has intrigued me over the course of the last year. However, both of those career tracks require more education, which in turn require more money, and seeing as I plan on taking a hiatus from the work force after Luke and I have our first child, it doesn't make sense to make those investments.

(We officially settled on that last part just Monday, by the way, and I may take Lost A Sock's suggestion to request that Luke put our new agreement in writing. I'm so excited about this I could pee all over myself, even though it means holding off on trying for a year or two while we pay off the Cobalt and accumulate a twenty-percent down payment for our first house.)

Who do you think is the "sexiest man alive"? Luke does not count.

Kiefer Sutherland. Have you seen 24? His "urgent, noble widower in need of a healthy roll in the hay, because my God, faking my own death means I've been celibate for the last eighteen months" persona is sooo my type.

Until now, I've been tackling these questions in order, but in light of today's answers, Jill's question is undeniably appropriate.

What would you do if you are not able to have children?

Upon first reading this, my first instinct was to laugh. I was at home, so I turned to Luke, repeated the question, and said, "What a pointless thing to ask. Of course we're having children." And I meant it. If Luke and I can't conceive naturally or with the aid of fertility drugs, we'll go the adoption route. Somehow, someday, we will have a child, even if it's years from now, even if it costs a lot of money, even if we have to steal someone else's. (I hope I didn't say that out loud just now.) There's no doubt in mind. I will be a mother, and Luke will be a father.

I know that's not what Jill meant, though, so I'll rise to the occasion and offer a more direct response.

First of all, if I couldn't bear a child, I'd be devastated. One of the things that most excites me about having a baby is producing a human being who'll bring together the best of what Luke and I have to offer. My curly dark hair, Luke's model-friendly height, our shared admiration for Zach Braff. I want a fat belly to rub my hands over that's not a byproduct of gas or too many Blizzards. I want to use one of our awesome baby names and push something through my vagina. Having to bid farewell to all those wants would be really, really hard.

If we couldn't have children by any means, though, it would admittedly be a lot easier to iron out the logistics of my life. Money would no longer be an issue, so I'd probably go back to school. I'd search for a job more emotionally satisfying and not place so much weight on the potential salary. I'd hire a personal trainer to whip me into the best shape of my life. Luke and I could travel to exotic places without depleting anyone's college fund. And we'd be the most attentive aunt-and-uncle team you ever saw.

It's not a life I would pray for in a million years, but it's a damn fine plan B.

Poking Two Belly Buttons With One Finger (Or Some Other Equally Non-Violent Phrase That Implies Multitasking)

After writing The Blog Entry Whose Length Rivals The Bible And Also Possibly Caused You To Question My Sanity, I'm grease-lightening things up around here with an entry that both answers the following question posed by Mrs. S:

If you could eat all you wanted of one thing and never get fat or lack vitamins or whatever, what would you eat?

and fulfills a long-time request of Isabel's. Yessiree, Frema fans, it's the moment you've all been waiting for. I'm going to share my spinach-dip recipe.

In a perfect, bubble-butt-free world, the one food I would trust my nutritional livelihood to wholeheartedly would be this deliciously green (my favorite color! Our partnership was so meant to be) concoction. Introductions took place on April 28, 2001, exactly seven days after the auction, at TGI Friday's, the location for Luke's and my first date, except we didn't call it a date because both of us were awkward and shy and still signing e-mails with corny salutations like "Your pal, Luke" or "Your buddy, Bree." We'd just been seated after a twenty-minute wait and decided on ordering an appetizer to combat a predictably lengthy wait. The only other time we'd shared a meal was at Pizza Hut earlier that week, and he let me order our pizza topping (pepperoni, which he hates, a tidbit I wouldn't be privy to for another two months), so I figured it was only fair for him to choose the appetizer.

"How about the spinach dip?" he asked.

Obviously it was a budding courtship; otherwise Luke would've already known about my aversion to foods beyond the staples of the American grill palate and my fear of any vegetable other then corn or green beans. However, eating preferences had inspired several arguments with my last boyfriend, who if permitted would've injected the taste of crab legs directly into his veins, so I gave it a go and offered my approval. Luke ordered it, I loved it, and he loved that I loved it, until I was championing for dip fixes for every dinner out. Or lunch. Or trips to Dairy Queen. Eventually, the time came for me to self-medicate.

Ingredients

1 pack of frozen chopped spinach
1 can of quartered artichoke hearts
1 cup of reduced-fat mayonnaise
1ish cup of Parmesan cheese
Several good shakes of cayenne pepper
Several good shakes of garlic salt
1 bag of blue tortilla chips

Before I go on, it's important to note I've made several revisions to the recipe found in Betty Crocker's red cookbook. For starters, there are TWO dip recipes featured: one using spinach as the base, and one using artichokes. The first one calls for several off-the-wall items like vegetable soup, water chestnuts, and green onions, and since I've never sampled a dip that included any of those things, I just use the second one and add spinach because it's simpler and I'm crafty like that. I double the amount of cheese because duh, cheese makes everything better, and I threw in the cayenne pepper and garlic salt because I thought it would pump up the flavah volume.

Directions

1) Preheat your oven for 350 degrees.
2) Remove spinach from cheap paper packaging and place in large bowl for dethawing in the microwave (usually for three minutes).
3) Press spoon against spinach to squeeze excess water from bowl.
4) Use food processor to "puree" artichokes.
5) Mix artichokes and mayonnaise together, then add the cheese, and lastly the spinach. Following this order will allow for an easier combining of elements.
6) Shake cayenne pepper over surface until the smell burns the inside of your nostrils. Shake garlic salt until it effectively compliments the pepper. (Don't worry about adding too much of either. That's what milk is for.) Mix well.
7) Bake covered for 25 minutes. Or uncovered, if you're the type of cook who routinely forgets that sort of thing.
8) Feast on the goodness.
9) Share the goodness with others in the form of natural gas.
10) Don't say I didn't warn you.

Contraception and Religion: Good Alone But Better Together

OK, so I've already failed my Recommitment to Emptying the Junk in My Trunk plan, seeing as I didn't make it to the gym in time for tonight's hip-hop aerobics class. (Will I ever make it to this class?) Instead, I came home and prepared the barbequed roast beef sandwiches as directed by my online dinner menu, courtesy of Betty Crocker's famous red cookbook. It turned out pretty well, and I was delighted to see the recipe categorized as both fast AND low-fat, though I still prefer the trunk-friendly Sloppy Joe.

But enough of this nutritional nonsense. There are more important things to talk about than what's simmering on my stove. For example....

(Per Silly Hily) What is one thing that Luke does that drives you nuts and he knows it, but he still does it b/c that's "just him"?

Before I answer this question, let me be clear on one thing: when it comes to pitching in around the house, Luke is The Bomb. He cooks and does laundry and scrubs mold out of the grout in the shower without making a fuss, runs spontaneous errands without blinking an eye, and packs a lunch for me every day. I know any questionable housekeeping tendencies he might keep are due to unintentional oversight or ignorance of their existence.

That being said, he tends to splash water everywhere whenever he washes up for bed, and when he engages in his weekly hair buzzing, those hairs somehow end up on the walls, in the sink, around the ring of the bath tub, etc. Perhaps they become invisible once they're detached from his scalp. Maybe they sprout minds of their own and embark on treacherous journeys from the garbage can to the previously listed destinations, just to the spite the bitch who's trying to bring them down. Who's to say? I've spoken to Luke about this, but apparently it's a mystery to us both. He also has a bad habit of spilling coffee grounds on the floor near the garbage can.

I'm going to stop now, lest my husband reveal to the Internet any of MY bad habits, like my resistance to showering after returning home from the Y because when I wake up my hair is clean, yes, but flat and bent at odd angles, so why bother taking a shower when I'll just have to take one again in the morning to combat it all?

Whoops.

Are you on birth control now?

That's the million-dollar question right there. Many of you will remember the freak-out I had over Very Mom's post about possible effects of The Pill. I had been happily subscribing to this method of birth control for approximately eight years, and it only took twenty-four hours for me to swear off chemical contraception for the remainder of my reproductive years. Some might view my stance as overboard, but it's what allows me to sleep at night, so there you go.

Luckily, Very Mom's post also offered information about natural family planning via Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health. It's similar to the rhythm method in that it encourages women to watch for internal signs that ovulation is about to take place, but it differs in that it dismisses the conventionally held truth that women's cycles are typically twenty-eight days, a truth perpetuated by many doctors even today. (I'm a thirty-four dayer myself, thank you for asking.) After discussing matters with Luke, we decided to purchase the book and use condoms while I gave myself a crash course in the significance of waking temperatures and cervical fluid.

In the last seven months, my "crash course" has translated into devouring exactly fifty-two pages, two of which are dedicated to detailed graphics of male and female genitalia. Meanwhile, we continue to pump hard-earned dollahs into the convenience and protection offered by the latex industry.

I'll be the first to admit the situation's less than ideal. Condoms are for teenaged prom queens who want to safeguard their chances of pledging to an Ivy League sorority, not college-educated, properly wed DINKS with the financial means to support a child. Right? I was never fond of physical barriers to intimacy before I was married. I certainly didn't want to implement them with the man who's promised to love me for as long as we both shall live.

Here's the sticky part: As much as I desperately want to have a baby, I also have expectations I desperately want to follow in terms of child rearing. Meaning, I don't want to have to utilize daycare, which admittedly has more to do with my own needs than the baby's. I know plenty of little ones thrive in structured environments where they're regularly introduced to other children and adults besides their parents. I don't think a woman's role is serving her husband barefoot and pregnant, and I don't think a mother who works outside the home loves her children any less. My friend Gina recently opened up her own dance studio, and during our last phone conversation I remember thinking, "If I had a job like that, there's no way I'd want to leave it." Though if I did, the whole dilemma would be moot because I'd be the boss and as such could keep my offspring at my side all the livelong day.

As a writer, I'm lucky. My current job, boring as it may be at times, offers a lot of flexibility, and good thing, too, because between Luke and me, I make more money, so if we received a surprise package from Mr. Stork, and it was necessary for our well-being to do so, I could definitely work from home, even though the idea of juggling newsletter deadlines and screaming babies on a full-time basis is less than appealing. I want to change the diapers do the feedings read Beatrix Potter stories dance to Baby Mozart anytime I want to, because babies are only babies for a short time, and I don't want to miss any of it. Not one single minute.

Until we can make that happen, until we're in a place where we can bring a brand-new person into the world and raise him/her in the way we're most comfortable, I don't want to take any chances.

(Now, I could have spared you all that drama and simply said yes, we use birth control, but what fun would that have been?)

Have you and Luke found a church or a common ground in that area?

Another happy topic! Last time I mentioned this, I gave the impression of freeing myself from the perceived restriction of religious labels, opting instead to embrace all the practices in which my relationship with God can be strengthened. Today? Luke and I agree that our family's spiritual formation will most likely take place in the walls of a Protestant church, and we agree we want to have them baptized as infants in said church, but that's been the extent of it because I'm terrified of the day I can no longer call myself a Catholic. There's no other way to say it, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. I know Luke is the man I want as both a husband and father (not my father, you sick bastard), and I have no doubts that God put him in my life to fulfill those roles for me. Therefore, I imagine He's counting on me to find a way to make it all work. I haven't yet. And that's all I have to say about that.

Did you watch Sex and the City? If so, which character are you most like?

At last, a serious question. I was beginning to think Hilary wasn't interested in who I am as a person.

According to this survey, I take after Miranda, which I'm pretty happy about because she has the snappiest comebacks, hottest husband, and the ability to deal with an unplanned pregnancy. However, her reputation is slightly tainted in my eyes due to the name she chose for her son. Sure, it was a nice gesture to give the kid Steve's last name, but by the end of the show they were married, and even if she kept her maiden name, what about the boy? Did he remain Brady Hobbes, or did he become Brady Brady? Seriously, if anyone can shed some light on this very important subject, you'll be rewarded with dreams of furry kittens and gobs of raw cookie dough.

Of course, if you made it to the end of this post, you pretty much deserve that, anyway.

Recommitting to Emptying the Junk in My Trunk

Luke and I spent part of our extended weekend in Chicago to catch up with family. When we stay in Chicago, we usually stay with my sister, and when we stay with my sister, I usually weigh myself because she has a scale and I don't and I have yet to gather the courage to ask somebody how to work the doctor's-office one stationed in the women's locker room at the Y. I'm not sure what I was expecting to see. I've already told you all about the points-counting thing dying a quick and painless death, and though I've been dragging my carcass to the gym, it's two or three times a week at best, where I mostly walk on the treadmill.

As of Saturday night, I weigh 140.5 pounds. I've gained a pound and a half since my last weigh-in.

I suspect the pint of Breyer's I was inhaling minutes before may have been a contributing factor.

To top it all off, Magda's texturizing comb has left my ends as frayed as if I'd just skipped the damn appointment altogether. Maybe she figured out I'm part Arabian?

Anyway, I had a good cry on the drive home but have since steeled my resolve to lose the fifteen pounds I lost through Weight Watchers the first time around. Only instead of counting points, I'm committing myself to three classes a week at the gym and at least one day on the treadmill, where I can give myself a break if/when I deem it necessary. I've also decided that the couch time dedicated to munching on pretzels would be better spent preparing real food. I browsed through some cookbooks on Monday and have created a dinner menu for every night this week. (I'm accounting for yesterday and today, even though Luke and I didn't make it to Super Target until tonight (after coming home from Prep Step--go me), and we'd already started thawing chicken for tomorrow, so things don't get interesting until near the tail end of the week.)

Monday: Spaghetti
Tuesday: Healthy Choice chicken gumbo and grilled cheese
Wednesday: Chicken
Thursday: BBQ roast beef sandwiches
Friday: steak and pepper fajitas
Saturday: Cantonese beef chow mein
Sunday: wild rice and mushroom soup

Before you criticize my food choices, keep in mind my main goal is to supress the urge to snack. Luke's taking care of the chicken tomorrow, but then I'm on kitchen detail until Sunday night, with the reasoning that if my hands are busy chopping vegetables and slicing pieces of steak, they can't reach into the pantry to wolf down a handful of chips. Also, the fajita recipe was located out of Good Houskeeping's Light and Healthy Cookbook (thanks again, Betty and Brooke!). Also also, minding portion sizes and emphasizing exercise should allow me to eat things like roast beef. Because I know you care, I'll be sure to take pictures and transcribe the more memorable experiences. (Confidential to Isabel: the spinach dip recipe is coming, I promise!)

As if treating you to Frema's Body-Image Chronicles weren't enough, I've decided to answer one of Silly Hily's questions. Don't thank me all at once.

If you could change one thing about your past, what would it be?

The fact that I was so damned insecure in my relationships. The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling--well, often went three weeks without calling, and I didn't have the guts to call him on it (pun a little intended). It took five years to end our make-up break-up cycle, only for me to hook up with Mike, only to trigger Trophy Frema for ten months my junior year in college.

I can see my willingness in volunteering my backside as a doormat caused a lot of the issues I faced with both men. Why should Nick have called when I was so quick to excuse his absences? Why should Mike have made an effort to know my friends when I was dropping them to hang out with his? I was so wrapped up in the intensity of our physical attraction and the status that accompanied having a boyfriend that I didn't allow myself to dwell on the quality of the boyfriends I had.

This played out in some of my platonic friendships as well; I was always so worried about what people thought of me and whether or not I was viewed as a good friend. I'm much better now, but that "old" part of me still resurfaces from time to time.

I'd keep going, but it's twelve-thirty in the morning, and Luke is about ready to rip the keyboard from underneath my fingerpads so he can get some sleep. For my sanity and his, peace out.

I guess the "watch what you say" disclaimer was a tad unnecessary.

Wanna know the perfect way to avoid embarrassment in the wake of an upcoming family reunion? Ignore your Internet friends and their attempts to draw intriguing information from the depths of your very soul.

In my defense, I had five AMC episodes to watch, one bowl of spinach dip to devour, and a shake-n-bake chicken dinner to make in celebration of Luke's return from Alabama (two meals in one week; I am on FIRE, baby!). Any remaining time was spent singing the lyrics to "Soul Provider," which is a pretty good indication of my future intentions regarding Celebrity Duets.

Luke and I are presently in Merrillville, having just returned from said reunion, and his parents have gone to bed, so I figured now would be a good time to bore you out of your skull.

Stacey asks:

What is your favorite book from your childhood?

The Pigman by Paul Zindel. I got it for Christmas when I was ten and finished it in one day. It's about two teenagers who befriend a lonely old man and learn important lessons about Life and Love. It also features a really cool anecdote about a woman who cheats on her husband with a sleazeball who lives on the other side of town and is faced with a dilemma when one night she has no payment for the return ferry home and the alternate route is patrolled by a homicidal maniac and her lover refuses to lend her the money and the ferryman refuses to float her a loan. Does she spend the night with her lover and risk public humiliation and divorce or brave the public road and face death at the hands of the highwayman? The woman chooses the alternate route and consequently death, and the Pigman asks John and Lorraine to rank the order in which each individual in the story is responsible for her death. The answers are supposed to reveal intimate aspects of each character's personality. Kind of like those quizzes in Seventeen.

Roxanne wants to know:

1. If you could be any famous person, who would it be? And why?

This one's tough, because while I've admired a number of celebrities, and imagined what life would be like as a celebrity, I've never put myself in anyone's shoes. If we were basing this answer solely on looks, I'd say Rachel McAdams because she looked gorgeous in Wedding Crashers. How I admire any woman who call pull off dark hair, fair skin, and red lips! However, with a little more thought, I'd say Jennifer Garner, who seems to be the Queen of Just Right. She's not the hottest woman in Hollywood, but she's very pretty in a normal, accessible way, and pulls off potentially troublesome side bangs with admirable ease. She's not A-list but manages a successful career with little hassle from the tabloids. I saw her on Oprah once with her mom and sisters and they seemed like a fun bunch, plus she scored herself a hunky husband and sweet little baby girl. I never would've named my daughter after a "chewing gum fanatic" who picks her nose in Gene Wilder's candy factory, but all those other things equal a life definitely worth stealing.

2. If you were stranded on a deserted island, which dessert would you want to have with you (can only pick one)?

Ice cream. Is that specific enough, or do I have to pick a flavor?

3. Do you buy generic or name-brand groceries (when there's a choice of both)?

Depends on what's being purchased. In my opinon, canned fruit tastes the same whether the label is Dole or Target's beloved Market Pantry, so I'll usually gravitate towards the cheapest brand on the shelf. However, generic cereal makes my skin crawl and I will NEVER buy it, not ever. Growing up, the type of cereal boxes in our pantry spoke volumes of our current financial situation; Fruit Loops equalled L.A. Gear gym shoes and happy mornings at the breakfast table, while Fruity O's meant white Keds from Payless and hours in the kitchen, poking at stale, rainbow-colored pieces of cardboard with passionate disgust. Generic cereal: Just Another Way For The Man To Stomp On The Human Spirit.

I'm going to stop here, partly because it's almost midnight, partly because I'm not sure if anyone's even checking blogs over Labor Day weekend, and partly because Silly Hily asked some thought-provoking questions that deserve my undivided attention. However, for Mrs. S., who asked for the low-down of how Luke and I fell in love: click here.