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Wahoo! Wednesday

I did it! I lost weight! And all without resorting to bulimic tendencies.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.8

But don't pat me on the back just yet. Remember what I said last week about dumb luck? Well, she must've been a lady for every night of last week, because not only did I continue to avoid the gym, but Luke and I finally took official measures to axe our membership. We're both sad about it, because we really do like working out, but the motivation to get us through those blasted double doors just isn't there, and I don't want to flush another sixty-nine dollars down the toilet while we coax ourselves into a better mindset. Fortunately the Y doesn't charge registration or cancellation fees, so we can pick up where we left off any old time we want to. Which helps to lessen the blow--a little.

In the meantime, I'm going wallow in self-pity over the plethora of dental problems currently plaguing our household. You'll recall that two weeks ago a permanent crown fell out of my mouth, requiring another trip to the dentist and the refastening of my silver bling with temporary cement until he could schedule another appointment for an impression. "If it falls out again," he said, "don't worry about it. You'll be back in another few weeks and we'll take care of it then."

As luck would have it, the blasted thing DID fall out again, last Tuesday while I was at work. Because a root canal was performed on the original tooth just six months after the crown, I'm unable to detect sensitivity or pain, so I simply shrugged it off until Monday night, when a piece of said tooth broke off during a marathon viewing of the last four episodes of All My Children (Dixie is dead! Because she ingested poisoned peanut-butter-and-banana pancakes originally meant for her skanky daughter-in-law! If that's not infuriating enough, her 2006 storyline revolved entirely around finding the little girl she gave up for adoption four years ago after receiving substantial injuries from a plane crash in Switzerland and being suckered into signing away her parental rights by her doctor, who told her she was on the verge of death and hinted that Tad would resent Kate for taking Dixie's life. And then she croaks before learning her daughter is now living in PINE FREAKIN' VALLEY. Though viewers were treated to Dixie's spirit realizing the truth and blowing her daughter kisses before ascending into Heaven and flashbacks to all three of her weddings to Tad. Hiccup sob blah).

Anyway, the tooth. I tossed the fragment into the garbage can and indulged in a mini-freak out, because what if they can't save what's left? What if it's so weak and decayed that the dentist opts to pull it and drill another post into my gums? So I called his office in a slight panic yesterday morning, and Betty, the sent-from-above hygenist who held my hand and dried my tears during the whole implant procedure, assured me there were other ways of fastening the crown without replacing what little of the tooth I appear to have left. They'll assess the decay and outline my options first thing tomorrow. Because there's no better way to motivate yourself for a nine-hour work day than a consultation for hundreds of dollars of anticipated dental work, work that doesn't include the extraction of Luke's wisdom teeth OR the minor gum surgery he'll have this spring. Praise Jesus for insurance.

Moving on....

After reviewing yesterday's post, I realized that for all my talk of houses and cars and stay-at-home parenting, I neglected to address the most emotional topic of all: baby making!

Before the wedding, Luke and I had planned to start trying for kids as early as the honeymoon, so eager were we to start our family. However, when forty days passed and we confirmed I wasn't pregnant, we decided to hold off until Luke found a job and we had stabilized our finances. Once that happened, we agreed to start this summer. And even as we bounce back and forth like ping-pong balls over every other issue under the sun, this is the one plan we continue to agree on. It's the one plan that hasn't changed.

I'm not sure why I feel the need to spell that out for everyone. Maybe it's due to the fact that whenever I broach the subject of getting our ducks in a row before making The Leap, many people like to remind me that Luke and I can never adequately brace ourselves for parenthood; there will never be enough money or time or insurance or enough square footage, and we'll never have all the answers. And I know that. I have no intentions of allowing the best part of life to pass me by because I was busy worshipping a spreadsheet.

That said, I also don't like the idea that family, friends, or even blog readers might be calling me naive for wanting to buy a house or have a baby without worrying about foreclosure or having to transform one of my dresser drawers into a makeshift crib. For cripe's sake, I'm only 27 years old. My clock isn't ticking. I have not been diagnosed with a fatal illness. Waiting a few months or even a year to procreate doesn't seem unreasonable or even idealistic to me.

Not that I'm defensive or paranoid or anything. Not at all.

Say A Little Prayer For Luke, Because He's Subjected to My Nonsensical Ramblings Every Single Day

Only thirty days into 2007 and already I can cross one of my New Year's resolutions off the list.

Luke and I, we'll not be paying off the car.

All this time I've been focused on eliminating the three-hundred-and-thirty-dollar monthly Cobalt payment from our vast array of bills, convinced that doing so would put us in a better position to buy a house. Financial advisors often encourage buyers to whittle down their consumer debt before applying for a mortgage, and if we could just "make do" in our one-bedroom apartment until next summer, the two of us could not only own our car outright, we'd also accumulate about ten percent for a down payment on a modest starter home. If we extended our lease to September 2008, maybe fifteen. As far as the whole baby thing (BAAAYBEEES), well, if the good Lord blessed us with one before we dug our heels into the confusing world of real estate, we vowed to make it work until our lease was up because it'd only be for a few months and Leigh wouldn't notice how cramped we were until she was ready to walk, but we wouldn't be in the apartment long enough for her to start walking because Hello! Our plan was to be in a house by then. So no worries.

(This "new" plan has, in reality, been in place since we got married, and yet I'm still inspired to rehash it once every three weeks or so, punching various numbers into my calculator and pestering Luke for his thoughts on what we can do save more more money, stressing how important it will be for us to choose a home that can be maintained on his income because that's what will enable me to stay at home with Leigh (or Lucy. Or Jillian. Or Nathan, because legend has it some women give birth to boys). And because Luke is used to my love for Rehashing Important Issues We've Already Covered In Excruciating Detail, he slips into his Devil's Advocate gear and reminds me of our salary differences and how difficult it might be to make ends meet with me out of the work force, all the while supporting our common goal to care for a child without forking over wads of dough to a daycare facility. Apparently we save all our fancy dance moves for the choreography of thought-provoking conversation.)

In order to get ready for the upcoming buying frenzy, we find ourselves drawn to the bookstore every few days, perusing the shelves for advice on how to select a home and how to pay for it without defaulting on my student loans. And every few days, we walk away empty-handed because I remember we still have my sister-in-law's copy of Home Buying for Dummies and Suze Orman's Money Book for the Young, Fabulous & Broke, both of which have a wealth of practical information, and also because spending money on financial-planning books may not be the most sound financial plan. Anyway, while reflecting on some of Suze's gems, I recalled a scenario she described in which a young woman had several thousand dollars worth of credit card debt at an interest rate of twelve percent and a savings account that yielded an annual return of point-three percent at best. Why, Suze asked, why oh why was this girl socking away money at such a low rate when she could be using it to pay off the high-interest cards? "Use your head, girlfriend!" she said, wagging a literal finger as demonstrated by her flagrant use of exclamatory sentences.

And that's when it hit me: I was that young woman.

I don't know if I've ever shared this with you people before, but I have very good credit. When I bought the Cobalt in 2005, I scored a two-percent interest rate. Two percent! Over the life of my loan, I'll have shelled out fewer than four hundred dollars in interest to GMAC. Another tidbit you may not be aware of: the interest rate on mortgages? They are not two percent at all. In fact, they are the opposite of two percent, which is Frema-speak for triple. What the hell am I thinking, rushing to pay off a car three years early in order to save a few hundred smackers when we could be funneling that money towards a house, the cost of which will most likely pay for a bachelor's degree at a private college? Also, where did I get the lame-brained idea that we'd have any money to save once a baby enters the picture, especially since we plan to live on one income? My thought process was so faulty you'd swear I spent my free time drinking gasoline and then inhaling the fumes leaking from my ass.

Our new, "foulproof" plan: use our savings to get into a house sometime this year. Our lease ends in June, but if we need to, we can extend it for another three or even six months to make sure we're really ready. Once we're in the house, we can start saving to pay off the car. This plan allows us to properly situate ourselves as homeowners before the introduction of any offspring (BAAAYBEEES) into our family, which we both like. Not that there's anything wrong with apartment living. We love our little unit and have everything we need, but we'd have to make some major changes to accommodate the cohabitation of another person, even if that person's activity level will be limited to producing smelly bowel movements and sucking on my boob (God willing).

Now that we've got the financial logistics straightend out, we can devote our time and energy into my new favorite topic: Who Gets To Stay Home With The BAAAYBEEES?

It's no secret to the Internet that I want to stay home with my children, at least until they're in school. And even then, the idea of being That Mom, the mom who bakes cupcakes for snack time and volunteers for field trips and has dinner sitting on the table at five-thirty every night, stamps a smile on my heart, so I guess I just want to stay home. I have career aspirations, too, but I'm more than willing to put them on hold while Luke and I are in the early stages of building our family.

However, it's also no secret that by some divine twist of fate, I currently make more money than Luke, so much so that if our roles were reversed--that is, if I had Luke's job and he had mine--the question of whether or not we could afford to keep me at home wouldn't be an issue. We'd do without cable for another few years, and our dinners out would be reduced to an occasional extra-crispy chicken bucket from KFC, but it'd be managable.

In previous discussions regarding our previous plan, I would sometimes casually suggest that Luke consider being the at-home parent, and we'd both laugh, and he'd reply that he wasn't sure how he'd feel about taking a break from the traditional nine-to-five work force, and I'd breathe a sigh of relief because that meant it was OK to resign ourselves to a life of (temporary) poverty. If Luke didn't want to be a stay-at-home dad, I would never make him. But I still didn't want to pay for daycare.

That was all before this past Sunday, when Luke and I were out for breakfast and we let our collective gaze wander over to the table across from us, where a blond-haired, blue-eyed little boy who couldn't have been more than eight months old was blowing raspberries with Gerber's latest fruit-and-meat concoction, and Luke said, "Maybe I could be a stay-at-home dad after all. It would make better financial sense."

At that point, my head started to shake and my eyes bulged out of their sockets, but not before they reduced Luke to a pile of ashes with the deadliest, most evil If Looks Could Kill staredown in the history of the universe.

After I stopped banging my head into the restaurant's coat rack in an effort to permanently erase his comment from my memory, I let myself process the information so we could give the matter some serious thought. When I think about having to redefine the image I've made for myself as a mother, I want to grab Luke by the collar and plead with him to work two jobs so I can bring that picture to life. But when I think about what's truly important to me--the ability to enable our children's parents to serve as their primary caregivers--and I realize that THAT dream can still come true, I start breathing again well enough to remember this family is not all about me. And Luke is going to be such a wonderful father. Our children would be truly blessed to be able to spend so much time with him.

Right now, it's too soon to make any definite decisions. Individually we'll keep doing our thing, career-wise, and revisit the issue once we have a baby to stay home with and I get a chance to see how I hold up after a three-month maternity leave.

Yesterday in a Google chat with Molly, I joked that I've gone from being a Catholic singleton with SAHM potential to a Protestant working mom. It's a good thing Luke can cook or this whole "challenging myself to be a more open-minded person" thing would be such a waste of time.

Tragic Love Friday

There's been a lot of Drama on TLF. Angry break-ups. Drunken one-night stands. Vicious murders staged in the parking lot of America's favorite dessert establishment. Prison sentences. And of course, life-changing pregnancy tests. It's about time we had some goshdarn happy news, don't you think?

I do, too.

-------

CHAPTER NINE - KAYLA (CONTINUED)

Security was called, and they rushed me to the prison's hospital wing. Mike was right next to me, giving me words of encouragement. "Everything's gonna be fine," he said. "Just relax."

How could I relax? I was about to give birth!

I was put in a room on a bed. A doctor and a nurse were fiddling around with some medical thingamajiggs [yes I wrote "thingamajigs," I swear to God]. The nurse took my pulse and poked me with a needle. "What did you do?" I cried. She smiled. "I just gave you something to help you relax." [Apparently jail-funded medical wings are on the cutting edge of technology with their ability to administer epidurals in your wrist.] She looked at Michael. "You'll have to leave, young man." [Because men aren't allowed to see vaginas outside of the bedroom?]

"Huh? Oh, sure." He waved. "I'll be right outside."

I shook my head. "No," I gasped. "G-go to Jenna and k-keep her com-p-p-any."

"If you say so. I'll be here first thing tomorrow." [Noble fight, Michael. Really. I'm touched.]

"You'd bet - Ow!!" Another contraction left me breathless.

[Look how self-sacrificing Kayla is, putting Jenna's emotional state over her own labor pains. Kinda makes you forget all about the killings, doesn't it?]

[It really does. I love you, Kayla!]

That shot the nurse gave me didn't do a thing to relax me. During the fourteen hours I was in labor, I had never been more tense. [Back to the drawing board, guys!]

I was tired, sweaty, and sick to death of being told to PUSH! I was about to give up when the doctor cried, "I see the head! Come on, Kayla - keep pushing!"

"I can't!" I cried, but I managed to give a few good pushes. A baby's cry filled the air.

At last. My daughter was in my reach! Shaking with exhaustion and delight, I held out my arms. The umbilical cord was cut, the nurse washed off my baby, wrapped her in a white blanket and then I was cradling my daughter in my arms.

Oh, she was beautiful. A patch of brown hair covered her head. Her fingers and toes were so tiny, so perfect. She stopped wailing long enough to peer at me through half-closed lids. A small yawn slipped through her lips. I smiled and cried happy tears as I hugged her to my chest. She was so small, like a baby doll! I couldn't take my eyes off her.

"Hi, there," I whispered. "I'm your mommy. You really don't know me, but you will. Because I love you so much, yes I do!"

She looked so much like David; I couldn't help thinking about the other little girl that he would have had. That's when I decided on a name.

"I name you Katherine, in honor of your dead half-sister, Mary Katherine Meddows. Katherine Marie, that's who you are," I told her. [Where does Kayla think she is, making grand pronouncements like that? Also, seems a tad crass to speak about death in front of your infant, yes?] [Also also, stealing Jenna's baby name won't piss her off at all!] [Also also also, BABIES! WAAAAANT ONE!] She started to cry again, and the nurse took her from me.

"Try to sleep," she said.

I was out like a light in 10 seconds.

* * *

I was in the [prison] hospital for 3 days, and during those days I spent every waking minute with Katherine. I could spend hours just staring at her with amazement. I couldn't believe that someone as undeserving as me gave birth to such an exquisite baby as Katherine.

The most magical times were when the nurse brought her in to be breastfed. She shivered next to me as her little mouth drank the milk from my breast. She needed me, and would soon love me like I loved and cherished her. Katherine made up for everything that had gone wrong in my life. If only David could have seen how wonderful his daughter turned out to be. At times I thought he was sneaking peeks at her from Heaven [and cursing your name, no doubt].

I had been back at jail for about a week when I received the phone call.

The guard tapped on the bar door. "Come on, Evans. Phone call for you."

Puzzled, I went with him. Who could it be? Michael? Nah. My parents? Probably not them, either. They had cut off all contact from me the day I was brought to prison. [And to think, hers were the most loving, attentive parents in the bunch!] "Hello?"

"Kayla. It's me."

"Jenna?" I almost dropped the phone. "Jenna, is that you?"

"Yeah. Kayla, we need to talk." Her voice sounded unsure.

"Oh Jenna! Yes, we do need to talk about...things." My eyes brimmed with happy tears. She wanted to talk to me! "I'm so glad you called!"

"You are?"

"Uh-huh. I'm so sorry about everything, Jenna. I want to make it all up to you." [Your next pedicure's on me!]

Her voice hardened a little. "I've lost too much, Kayla. You cant bring my boyfriend and little girl back to me."

I felt so stupid. She was still hurting. She had every right to be.

"So," Jenna said, her voice cracking a little, "Michael told me that you had your baby about a week or two ago."

I felt guilty as I talked about Katherine. "Yeah. A little girl. She's adorable." [Motherhood is so rewarding and fulfilling and I've never experienced such unselfish love in all of my life! Not that you would know anything about that. My bad.]

"I - I cant talk anymore, Kayla." Jenna sounded like she was fighting tears. "I'll visit you soon." The line went dead.

My heart was heavy [but not as heavy as her ankle bracelet] as the guard led me back to my cell. It had hurt too much for Jenna to hear me talk [incessantly] about my [wonderful, fabulous, so-glad-she's-not-dead-too] daughter.

One day, though, Jenna and I would work past our problems and become close again. Even during the time I hated her [and planned her exit from this world], I'd missed our closeness.

It would just take time to get our friendship back on track.

I sighed. Time was one thing I'd have a lot of for the next 6 years.

[The more you know, the more you kick yourself for not including a ski mask and unmarked car as must-have props in your deliciously murderous plan.]

-------

OMG, this whole thing reeks so much of All My Children and V.C. Andrews and 90210 I can hardly stand it. What do you think of Kayla? Can she be redeemed in your eyes? Also, if Brenda and Kelly were both carrying Dylan's baby, do you think Donna Martin would've been as dumb an accomplice as Cassie? Because you KNOW that if Kayla had buddied up with the likes of Andrea Zuckerman she'd be getting some post-partum action with David as we speak. Because in soap land there's no such thing as a six-week waiting period.

Office Space: No Longer Just A Category Heading

There are a million things I should be doing right now, like figuring out the Index feature in Adobe InDesign. However, since I work best under pressure and my deadline for turning in a fully revised clinical directory is still a whole twenty-four hours away, I figured I could give myself a well-deserved break and show you my office, at the request of Isabel, who was kind enough to photograph her own space earlier this week.

I've been in my current position for about a year and a half, and when I first started, I was in a cubicle in a corner of the administrative part of the building. It was freezing. There was a door behind my desk that allowed the renters next door to help themselves to our bathroom when their pipes froze. People would often forget I was there and turn the lights out promptly at five, and since I was too lazy to get up and turn the lights back on, I brought in my own lamp from Wal-Mart so that I wasn't hypnotized by the brightness of my computer screen.

Since that time, a ton of new employees have signed on, requiring the construction of several new offices scattered throughout the admin side of the lab. When that happened, my cubicle was taken apart to allow space for two new offices. Did I get one of those new offices? No. But I did get one on the opposite side of the building, much closer to the printer, PLUS I got my own window, so really it was all for the best.

Here it is, my humble corporate abode:

 

When I'm not scrambling to finish an article for the Web site or a layout for one of our company newsletters, this is what the surface of my desk normally looks like. Right now I'm working on the directory, so it's a little more top-heavy than I prefer, but I did organize my papers into managable little stacks before shooting the picture. You never get a second chance to make a first impression.

Let's break this down a bit.

That Christmas tree's been fully decked since November of 2005, when I first brought it to work. After the holidays were over, I could never muster up the energy to take all the little ornaments off, so I just moved the thing over to my filing cabinet until last Thanksgiving, when I positioned it on my window sill, where it remains to this day. The red bows and striped candy canes are perfect for Valentine's Day, don't you think? As for the snowflake cut-outs taped to the monitor, they're perfectly acceptable until the first day of spring, so I'll thank you very much to keep your nose out of my seasonal-decorating affairs.

You'll also notice the CD collection that's slowly making its way towards my cheapie Wal-Mart boom box. Current discs include such artists as Fiona Apple, Liz Phair, Norah Jones, the Carpenters, and a slew of cheesy love song CDs.

I'm showing you this picture because it includes the best planner in the whole universe: the AT-A-GLANCE Weekly Professional Appointment Book. I was introduced to it when I first started working at Saint Joe and will never use another model for as long as I live. Each work day is assigned its very own column, which accounts for every fifteen-minute increment between the hours of seven a.m. and nine p.m., and even the weekends have a little face time, so I can record my trips to the college for alumni board meetings and visits back home. Not only do I keep my appointments in here, I also scribble down notes from my day so I can remember how I spent major blocks of time. Just talking about it gives me a warm, tingly feeling.

You can also see that I love me some Post-Its.

See those beautifully colored stickies covering my dry-erase board? I receive them often from my darling husband, who knows paper products turn me on more than a bouquet of carnations ever could. I almost cried the day I ran out and tried in vain to request the exact same kind from my purchasing manager, because those fun Post-Its can really be kind of expensive, you know? But I ended up with the traditional (boring) yellow ones everyone else has instead. Blah.

Luckily, I have my pens to comfort me through such hard times.

My passion for writing utensils is nothing new. There are pens stashed throughout Luke's and my apartment--at both computer stations, on the night stand, in my craft box in the closet--in my coat pockets, in my purse, in the back pocket of my jeans. I'm a freak and I like it.

What I really love about this picture, though, is the box in which the pens are kept.

My sister Donna gave this school box to me when I was a freshman in college and she was four months shy of turning six. Next year it'll be ten years old. She used to make a lot of things for me to keep in my dorm room; my closet doors were covered with her drawings, and my book shelf at home still holds a rainbow-colored clay snowman person she created just for me. She was so young at the time, and it was really traumatic for her when I left for Saint Joe. Her eyes always filled with tears when my dad's Suburban pulled out of Halas Hall's parking lot, and I was required to wave at the car until it was just a tiny dot on the road, to call her the night I returned to Rensselaer after a weekend visit because she couldn't go to sleep without hearing my voice. Nowadays I'm lucky to see her for five minutes when I'm in the city because she's fourteen and has a full life that no longer includes waiting on the porch to see my car pull in behind the garage. But it wasn't always this way, and things like this box will always remind me of that.

These last two pictures are unrelated to my work space, but they do relate to work, and the incident in question just happened about an hour ago, so I couldn't NOT share.

One of my coworkers, who's quite lovable but also very quirky, collects hats. As in, if there's an abandoned baseball cap lying in the street, he'll pick it up, take it home, and run it through the wash until it's "good as new." Last year he gave me a hat he found on a park bench that reminded him of me. Today, it was one that's sure to be a collector's item. He can feel it.

Nothing shouts "money maker" like Mr. Pibb. God bless him.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Sometimes I feel silly continuing this weekly update when it's clear I haven't really committed myself to eating better or losing weight.

When I'm at a restaurant, it never occurs to me to choose the grilled chicken and vegetables platter because I'd rather be scarfing down a burger. On the drive home from work, I no longer contemplate taking the interstate exit that leads to the Y. The perky little gym bag I bought at Target last fall was sitting on the floor of my bedroom collecting dust until this weekend, when I finally emptied the contents and tucked it next to the tupperware bins of journals and yearbooks competing for space in my closet. Any weight I lose isn't a result of hard work or will power. It's just dumb luck.

And dumb luck doesn't last very long.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13

It's in moments like these that I have to remind myself I'm not doing this (solely) for the Internet's entertainment. I'm doing this because my cholesterol is high and I'm fifteen pounds heavier than someone with my frame should be and I want to have a baby and I don't want to carry him/her in an unhealthy environment.

When defending myself TO myself, I grudgingly acknowledge that a few changes have been made to the food Luke and I keep in the house and the way I eat during the day, at least while I'm at work. For example, there are no Wal-Mart fruit smiles or pudding cups waiting to be consumed as mid-day snacks. My lunches have become fairly simple: unless we're trying to finish off dinner leftovers, it consists of a half-cup of Campbell's soup and two servings of fruit (fresh or canned). I stopped stashing granola bars in my desk because the more food I have at my disposal, the more I will eat. I'll never be that girl who can eat whatever she wants and not gain a pound. And when I do lose weight, eating right will never be enough to shave off the gut I've been sporting since the age of eleven.

Instead of losing heart, I need to face my reality and stop pretending someone else's happy-go-lucky diet plan will work for someone like me. I enjoying eating and eating often. My body enjoys storing fat. I need to take this information for what it is and not bitch and moan about how cool it would be to fit into a size six jeans. I need to embrace my eight/ten waist and do what I can to make sure it stays that way. There is no fairy godmother waiting to flick a magic wand and change the way I think about food or how my body processes it. I've got to do it myself.

What's killing me about today, though, is that in light of Molly's weight-loss challenge, I've been weighing myself every other day to monitor my progress, and until this morning, the numbers were favorable. On Sunday, I was still in the 137 range. Monday morning, 136.2. However, after I weighed in I took Luke to the airport to catch a 6:30 plane to California, where he'd spend the next three days on business, and I used his absence to justify devouring an entire batch of spinach dip all by myself. And STILL this wouldn't have been a big deal, except the dip...alters my bathroom habits for several hours, so it wasn't until I got to work that I, um, took the kids to the pool, if you know what I mean, which of course you do because what the hell else could I possibly be talking about?

Molly, I swear, next week there'll be a loss, even if I have to stick an index finger down my throat to make it happen.

But this new attitude will have to wait until tomorrow, because I'm picking up my husband from the airport tonight and he's already requested a stop at Steak 'n Shake. And because I'm such a loving wife, I'm happy to oblige him.

(Just kidding about the barfing part. It's OK to laugh.)

Cheese-To-Cheese Resuscitation

Well, if it isn't our favorite R&B African American easy-listening musical artist, back for one more round of cheese!

Lionel is proud to present the

Internet Swap Master Play List. (PDF / Word)

Even though compiling this list was a huge pain in the ass because I had to copy and paste about thirty-seven hundred million lines of text from e-mails bearing the musical selections of our lovely swap participants and alphabetize all of them according to song and then only half-jokingly harass those who forgot to send me their lists (there are still a couple of people who never got theirs in), it was well worth it. Otherwise I never would've learned my dear friend Brooke saw wistful, romantic undertones in "In The Ghetto"; perhaps the troubled relationship in question is between the single-mother family and dilapidated neighborhood keeping them down?

There are a ton of great songs on this list, so I invite you to check it out. Several were included on more than one compilation, which are indicated with a number enclosed in parentheses so you can fully appreciate how treasured they are by the Internet. "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)" was picked FOUR times! That's a whole lotta Robin Hood love, people.

When I first unveiled the swap in November, I talked about voting on the Cheesiest Love Song as a way to wrap things up. I still think we should do that, as well as mention any songs that might've been overlooked, your personal favorite of the bunch (cheesy or not), and one you were overjoyed to discover for the first time. Mine are as follows:

Cheesiest
I want to say it's a tie between "All Out Of Love" and "Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)," but I think Air Supply wins. And not because I like them; I actually think their music should be banned from the face of the earth. But they meet the majority of Frema's Cheesy Love Song requirements. Whiny male vocals? Check. Excessive use of dramatic verbiage? Check. Inclusion of the "you feel like home" cliche? Check. Elevator-music style background singers? Hell to the check.

Overlooked
Where the hell was "I Will Always Love You"? In fact, the only one who paid any sort of homage to the former Mrs. Bobby Brown was me. I thought for sure at least one song from The Bodyguard or even Waiting To Exhale (shoop, shoop, anyone?) would make the cut. Luckily, you all were redeemed by your generous servings of Phil Collins and Gloria Estefan and the fact that at least half of you included a song from the great Richie. With not one repeat!

Personal Favorite
"Always" by Atlantic Starr. I can't help it. No matter where I am or what mood I'm in, by the time the chorus makes its second appearance, I'm chasing all of the rain away with the best of them.

Delightful Discovery
"Samson" by Regina Spektor, courtesy of Katie's "Katie Loves Love, Even When It Ends" mix, which has found a permanent spot in my CD player. There's something haunting about this not-even-remotely cheesy song that touches me, not like the middle-aged coworker at Royal Concept Video who put his hands on my teenaged waist while I was counting down the cash register, but more like the boy in fifth grade who kept three of my classmates from beating me up after school because my club's newspaper was better than theirs.

A big fat thank you to everyone who participated, especially Dawnie, who helped me iron out the logistics. I love you more than my luggage.

Football and Churches and Ducks, Oh My!

First things first: Did anyone watch either one of the two AFC games yesterday? Because oh my God, the Midwest is having a collective heart attack: for the first time ever, the Chicago Bears and Indianapolis Colts will face off in Miami at this year's Superbowl. While I'd never describe myself as a football fan---it took me twenty minutes to figure out what the hell AFC even stands for--but as a Chi-town native and current Hoosier resident, the anticipation over "the battle of I-65" has inspired me to save both the front page and sports page of today's paper in order to document this historic moment for my future offspring. Next thing you know I'll be wearing team jerseys and chugging copious amounts of Miller Light from a plastic hat. And I don't even drink beer.

It was a good weekend. I did file my work samples into three-ring binders and plastic sleeves and tossed out two garbage bags worth of trash and dusted and vaccuumed and almost orgasmed from the cleanliness of it all. On Saturday night, Luke and I rented Little Miss Sunshine and Snakes On A Plane. One of those movies had us guffawing and crying and celebrating the acting chops of one very talented Office actor. The other also induced tears, but for vastly different reasons. I'll let you determine which is which.

We also went to church.

Since the start of the New Year, I've been thinking a lot about how it's time for us to start searching for a parish of our own, one that provides a strong foundation for the core Christian beliefs we both share. With the Frema-Useless Clutter household currently subscribing to a complicated mixture of Methodism and Catholicism, our research revealed we might both feel most comfortable in the Episcopalian faith. We visited an Episcopal church together last spring and had a good experience with the Mass, though I was intimidated by the grand scale of the architecture. This time around, we chose a church in a neighboring town a little closer to home, on a Sunday when the streets were filled with snow and the plow trucks were nowhere in sight, but we made it, and our appearance was received in a manner similar to Howie Mandel at the Golden Globes, which is to say very, very well, or at least it would have been if I'd been stalking the red carpet.

Because of the snow, there were only a handful of parishoners in attendance, so we basically stuck out like sore, spiritually lost thumbs. We were bombarded with outstretched hands during the offering of peace and personally encouraged to take communion from one of the ushers. At the end of Mass, one of the priests invited us to have coffee and doughnuts in the church's kitchen, an invitation we originally planned to decline, so overwhelmed were we with all the warm welcoming, but the song in her voice was like an imaginary hand gently guiding our footsteps to the room where lukewarm Folgers and supermarket pastries awaited consumption, and soon we were visiting with other families, making small talk about the weather and how we found ourselves in Indianapolis.

All that to say we really liked the parish and plan on visiting again, though we still might check out a few other churches before commiting ourselves to any one place. I could feel those old feelings of sadness bubbling up inside of me again as I sat next to Luke in the pew, just like last time, at the idea of saying good-bye to the faith I'd grown in for so much of my life, and once again I reminded myself that the God I talked to and prayed to and wept with and thanked in the Catholic church was the same one waiting for me in this new Episcopal one, and I wasn't saying good-bye to Him, just worshipping with a new group of people who really weren't as different as I thought they'd be. At least, not in the ways that mattered.

After church, Luke and I went for breakfast and did some shopping. When we finally came home, we noticed this sight in the pond across from our unit:

We didn't think much of it until Luke peered out the window a couple of hours later and saw that the goose was still there, perched in the exact same spot. Figuring the poor thing must be stuck, we marched outside and tossed some stale bread crumbs his way, hoping the promise of food would provide ample motivation to free himself. When that didn't do the trick, Luke hurried upstairs to grab a broom with the intention of breaking through the ice with the handle. Before he could pierce the surface, though,the goose must've questioned the validity of our plan, because he made a clean break for the sky, leaving behind chunks of Market Pantry whole wheat bread as a tribute to his courageousness.

Since we still had three or four pieces of bread left, we circled the pond looking for other feathered friends with which to share our feast, partly against my better judgement. The ducks and I, we have a history, you see.

It started out calmly enough, with the whole flock keeping a respectable distance in the pond, perfectly content to eat crumb after crumb in the water, until they decided they needed to experience their snack up close and personal.

The farther away I walked, the braver they became. Which made me quite nervous. I hastily abandoned a half-piece of bread in the snow, hoping to distract them, but it only left them hungry for more.

I thought walking in the street would instill some fear, surely put them in their place. It didn't, those brazen bastards.

At that point, after many pictures were taken to document my fear, Luke (finally) came to my rescue. Thank God.

 

He makes it look so easy, doesn't he? Not scary at all!

And then the ducks blew him kisses of gratitude, and I began to feel a little silly.

But not TOO silly. After all, I did see Snakes On A Plane. For all we know, the ducks are just biding their time.

Tragic Love Friday

It's just after one o'clock as I type this and already I've received three inquiries about today's TLF installment, so now's not the time for small talk. Although can I just say again how much I love you guys for indulging me with this? Also, today is my deadline for submitting a brief overview of the one-hour blogging workshop I'm doing for Saint Joe this fall (still no word on the class yet), so if anyone wants to offer thoughts on what would entice you to sign up for such a course, I'm all ears.

Also also, in last week's comments section it was pointed out that the doctor wrongly told Jenna she'd been involved in the accident, since it was actually David who felt the full force of the car's impact. Good eye, Erika!

And on with the show! Remember, all typos remain intact. Just so you don't think I'm a complete moron.

-------

CHAPTER NINE - KAYLA

Cassie and I were in court, about to be sentenced for our crime. My friend's face had no expression; her eyes had a far away look to them, and I realized that I had lost Cassie, too.

We had our hands cuffed in front of us, and security officers had a firm hold on me [You've really got a hold on me....] but I managed to turn my head and glance at the people present.

My parents were right up front, looking like statues, showing no emotion. I knew I'd hurt them deeply, so deeply that no emotions could express what they felt. (Cassie's mom wasn't there; she was "grieving" in Florida). A few journalists and reporters were there, and a handful of interested bystanders, but that was it.

"All rise for the Honerable Judge Williams," the baliff cried, and I did so nervously. The judge glared at us. "Be seated," he ordered, and glanced over some papers. "Kayla Evans, on the charges of 2 accounts of involentary manslaughter, and 1 charge of attempted murder, how do you plead?"

[Is it even possible for one person to be charged three times for a single death? Thanks for all the insight, People's Court.]

I swallowed down tears. "Guilty, Your Honor."

"Cassie Donovan, on the charges of conspiracy to commit murder and being an accomplice of involentary manslaughter and an accomplice to commit murder [Where's the charge for the kitchen sink?], how do you plead?"

In a loud voice, Cassie said, "I am guilty of all the charges against me, Honerable Judge Williams." Her smile was mad. [Apparently in Frema's world, this is how crazy people act? Somebody hold me, I can't type this anymore.]

[Except I totally can.]

There was a soft titter in the room. The Judge pounded his gavel. He focused on our faces. [Bow chicka bow bow. Also, whaa?]

"It saddens and angers me to have two minors standing before me, waiting to be sentenced for such heinious crimes. [The extra "i" in "heinous" isn't a typo. I actually used to pronounce the word this way until last year. How did I make it past high school?] It's because of people like you that mothers can't even let their children go to the park by themselves. [Is it, though? Because a good talking-to on the benefits of birth control seems so much more applicable here.]

"I have glanced over both of your school records, and both are unblemished. There is also no police record for either of you. However harmless you seem, though, you killed not only an innocent young man, but a helpless fetus. You must be punished." He stared at Cassie.

"Cassie Donovan, I hereby sentence you to 3 years in the state prison, and after a year and a half has been served, if you make parole, you are to then be tranfered to the Women's Sanitariam, where you are to reside for 2 years. Therapy is required."

[Thank God I have an office instead of a cubicle, because I'm laughing out loud right now. At this point it's so obvious I was just pulling shit out of my ass and using any legal word I could remember.]

I glanced at Cassie. Her eyes were closed, and her face was wet with tears. She had been lucky, though. Her lawyer was able to get the involuntary [finally realized there's no "e" in "involuntary"] manslaughter charges dropped because she wasn't the one driving.

Then it was my turn.

"Kayla Evans, I hereby sentence you to 6 years in the State Prison. And though you will not be sent to the Sanitariam [LOL again], therapy is required for all 6 years." He stood up. "This court is adjourned."

"All rise!" shouted the baliff.

Minutes later, Cassie and I were escorted out of the courtroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Michael [Welcome back, buddy!] with Jenna in the back.

Jenna looked terrible. Even from far away you could see the circles under her eyes. She looked like she was made of glass. It was a good thing Michael had an arm around her; otherwise she'd probably fall to the floor. [Kayla did wonder why his hand was on Jenna's breast but thought it best not to ask questions.]

You did that to her, I told myself when I was seated in the police car. I was ashamed, for I no longer hated her. The night before, I realized that it wasn't her fault she'd fallen in love with my ex-boyfriend. Love showed up at the weirdest times, and between different people. It was something that could not be ignored.

[I suppose when you kill your ex-best friend's unborn baby and soon-to-be husband you can afford to be generous with forgiveness. Also, is anyone else flashing to mental images of Glenn Close and dead bunnies?]

Yes, she had hurt me. But my pain couldn't compare to her anguish of losing David and her little girl. Jenna hadn't deserved that pain, but I had been selfish, cruel, and downright evil.

[But you're still pregnant, so you win!]

All I could do now was pray to God that Jenna could forgive me. Someday.

(7 MONTHS LATER)

"Michael!" I cried. I got up slowly from my bed to greet my first visitor since I'd arrived in prison.

"Yeah." He hugged me quickly, looking a little uncomfortable. "I - I'm sorry I haven't visited you before. I didn't want to upset Jenna."

I nodded, smiling a little. "I understand. I'm just glad you came to see me, Mike." His eyes looked sad. "I haven't forgiven you, Kayla. Too much damage has been done."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do," he snapped, anger replacing sadness. "Jenna is still grieving over David and her baby. Do you know that she has nightmares about you? That she dreams of you pulling out her insides? Did you know that she wakes up reaching for her baby? She visits David's grave every week and talks for hours to his tombstone." Michael's voice cracked. "The worst part is, I do everything in my power to help her. I'm at her side always. I make dumb jokes, I take her out, and...I'm still losing her, Kayla." He wiped tears from his eyes, and that's when I realized that he cared for her much more than I could have guessed. I could hear the love in his voice when he said her name. I didn't know how he could take it, being so close to Jenna, yet not letting her know how much he loved her.

[If this were a real soap opera, the above paragraph/scene would be the one submitted for Michael's shot at Best Supporting Actor In A Drama Series.]

He shook his head as if to clear it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you."

I smiled. "Only you, Michael, would apologize to someone who's in jail for murder."

He looked around at my cell. "So, how have things been here with you?" My smile faded. "Not too good. Being in jail is bad enough, but when you're eight months pregnant, it seems 10 times worse."

"When the baby's born, will you be able to take care of it while you're in this place?"

"Only for a year. Then either my parents take care of her or she'll be put in a foster home. And please don't refer to my baby as "it." The baby's going to be a girl."

[Do you like how flippant Kayla is about future housing arrangements for her child? Also, with my intimate and not-at-all-faulty knowledge of state policy regarding the rights of mothers serving time in correctional facilities, why am I not writing for Law and Order?]

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I had an ultrasound two months ago."

"Oh." Michael glanced at his watch. "Kayla, I've gotta go."

"OK." I hugged him hard. "Thank you so much for coming, Mike. It helped me a lot."

Michael called out to the guard. As he walked away, I cried, "wait Michael!"

He spun around. "What?" I took a deep breath. "Will you please tell Jenna that I'm sorry? I caused her so much pain, it's the least I can offer her."

"Sure." He was about to leave again when I called him back. "Now what?"

"Tell her that I want to talk to her. That I'd really appreciate it if she came to see me so I could tell her all this in person." [While she's at it, ask her to bring me a ham sandwich!]

"I'll be sure to tell her."

"Thanks. Thanks for everything."

As my friend walked away, I felt a sudden pain in my stomache that brought me to my knees. I screamed. Mike and the guard came rushing back. The door was unlocked quickly. "What's wrong?" the guard asked. I was about to answer when the pain hit me again, knocking the wind out of me. Something inside me popped [more popping!], and I felt liquid ooze through my legs.

Michael noticed. His eyes widened. "Her water broke! She's going into labor!"

[Can your water break in the middle of a contraction? I have no idea.]

-------

You guys do such a great job snarking on this stuff. So have at it!

Malaise

Last night I broke my two-month cooking hiatus and actually prepared a scrumptious dinner for my husband, a dinner whose contents never saw the inside of a can and required forty minutes of face time with the oven. Betty Crocker better watch her back, is all I'm saying.

This is my second attempt at this dish; the first was in October and involved melting the face off our meat thermometer, so the fact that I didn't set off any smoke detectors this time around is reason enough to call yesterday's efforts a success. It's also a pretty simple recipe; all I did was slice some carrots and potatoes, toss the pork slab into my Pyrex glassware, shake some spices, and VOILA! Why aren't they all this easy?

Last year I was so fired up about learning how to cook; I actually enjoy being in the kitchen, measuring, chopping, mixing, and cleaning as I move from one directive to the next. I like the feeling of pride that goes along with serving a meal, knowing I created something that will sustain my body (and Luke's) for another few days. I like spicing up our food menu with something that isn't pasta, soup, or chicken. (Shocking, I know.) I like imagining what it will be like to cook for our children.

Hopefully I can get on that bandwagon again, but it's so hard to get motivated about anything these days: cooking, working, exercising, keeping in touch with family and friends. We're only eighteen days into the New Year and I'm already tired of 2007.

My big projects for the upcoming weekend include backing up the digital photography files currently sitting on Luke's desktop and archiving all the publications I've put together at work in the last year so they stop collecting dust in our closet. I also want to start printing our photos and getting them into albums so we don't have to sit in front of a computer to enjoy them.

I might even remove the Christmas cards surrounding our breakfast bar.

   

The rest of our decorations were taken down a couple of weeks ago, but there's something about seeing all the pictures and happy signatures of our nearest and dearest that tells me to leave them up just one more day.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Feelin' good, people, feelin' good! I'm wearing my super-comfortable gauchos, pain-free brown boots, and less weight than I did this time last week. Miracles, they do happen.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.2

I'm not really sure HOW I lost the weight, since I pigged out on TGI Friday's beef brisket and a Pot Belly's roast beef sub within a twelve-hour timespan, but when faced with a miracle, it's in one's best interest not to ask questions.

Unless those questions are about a costly gym membership. Luke and I have discussed this on and off for the last few days without coming to any real conclusion.

In theory, we're both serious about wanting to commit to a regular fitness program. The Y is a seven-minute drive from our apartment; unless we decide to shack up in the facility's parking lot, you can't get any better than that. The branch is less than a year old, so the equipment's top notch. At the end of our work-out, we always feel better than we did coming in. What is the problem?!

The problem is reality. In reality, we function better at night and stay up too late to put in sufficient time on the treadmill before breakfast without wanting to crash after dinner. In reality, at five o'clock we're more excited about coming home to each other and our pajama pants than spending another hour at a place that isn't home. (OK, so I'M the one who tosses the work clothes aside for pjs. The SexyBack giveth, and the SexyBack taketh away.) When push comes to shove, we're mentally burned out.

But there's something about the gym that keeps us holding on. As long as we continue to renew our membership, there's still hope that one day we'll fulfill our half of the bargain and actually use the machines we pay to access. Continuing our membership gives us motivation to get our squishy asses off the couch. Being open to even the possibility of swiping that plastic card at the Y's front desk means we're not failures.

One option we've talked about is eliminating the Y from our budget and paying for an annual state park entrance permit instead. It's way cheaper--just thirty-six dollars for the whole year--and we'll be paying for an activity we truly enjoy. The majority of our weekend trips revolve around hiking, camping, and frolicking at the beach, anyway, so this would just encourage that.

What do you guys think? Are we awful for giving up before we even really get started, or does it make sense to axe the Y and explore different ways to get in shape?

In other news, the crown is back in my mouth, held into place with temporary cement until the dentist can see me again in February, at which time he'll fit me for a new, permanent piece. Since I was so busy reading through yesterday's entry for typos, I didn't get out of work until forty minutes before my scheduled appointment, which means I didn't have time to pick up my old one on the way. I called the receptionist twice to make sure this wasn't a problem, and twice she assured me it wasn't. That is, until I got to the clinic and waited an hour and fifteen minutes to be seen for my "emergency" fit-in, only to be chastised by the denist for not bringing in the original crown. If looks could kill, some funeral director would be pumping that woman's limbs with embalming fluid as we speak.

Since it would've taken another hour and a half for me to go home, pick it up, and come back, I did what any married woman would do--call her husband and beg him to make the drive himself. Which he did, bless his white little heart, and the doctor took all of four minutes to stick the thing back on tooth number fourteen. By this time it was seven o'clock and we were about to eat our own arms for nourishment, so we hopped over to Bennigan's, home to The Best Spinach Dip In The Universe. I planned on ordering that and nothing else, fully content to bask in the glory that is spinach and artichokes on seasoned flat bread.

Imagine my surprise, then, upon learning that the dip had been removed from their appetizer menu ONE DAMN YEAR AGO. I almost burst into tears right in front of the waitress.

A perfect ending to a perfect day.

What Am I Still Doing Here?

When reviewing my entries for last week, I was proud to see that Hey! I posted five days in a row! I totally need do to that again! So yesterday afternoon I slaved over a post that was intended to honor Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, but the Internet was acting wonky and I forgot to copy and paste the text into Word before hitting "Publish" so I ended up losing the whole damn thing. Which is OK with me in the end, because the post was fine, but it didn't feel like ME. So here is something more ME. Crap! In the form of chunky paragraphs without transitions!

Friday

The BMV mix-up was resolved in eight minutes, with profuse apologizing on behalf of the branch. It was implanting my post that took an hour and a half, what with my sobbing hysterically every time the drill attempted to secure the metal screw through my bone. It all started on Wednesday, when I accompanied Luke to have four cavities filled (because the HSA debit card is in my name and practitioners like to be compensated for their work) and warned both the doctor and hygenist about my tendency to get a tad "anxious" in the chair, suggesting it would benefit all parties involved to nail a nitrous oxide mask to my face for the entire procedure. The doctor just laughed and assured me I wouldn't feel any pain, he'd thoroughly numb the area and anyway bones don't have nerves so I shouldn't feel a thing.

I laughed, too, and didn't give it much thought until Friday morning, when they called me in after a thirty-minute wait, during which I reflected on the hell I experienced in Rensselaer when they attached a permanent crown to my badly cracked tooth and thought once again that nitrous would best calm my ultra-sensitive nerves. And once again, I was silenced with promises of no pain. It wasn't until the doctor had pumped my gums with Novocaine three times in an effort to stop my hysterical chest heaves that he began to second-guess his decision, but it was too late. I was afraid of the drill and the size of the screw, and everyone's attempts to comfort me just resulted in more tears because being the center of attention when I'm upset is embarrassing, and when I'm embarrassed, I cry, and the vicious cycle repeats itself until I'm home, where I can unabashedly surrender to my hysteria and then move on with my life. Until I remember all the caring and sympathy and cry again.

The doctor called me at home later that afternoon, when the pain had turned into a dull, bearable throbbing, and apologized for the miscommunication; a nice touch on his part, and I hung up feeling pretty good about the whole situation, soothing myself with the knowledge that I had a six-week time frame before my next appointment, during which I could pray for selective amnesia.

Saturday

Molly of Lost A Sock fame and I joined forces to drive to Chicago and attend Dawnie's 27th birthday bash at Dave and Buster's, marketed as Chuck E. Cheese for adults. Dawn and I "met" each other through a CD swap organized last spring and have been e-mailing back and forth since then, but this was our first meeting, not to mention MY first time meeting a blogger in real life, so by the time we parked Molly's Ford Explorer (an adventure in its own right) and made our way through the crowd to find Dawn and her friends, I was ready to wet myself.

There wasn't much time to talk, but it was a fun night. Hopefully we can do it again before BlogHer. Also, don't you like how Molly and I used mental telepathy to coordinate our outfits?

 

I risked my life to take this photo by pretending I wanted a shot of Molly scoring tickets from Pirate's Revenge, but it was totally worth it because this woman looked like she'd had one too many Appletinis and was concentrating harder than a gambler in a Las Vegas casino. She must've been sitting in front of that "Wheel of Fortune" station for at least thirty minutes. Of course, Molly and I dropped twenty bucks apiece at the Skeeball lanes (where we almost had to rumble with a couple of bitches who claimed we were taking their place in line, even though they were gabbing it up a good five feet away), so who am I to judge?

WARNING: the following two paragraphs contain spoilers for 24. Fans not in the know should proceed at their own risk.

Sunday

The first two hours of 24's season premiere. I spent most of it yelling at the television because after six years, don't these people know Jack's super powers can't be thwarted by a twenty-month stint in a Chinese prison? Watching him bite flesh off a terrorist's neck was pretty disgusting, but I nearly lost it when the Muslim American teenager labeled a terrorist by some hillbilly redneck actually turned out to be a terrorist, causing me to change my Gmail chat tagline from "Tragic Love Friday: now with more tragedy" to "Twenty Flop." Way to break down ethnic stereotypes, FOX.

Monday

Two more hours of 24. Two more hours of yelling at the TV and lamenting Curtis's totally out-of-character personality change and subsequent death. However, the nuclear explosion was cool, so I changed my Gmail tagline to "Twenty Forgivable."

I also lost a crown while brushing my teeth.

I got the crown in June 2004; the following January I received a root canal on the same tooth, which is how the hole started (he had to go through the crown to get to the nerve), until it got bigger and bigger and eventually it was so big I could feel it with my tongue. My dentist and I had previously talked about replacing it since the hole leaves the tooth underneath susceptible to decay, so I'm not heartbroken, just baffled as to why the crown chose MLK Day to make the break.

Tuesday

As soon as I finish this sentence, I'm going to the dentist so he can make the crown situation all better; I could've left an hour ago but didn't want to go another minute without updating this blog. I'm nothing if not dedicated. And stupid.

Tragic Love Friday

I hate the Indiana BMV.

It began in July, when my ass went numb in a plastic chair after waiting ninety minutes for my number to be called, only to be informed the new computer system had a few "bugs" and couldn't perform the activities necessary to change the last name on my IDs. I went back at the beginning of December and waited another hour to be sent to the Social Security office for a numi report confirming my number, because even though I had updated my card, the number was still attached to my maiden name.

The following Friday, I sat for forty-five minutes in ANOTHER plastic chair next to a woman who smelled like toenail fungus with eight other people in for the same reason I was, eight other people who probably received the same condescending eyeroll from the clerk when requesting their numi reports because she's sick and tired of the BMV sending everybody and their taxidermist to the damn Social Security office.

Last Saturday I went to the BMV again, where thankfully there was no numbing of the ass; instead, I stood at the clerk's desk for an hour and fifteen minutes, but I was wearing my new Simple shoes, plus I left with an updated license and ID, so no worries. It was all good in the 'hood.

Today I received a letter from the BMV. It states that my driver's license application is missing a signature and sufficient proof of my Social Security number. "Please bring in your original Social Security card," it says.

You mean scribbling the information on the back of my "Get out of jail free" card wasn't good enough? The fuck?

Obviously I'm more than a little pissed, because not only will I be stepping foot into the damn BMV for the fourth time in a seven-month timespan, I also have to fit it in before my ten o'clock dentist appointment, at which time a metal post will be implanted in my gum. It will take every ounce of will power not to march into that facility, grab the receptionist by the collar, and beat her head against the countertop until she fully grasps the incompetence of her employer and sends me on my merry way. Or until she dies. Whichever comes first.

But you don't care about my BMV troubles. You want to know who died in the Dairy Queen parking lot. Some friends you are.

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CHAPTER EIGHT - JENNA

I fell to my knees trying to run out of the car's way.

At that moment, I felt David's strong arms push me towards the sidewalk. I stumbled on my feet and fell hard on my stomache. I felt something pop inside of me. In the corner of my eye, I saw the car smash into my boyfriend, throwing him into the Dairy Queen parking lot. It drove away.

"Oh God!!" I screamed. My hands grabbed my belly. It felt like my insides were oozing out of me.

Then I blacked out.

* * *

The first faces I saw when I woke up were Dr. Foremann's and my parents'. They were speaking in low voices, and my mother was crying. I tried to speak, but only a high-pitched sound came out. All 3 of them looked at me sadly.

"Oh Jenna! My poor baby!" Mom cradled me awkwardly in her arms. Dad just squeezed my hand.

"Don't try to talk," Dr. Foremann ordered. "You're very weak."

[At this point I can only assume they're in the ER. Would your ob/gyn meet you at the emergency room?]

I ignored him. "What's wrong?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "Is my baby OK? Where's David?"

"Calm down," my doctor said gently. He looked at my parents. "I'll need a minute alone with her." They nodded and hurried out. [Because in Frema, M.D.'s world, apparently physicians don't allow family members to comfort patients when hearing bad news?]

I felt empty inside. My arms tried to feel my belly, but I was too weak.

"Jenna," he began in a kindly voice, "a car hit you. You have a mild concussion, and a few cracked ribs."

[I have no idea what it means to crack a rib, but I remember hearing about those types of injuries in my Nancy Drew books. They're totally real, right?]

"My baby..."

"I'm sorry, Jenna. She's gone."

"No." I couldn't breathe. Tears instantly blinded my vision. Dr. Foremann grabbed my hand. "I'm so sorry, Jenna. The impact of the car was too much. She was killed instantly."

[Now, Doctor, don't sugarcoat the news. Be as blunt as you can--you know, REALLY rub it in.]

My head hurt, and my hands finally felt my stomache. The bulge I had loved to touch so much was gone.

[There is a double entendre here somewhere, itching to break the surface, but I'll refrain out of respect for the dead.]

"No, please not my baby," I whispered. "You're joking. Please say you're joking. Tell me Mary Katherine is OK. Tell me!!" I sobbed.

[Because healthcare professionals are famous for their fake-miscarriage pranks.]

I heard the anguish in my doctor's voice as he continued. "You could have been more seriously injured if Mr. Donovan hadn't pushed you out of the way."

For the first time I thought about David. My hero. [Actually, it's the second, but Dr. Foremann was too busy shaking with excitement over the thought of telling you about your dead baby to give your question his full attention.]

"I hate to be the bearer of even more bad news." I heard him take a shaky breath. "He was also killed instantly."

"Oh God no," I whispered.

I had ignored him for days, called him every name in the book, and he still didn't hesitate to save my life.

And now he was gone.

[Along with his Mickey D's pension. Dammit, Kayla!]

* * *

"As we lay David Anthony Donovan to rest [I actually underlined his initials on the page, just in case readers missed the connection between his name and the fatherhood role he never had a chance to fulfill. It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife!], let us remember that he is now with God, and that he will suffer no more. Amen."

"Amen," I echoed. His casket was lowered into the ground, and I felt a part of me die with him.

David's death had caught the attention of the media, so a few TV reporters were present. They were also there when a special service had been done for little Mary Katherine the day before.

A lot had happened during the four days before my loved ones' funerals.

Kayla and Cassie were caught and taken in to the station. (A witness had remembered the car and the description of the passengers in it.) They didn't deny hitting me and David, so they were charged on 2 accounts of involentary manslaughter and attempted murder. [And it's Frema, juris doctorate to the rescue! She can marry two contradictory charges in a single bound! Also makes great fries!] After the charges, they told the whole story. When Cassie realized that David had been killed, she went into a state of shock. She didn't eat, didn't speak, didn't move. She had become like a recluse, isolating herself from the rest of the world.

Kayla just cried. Whenever she was shown on TV, tears were streaming down her face, making herself look like the wounded victim.

Rot in hell, Kayla.

As for myself, I holed up in my room and grieved. Grieved for my daughter, and for David, and all that could've been. [Marriage, infidelity, Big Macs, divorce....] In one instant, everything that I loved most had been taken from my grasp.

Cassie I could understand and forgive. She had tried to save her brother, tried to protect him by trying to kill me. But Kayla was another story. She wanted David because she had no one else. She had been greedy and selfish. [OK, yes, she killed your boyfriend, but to be fair, she had him first!] Well, God had punished her for her actions. She'd lost David, too. But she hadn't been punished enough.

-------

And there are still fifty-three pages to go! You are so lucky.

We Go Together Like A Horse And Carriage

Sent at 10:17 AM on Tuesday

Frema: Are you thinking of foods I hate?
Luke: Seafood, of all kinds. Cheese on sandwiches, but not on burgers.
Macaroni and cheese. Eggs.
Frema: Didn't you see the list I sent you?
Luke: No.
Frema: Those are already on the list.
Luke: I didn't get the list.
Frema: I'm looking at the copy in my Sent folder. I'll send it again.
Luke: OK
Frema: Did you get it?
Luke: When have you had Indian food? Or Thai food?
Frema: I haven't.
Luke: You liked the Japanese food you had at House of Kobe.
Frema: But I like beef.
Luke: You also liked the soup, and there are many noodles dishes you'd like, too. You just wouldn't like sushi. There's also a lot of Chinese food you'd like, too.
Frema: Well, what about stuff you know I don't like?
Luke: There are Chinese dishes not far off from the stirfry I make.
Since when don't you like burritos?
Frema: Have you ever seen me eat a burrito?
Luke: No. But they're pretty much closed tacos.
Frema: With beans!
Luke: Burritos don't have to have beans.
Frema: Then why can't I just have a taco?
Luke: I've had a lot of burritos with no beans.
Burritos are less mess, being rolled and all.
Frema: I can fold my taco.
Luke: They can have just about anything inside and still be a burrito.
They don't necessarily have beans to be a burrito.
But you wouldn't like a bean burrito.
Frema: OK.
Luke: Quiche.
Frema: Can you just answer my original question?
Luke: You wouldn't like quiche.
Frema: Oooh! Or any sort of pot pie.
Luke: But pot pies can be good if made right. They're pretty much stew in a crust.
Frema: But I don't want the crust.
Can I post this conversation on my blog?
Luke: Your mom posts this conversation!
Frema: I'll take that as a yes.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Why is it my body decides to malfunction right on the cusp of Weight Loss Wednesday? Last week it was dizziness and vomit. Today? A head cold, a cold that got me into bed early two nights in a row. On Monday I was under the covers by ten and didn't wake up until six the next morning. Yesterday I made it to eleven, but only because I wanted to catch the end of Law and Order: SVU, during which Blair Underwood set his ex-wife on fire.

Unfortunately, the scale doesn't care how stuffed up your nose is or how dangerous Blair Underwood is with a bottle of gasoline. He is just the messenger, cold and heartless.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138.6
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13.6

Thanks to my fancy schmancy scale, demicals have now entered the picture, which means I have to record this week as an almost two-pound gain. Crap.

Why have I lost my motivation? I attribute part of it to the shopping sprees I had in December. Wearing new clothes can make you feel like you've lost five pounds, when in real life all you did was purchase some cute t-shirts whose hems you don't have to yank on every eight seconds to cover your pot belly. It also helps that my hair's been on its best behavior and my feet are sporting a different pair of shoes every day. Why pay attention to my expanding waistline when I can admire my heels or the curls I was able to shape with only two of my three styling products?

It might also be due to the fact that my weekend was bookmarked with trips to Longhorn Steakhouse and Ted's Montana Grill. I suppose a gain shouldn't come as a complete surprise.

It's been a month and a half since I walked into the gym, and if the YMCA wasn't a Christian organization, I'd feel like Luke and I were throwing our money away; as it currently stands, it's just like making a sixty-nine-dollar-a-month contribution to a local charity. We're not lazy, see? We're just making the world a better place.

Last Saturday I visited the Indiana Bureau of Motor Vehicles to finally update my license and state IDs to my married name, and while the attendant was reviewing the paperwork, she asked, "Is your weight still 120?"

"Yes," I replied. Then I went home and had a good laugh before my spirit burst into tears, because really, people, the last time I was 120 pounds was probably my sophomore year in high school, and yet I continue to give this number when any government official asks for my total poundage, even though I'm terrified they'll raise their eyebrows and shake their heads to let me know I've been caught in a blatant lie. I can remember renewing my license in Rensselaer and almost having a heart attack over the clerk's listing it as 125, even though I done told the bitch it was 120 (and even though I actually weighed 132. Whoops). When I moved to Indianapolis, I changed it right back, despite my failed attempts to button my size-eight jeans. In those situations, I always think, "This extra flab is just temporary! Any day now I'm going to slim down and become the number I feel on the inside!" Which I apparently think is eighteen-point-five pounds fewer than my mortal shell. I'm also a fan of assigning blame to the water retained during my menstrual cycle. Even if it's day six and the womanly blood is nowhere in sight.

Tell me I'm not the only one who does this. How much cushion (no pun intended) do you allow yourself when reporting your weight?

Also, that city clerk probably knew I was lying, didn't she?

Let's face it. She totally knew.

And for those of you wondering about last night's dessert choice....

Was there ever any doubt? Although I wish I'd asked for the brownie sundae. The banana was actually sort of bland. Luke was quite pleased with his tiramisu.

I've Got A Food Attitude

For as long as I can remember, I've always been a picky eater. If a food possesses a smell, texture, or physical appearance that's not to my liking, it's blackballed from my palette and never thought of again. When I was a kid, this posed a lot of problems for my mother, who cooked the majority of our meals, because she often wanted to prepare something that wasn't chicken, spaghetti, tacos, or pizza, and I didn't want to eat anything other than chicken, spaghetti, tacos (on flour tortillas only), or pizza. There were a couple of times where her "You're not leaving until you eat that!" directive meant me sitting at the kitchen table for hours, staring at yellow paint and wooden panels, the antique knick-knacks perched on top of the cabinets, or updated school pictures fastened to the refrigerator because I was too stubborn to take even one bite of her refried beans and she was too stubborn to let a nine-year-old kid break her spirit. One morning she threatened bodily harm if I didn't just EAT THE DAMN SCRAMBLED EGGS, so eat them I did. And then promptly threw up.

We didn't struggle a lot over food after that.

As an adult, I've continued to sustain my body on a limited menu. I still love chicken, spaghetti, tacos (actually, most forms of beef), and pizza and eat 'em at least once a week. I love barbeque ribs and ham and bacon and cheeseburgers and potatoes in any form (read: french fries). I enjoy whole kernel corn, green beans, onions (required for Outback's Bloomin' Onion), sugarsnap peas, cheese, and various types of fruit. Dessert items rock my socks off.

The following foods will only find themselves on my plate if I'm dead:

• Seafood of any kind
• Eggs (Ah, memories)
• Macaroni and cheese (The smell is unlike anything I've ever experienced)
• Macaroni noodles (You know, because of the mac and cheese thing) and other "thick" pasta shapes
• Oatmeal (Tasty to-go bars don't count)
• Sauces with a non-tomato base
• Beans (Unless they're in chili, and even then I pick them out)
• Whole mushrooms (Chopped up on pizza is acceptable)
• Tuna (Except in tuna cassarole)
• Salami
• Burritos
• French toast
• Avocados
• Salad (Because I hate lettuce)
• Sour cream
• Mayonnaise (Except in my spinach dip receipe)
• Custard
• Cranberries
• Cottage cheese
• Tapioca (Thanks for reminding me, Bdogg!)
• Quiche
• Tiramisu
• Any sort of pot pie
• Omelets
• Indian food (Too afraid to try it)
• Most Chinese food (Though I do enjoy orange chicken)
• Most Japanese food (Unless it's beef fried rice, and I still pick out the egg chunks)
• Select meat-and-cheese combinations (Shredded cheese on tacos is delish; sausage-and-cheese croissants inspire my gagging reflex; meats with cheese stuffed inside of them are also gross. Cheese does not make everything better, people!)

I'm sure there are others, and there are a few exceptions, but them's the biggies. Any dishes outside of my love/hate radar are tolerable, I suppose, but why bother with them when I can get my taste on with something I one-hundred-percent enjoy?

My contentedness with not trying anything new never bothered anyone until I started dating, and it didn't bother ME until I started dating Luke. Our relationship has always embraced a liberal dining-out policy, meaning an oil change is reason enough to flock to the nearest Applebee's, so this topic comes up all the time. I usually go for American grill or Italian-style restaurants, while he's interested in trying out the little Thai place across the street from Wal-Mart. If I suggest a place, it's usually to satisfy a specific craving. Outback equals Bloomin' Onion. Ted's Montana Grill (my new favorite place) means a bison cheeseburger and fries. Don Pablo's? Steak quesadillas. (Another instance where I sanction the marriage of meat and cheese.) I'll go anywhere you want, but you can bet your mother's life I'll ask for a burger, ribs, or chicken strips, and that's after I guilt you into ordering the dip.

For Luke's sake, sometimes I want to throw caution to the wind and just try a crab leg already. I know he'd take greater pleasure in our meals out if I took a more open-minded approach towards food. He also gets sick of my wrinkled nose and "Oooh, I don't like that, how can you eat that?" comments every time he takes a bite of something that didn't originate from a cow.

But what if I don't like the crab leg? Am I going to shell out eleven ninety-five for another platter? Stare at my entree forlornly until it's time to pay the bill? My daredevilism could very well come back to bite me in the ass.

This evening, Luke and I are going to the Cheesecake Factory for my birthday. (Twenty-seven, thank you for asking!) It will actually be the culmination of a series of food-centric events held in the honor of my departure from my mother's uterus; the shenanigans started on Sunday, when we went to Ted's for dinner, and tonight Luke's making tacos, after which we'll visit the Factory for their to-die-for cheesecake. (I refused to try cheesecake until college because I thought it was literally a blend of cheese and cake. Like, American cheese. If that's not reason enough to loosen up, the only reason my passion for spinach dip exists is Luke's hankering for it on our first date and my unwillingness to rock the boat.) Our first visit was in December, when I feasted upon their brownie sundae concoction, a miracle because they also have banana cheesecake, and usually when I'm ordering a dessert I always go for the banana option. On that night, though, I could SEE the sigh in Luke's eyes as we considered our options, and I thought, "Oh, what the hell."

Because I subscribe to a strict "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" philosophy, I think I want the brownie sundae again. Or the banana. Or maybe I'll ask the Internets for their opinion.

Here is a link to the Factory's menu. While I wish I could say I'll go with the majority vote, I'll probably just do whatever I want. Nonetheless, feel free to de-lurk and offer a suggestion. I promise to think about it really, really hard.

Edited to add: I just re-read this entry and realized I listed my age as twenty-eight years old. I am only twenty-seven. Apparently "counting correctly" isn't on my list of ways to celebrate my birthday.

The Money Pit

When Luke scored his new job back in August, I had big plans for our financial future. Since we were already "making do" on my salary, I figured his paycheck would provide us with a chance to catch up on our plans to pay off my car and save for a house. We would pay off the remaining twelve thousand dollars on the Cobalt by February, then designate the extra three hundred bucks a month into our savings account, which would allow us to become homeowners by the time our lease ended in June. We would replace Luke's dying 1993 Lumina with a Pontiac Vibe or something equally family-friendly by summer, get knocked up on our first try in the fall, and spend the duration of my pregnancy accruing a sizable nest egg to fall back on once I quit my job to raise our baby. Lucy would be born in my twenty-eighth year (hooray for major events falling on even numbers!), and of course her birth wouldn't cost one out-of-pocket penny because of our diligence in contributing to my tax-free health savings account. I can see the white picket fence from here, can't you?

Now it's five months later, and the Lumina is still chugging along. My plan, sadly, is not.

The first glitch took place in November, when both Luke and I were greeted with flat tires on each of our cars--ON THE SAME DAY--moments before we were supposed to leave for work. We went to the dentist, where we learned we'll be forking over and arm and a leg for cavity fillings (both), post implants (me), minor gum surgery (Luke), and wisdom-teeth extraction (Luke again) (This is what happens when your husband visits the dentist after a TWELVE-YEAR hiatus). We paid little mind to the amount spent on gifts and charitable contributions over the holidays, and since we were home for so little of December, we wrote off trips to the grocery store, instead opting for nights of KFC, Steak 'n Shake, and Qdoba. Let's also not forget my trips to the salon for "necessary" cut-and-colors, self-indulgent shoe shopping, and the amount of moola it took to validate my online identity with a long-desired upgrade, which was about a hundred and seventy dollars, because I thought it made much better sense to pay for a year with TypePad upfront because I'm a sucker for "one-month free!" deals and prefer paying things off in one lump sum than needlessly writing checks month after month after month.

All of this means that since Halloween, the Frema-Useless Clutter household has shelled out no fewer than six thousand dollars on extracurricular activities, food, and gas.

This figure makes me want to vomit a little bit in my mouth. Meanwhile, the staff members at Chase Bank, U.S.A. probably received one hell of a Christmas bonus.

Things aren't as bleak as I make them out to be. For one, we don't charge anymore than we can pay off in full each month, so we're not paying any interest on our balances. Two, I received a handsome bonus of my own, which covered the extravagent clothing and shoe purchases, and three, we've still managed to set aside a respectable amount in savings and up my HSA contribution, so we're not hit too hard by all the future dental work (my implant is scheduled for Friday morning, and I'm trying really hard to avoid mental images of the doctor drilling a hole into my gum and placing a metal post in it. Ice cream helps). All three of our bank accounts are strong and healthy. We are very lucky.

But we're also having a hard time getting ahead. The Cobalt will not be paid off by February, and we've already made peace with residing in this apartment until 2008 because of our desire to obtain a mortgage that won't be too different from our rent, which requires saving a down payment of at least ten percent. As for the car? We'll continue to cross our fingers and limit its excursions to Luke's office commute; since his job is a whopping eight minutes from where we live, it should hold on at least another full year.

When discussing our house plans over Christmas with my lovely sister, who's currently mulling over similar home-ownership issues with her own husband, she revealed that she and Dan hope to have something this summer, fall at the latest. "You two make more money than we do," she said. "You shouldn't have any trouble getting into a place."

She's right. If we wanted to, Luke and I could start house-hunting today and fork over the dough for closing costs without batting an eye. We could find a cute little two-story ranch with three bedrooms and a yard and that white picket fence I mentioned eight paragraphs up. We could shop at Bed Bath & Beyond for new bathroom towels and a kitchen table that seats more than two people and then we could head on over to La-Z-Boy for a sleeper sofa in an effort to encourage more overnight guests. We're not rich, but we're doing well. It wouldn't break us.

As long as I work.

And therein lies the problem. Before Luke accepted his job, we were living on my salary. His salary is less than mine. If we wanted to live on it and pay all the bills we're paying right now, it would be really freakin' hard. And that's without a baby and a mortgage.

I know there might be a possibility I have to work once I pop out a kid. As much as I want to stay home, if Luke were having an especially hard time meeting our basic needs--and I'm talking food, heat, and insurance, not TiVo, an extra car, or hair appointments--there's no way I could let him bear the weight alone, not when my student loans make up such a large percentage of our debt and I could do something to make things better. However, we've agreed to give it a shot, and we're both nervous about what it'll be like to sustain three people on his income, so we're doing our best to make our goal as attainable as possible.

In my New Year's post, I mentioned the possibility of teaching a blogging class at my undergraduate alma mater in the fall. I think about what it would mean if that possibility materialized into an offer, and I wonder if I would be any good. If I am any good, I wonder if I would ever be invited to teach within the English department on a part-time basis, enabling me to stay home with my children the majority of the time and still bring in some money doing something I know I'd love. I wonder how long I'll have to wait for an answer. My professor friend e-mailed me three days before Christmas and the waiting is already killing me.

In keeping with my resolutions, I continue to remember no matter when we pay off our car, no matter when Luke carries me over the threshhold of our first home, we are still very blessed. Blessed to make the money we do, and have the savings we do, and opportunities we do. We have a home and food and health insurance. We have all of our fingers and all of our toes. We have lots of blankets to keep us warm at night. And we have hope, which thankfully, is free.

P.S. It's De-Lurking Week! Don't forget to say hi.

Tragic Love Friday

TGI to the muthaf*cking F.

The work week after a lengthy vacation is always hard. Getting sick makes it harder. Throw in the anticipation of the first weekend since mid-December that you and your husband can enjoy each other at home, and it's almost unbearable.

This means I'm not in for lots of blah blah before jumping right in to TLF. In addition to typing out text and adding my oh-so-witty commentary, I also fulfilled the promise I made in last week's comments to provide you with photos for the characters featured in the story. Everyone still pretty much looks like this in my head, with the exception of David. NOW I imagine him as Eric from That Seventies Show, but when I was a teenager, he more closely embodied an adolescent version of Randy Wooten, my unrequited childhood love. Why haven't I written a post about him yet?

And now, on with the soon-to-be-bloody show.

-------

CHAPTER SIX - KAYLA

I called Cassie right after Jenna's phone call, and she rushed right over.

"I don't know what to do," I cried. "David cant and wont leave Jenna, now that she's so far along in her pregnancy. I'm going to need financial support. How can I get what I need from him if he's sending money to her?" [Baby daddies stretched too thin: Next Oprah.]

"You need to get rid of her," Cassie said suddenly. "Then David can give you everything you and your baby deserve."

[Um, I was just going to suggest getting a laywer and suing his ass, but murder works, too.]

I was stunned. "You cant be serious."

"I am."

"But...what about her baby?" [What about her LIFE?]

"You're having a baby now. Don't worry about Jenna's."

My mind was racing. "I can't believe we're talking about this!" Cassie grabbed my arm. "Listen to me! You worry about the messy details now, but when you've got a screaming sick baby, and David can't send you enough money because he's supporting HER brat, you'll wish you'd just killed the bitch!" [So Lifetime!] She let go of my arm, and I glared at her. My friend softened a little. "I'm sorry I yelled, but you need to know ALL your options. If you and Jenna both have Dave's baby, someone's gonna get the short end of the stick. And that person will be YOU, Kayla. You and your baby."

"How--how could I do it?" I asked, swallowing hard. [Apparently one can be talked into the homicide of a pregnant woman in eight seconds. Who knew?]

"A simple car accident is all it's gonna take. [This just might be my favorite line of dialogue EVER.] And Kayla, you won't be alone. I'll help you every step of the way."

"Are you sure it would work?" I whispered.

"Leave it to me. I'll plan everything out." [That's what friends are for!]

I closed my eyes. "OK. Let's do it."

* * *
The next few days were spent planning "the accident." What I was going to do with Cassie didn't sound so bad when I called it that. Meanwhile, Cassie kept me informed about David and Jenna. She still wouldn't talk to him.

After 5 days, the plotting was done. We only had one problem. "How can we be sure where Jenna is?" I asked. Cassie shrugged. "Lately, David's been following her every move. I'll find out from him." [Why not follow the victim instead? Amateurs.]

"Nobody else can get hurt," I declared. "It's bad enough I'm killing one person." [It really is!]

"Don't worry," Cassie told me. "Everything will be OK."

"I hope so."

CHAPTER SEVEN - CASSIE

Today was the day we decided to put "the accident" into effect, and I was starting to feel nervous for the first time. What if something went wrong?

At home, I waited for David. I needed to find out from him where Jenna would be. Finally, he walked through the door. "Hey, Dave!"

He smiled halfheartedly and sat at the kitchen table. I joined him. "What's wrong?" He buried his face in his hands, and I could barely hear what he was saying. "Everything. Steiner's always on my back, Mom decided to go on another vacation, and Jenna still wont talk to me."

"When was the last time you tried talking to her?" I asked, wheels turning in my head.

"Yesterday. I called her and she hung up on me." A tear rolled down my brother's face. "She'll never forgive me."

I gave him a hug. "Dont give up on her Davey!" A thought occured to me. "David, call her right now."

"Why bother?"

"Because she can't ignore you forever."

Slowly, he picked up the phone and dialed her number. "Hello? Jenna, it's David--Please don't hang up! Here me out! Yeah....I'm so sorry, Jenna. I never meant to---I know."

Their conversation went on for a few minutes, then David hung up. A dazed smile was on his face. "She's agreed to talk to me. I'm going to take her out for ice cream." [If he REALLY wanted to save money, he should've just taken her to his Mickey D's franchise and thrown his weight around a bit. I'm sure Steiner would've tossed the pregnant lady a sundae.]

I grinned. "Great! What ice cream place are you taking her to?"

"We're just going to Dairy Queen." He grabbed his coat and ran out the door. "Thanks for the advice, Cas. I'll see you later."

"Good luck," I yelled. Then I called Kayla. "Kayla, I'm picking you up. We've got work to do." [Time to destroy my only brother's joy and happiness by killing his unborn daughter! Then, Blizzards!]

By the time we got to Dairy Queen, David's car was already in the parking lot. I could see them in the window. Next to me, Kayla was squirming around. "Let's switch seats now," I said. She looked confused. "You're going to be the one to hit her," I said. "Don't you want to be?" She nodded and took her place in the driver's seat.

[No mention of disguises, rental cars, inconspicuous hiding places--not even a pair of binoculars! My dead dog could've hatched a better plan.]

A half hour later, Jenna and my brother came out of the ice cream place. They were holding hands. Kayla's face looked distorted with anger. Her hands gripped the wheel.

They didn't go to David's car. Jenna pointed to a baby's clothing store across the street.

[But David was free! If he knew he didn't love Jenna, why go back to her? Why not just call it quits and offer to pay child support so he could be with the woman he actually wanted? Men are so stupid, I swear.]

"Start the car," I ordered. Kayla slowly pulled out of the lot. They were in the middle of the street. "Now!" I shouted.

The car's speed was heading towards 60 as Kayla drove towards Jenna.

At that moment, David looked up and saw the car, and a frightened look came upon his face. Jenna was a few steps ahead of him. She, too, noticed the car, but Kayla was now driving at 80. There was no way Jenna could get out of the way in time. [No way could she get up to that fast a speed without anybody noticing. There'd be a dozen dead bodies in her wake before she ever reached those two.]

I shut my eyes and held on to the seat for dear life.

SMACK!! The car whammed into somebody. Kayla screamed, but I knew we were successful when I heard Jenna's terrified cries.

The deed had been done.

-------

OK, so what the hell do you think just happened?

Weight Loss Wednesday

When I was lying on the living room floor last night, clutching my stomach, begging God to make the pain stop, all I could think was, "Please don't let me throw up, please don't let me throw up."

Of course, that practically guaranteed a quickie with the porcelain throne, but it was upon remembering the return of Weight Loss Wednesday that I realized regurgitating my lunch of spaghetti and Italian sausage just might work to my advantage.

WEIGHT FROM TWO WEEKS AGO: 136
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12

I'd like to think it was self-control that kept me from gaining more than one pound over the course of two weeks, but getting sick the night before your weigh-in helps, too.

Bad foods consumed over the holiday; where to start? Since last week's gluttonous report, there's been more Baker's Square goodness in honor of my mother's forty-sixth birthday, for which I generously scarfed down two slices of Oreo pie, pizza and chips in honor of Jack's big Number One, beef sandwiches drenched in gravy, and plenty of Mike's Hard Lemonade to bring in the New Year.

Needless to say, I never made it to the gym.

I can't tell you how pissed I am for forking over sixty-nine dollars of Luke's and my hard-earned money to a facility I didn't step foot in for a whole entire month. I can't tell you how many times I've considered ending our membership and vowing to kick this junk-food habit on my own, or join Weight Watchers again, or read Fast Food Nation, or just stop eating so damn much. I love the idea of the gym, but I don't love the gym. I don't like getting up at five o'clock to go, and I don't like going after work, and I don't like coming home sweaty and I don't like showering more than once a day. Sometimes I don't even manage the one.

If this were October or November, I might just say "Fuck it" and spend the extra dough on cable. But it's January, the third day into a New Year, and I'm not going to give up. At least not today.

On the '06

My senior year in college, one of my professors said that with every choice you make, you become a little more free, as all the questions and doubts and fears once associated with that choice are now obsolete. This train of thought has always resonated with me but became even more meaningful the day I married Luke. Gone are the days where I wonder about our future, my ability to love another person both unconditionally and romantically, his ability to take all my idiosyncrasies in stride. This year we made the decision to love and honor and cherish each other for the rest of our lives, and doing so has enabled us to move forward and tackle new questions--harder questions, probably--but ones that acknowledge our past and honor our future. Instead of pestering Luke to move in with me and propose already, I get to nag him about making a baby and prepping ourselves for the responsibilities of home ownership. I'm definitely OK with the trade-off.

But getting married wasn't the only big thing that happened to me this past year. In reviewing the chain of events that occurred in 2006, I realize these last twelve months have shaped me into a different person: someone more independent, more emotionally adventurous, who isn't waiting for a family member or friend or Joe Schmoe on the street to validate her feelings.

I took a good, long look at my religious foundation and answered some hard questions about which aspects enriched my life and which ones I could've done without. I learned that pigeonholing God into limited definitions and avenues of grace doesn't help anyone, and his miracles aren't confined to a single denomination. At the same time, I learned how important the concept of community is in my faith and how deeply Luke and I want to pass that tradition on to our children. Nobody operates in a vaccuum, whether you're talking about religion, family, or society at large, and to live life ignoring your impact on all of those things seems naive. I severed a couple of once-important familial relationships last year, so even I don't measure up to my own standard of maturity, but who's perfect, right? I'm just proud of myself for not abandoning my convictions and refusing to sweep my hurt feelings under the rug. If that means I have to forgive others and myself for the results, so be it.

I finally grew the balls to say my online writing is important enough to take to the next level and I took it to the next level. I cursed and cried and beat my head against the PC monitor when I realized how much work it would take to meet my expectations, but I did it and now it's done and I'm so happy with the end product. I'm no longer disappointed in myself for admitting I don't want to write the next Great American Novel, that fiction isn't my bag, baby, and scribbling my thoughts and feelings on the Internet is the best use of my passion. I'm not ashamed that blogging is an insanely significant part of my creative identity; it forces me to put a name on my emotions and sort out my feelings, and it helps me connect with others without worrying if my new acquaintenance is paying more attention to my ideas or the zit that just started growing above my upper lip. I learned how to feel comfortable in my own Internet skin.

At the tail end of 2006, I also wet my pants in excitement over unique career opportunities. I've already been asked to conduct a one-hour workshop on blogging for a writing conference at Saint Joe this September, and if the stars align properly, I may even teach semester-long course in the fall. Blogging, it has been good to me, and I am so, so grateful.

While there was great joy in 2006, there were sad moments, too. One of my mother's sisters passed away after a long fight with brain cancer, and just when you think the grief can no longer touch you, you receive a Christmas card with three signatures, a Christmas card that once featured four, and you're reminded of the tangible effects of loss. My favorite aunt received a double whammy this spring as she was diagnosed with both breast cancer and brain cancer, a whammy that ushered her into chemotherapy and radiation and a horrible fear that she wouldn't live to see her eight-year-old daughter grow up. Today, she's almost cancer-free, something nobody in my family expected, but it's happened, and I'm grateful for that, too.

There's no way to predict the course of 2007, but there's no harm in working towards the following:

• Paying off our Cobalt three years ahead of schedule
• Finding a church to call our own
• Continuing to take our health and physical wellness more seriously
• Creating a financial situation that allows me to care for a child without the burden of a nine-to-five
• Counting our blessings, every one, every day

Happy New Year.