What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

Oh, What a Beautiful Wednesday

Oh, what a beautiful day!

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.6
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.6

I knew a loss was coming. After pledging to stop binging for Jesus exactly seven days ago, I've been stepping on the scale every other morning in anticipation of Weight Loss Wednesday, looking for proof that my efforts weren't in vain. Apparently my Lord and Savior is a more effective motivator than being able to button my pants.

There's so much to talk about, and I've been meaning to blog every day since Monday, but for some reason the words aren't coming like I want them to. I've been pleasantly surprised at my ability to exert self-control, to step away from that bag of salt-and-pepper potato chips, box of Git 'Er Done™ chocolates received from well-meaning neighbors, and coveted package of Thin Mints before doing serious damage to my waistline and self-esteem. (This is good news for Luke, who gave up cookies for Lent. Poor Luke!) (Also, how evil are the Girl Scouts for scheduling their deliveries after Ash Wednesday?) The progress hasn't been huge--turning down a third slice of pizza is grand, but it's still pizza, and dude, two slices!--but I'm happy. To make my ten-pound goal more attainable, I'm setting several mini-goals to help me get there. For example: next week I'll aim for an even 134 on the scale. If I'm successful, I'll have lost my first five pounds since moving forward with this whole "Fitness Schmitness" attitude last November. (Well, it would've been five pounds; either way, I'm counting it as a big deal, seeing as my lowest weight thus far's been 135.) And if that happens, there will most definitely be a picture, which might be scary for all of us, seeing as I'm three weeks overdue for a hair cut. March 10th can't come fast enough.

In regards to my Lenten commitments, I've been doing well in that department, too. Last Tuesday I deleted the Monday-through-Friday recording of All My Children from my VCR and took my New American Bible down from its dusty spot on my bookshelf, placing it on top of the cheapie plastic filing cabinet next to my nightstand (on top of Christopher Pike's Spellbound, which I found at Half-Price Books for a quarter and am just now reading for the first time, OMG) so that I'm more likely to pick it up before bed. So far I've touched on the first couple of chapters in Genesis and the beginning of Matthew's gospel (including the introduction), and for the first time, I feel like I'm really thinking about the life Jesus lived and what he went through before he died. Also, with all the religious exploration I've done in the last year, I'm more interested in studying this Good Book as a historical text. I used to think the Bible was just the Bible--one universal table of contents, one agreed-upon translation--when really each denomination embraces a particular version and all of these versions have nuances unique to their sect and oh my gosh, it's a miracle Christianity survived when we all can't even agree on the same damn manual.

Anyway, let's move on to the AMC thing, which, let's face it, is probably what you're really most interested in. Logistically speaking, the not-watching part of it hasn't been hard; since I'm not taping it, and I don't have cable, and not having cable means not having SOAP NET, there's no way to cheat on that one unless I make the twenty-five minute commute back home to plop on my couch and catch up on Zach and Kendall's progress with the Satin Slayer (seriously one of the dumbest storylines this show has ever done but I still want to see Alexander Cambias, Senior brought to justice) in real time. And since making two round trips to work five times a day would put a serious damper on my gas budget, there you go. No AMC.

Giving up the message board, however, hasn't been as simple. Before last Wednesday, I was checking that puppy at least three times an hour, reveling in the latest batch of spoilers and enjoying discussions on controversial plot points, like whether or not Krystal carrying Tad's baby and passing it off as Adam's is just as detestable as her helping Babe keep Bianca's baby for ten months, allowing Bianca to believe that Miranda drowned in a river minutes after her birth (close, but the "your baby's dead" thing still wins). I enjoy reading episode threads maintained by various posters and the lively commentary they provide. Those people have no idea who I am, but lurking on that site has been a fun way to stay connected with a show that in 2004 fast became my favorite form of escapism.

As fellow AMC junkie Dawnie can attest to, committing to a daily program is no easy task; forty-five minutes a day isn't too bad, but when you miss Monday's episode, you spend the length of a movie catching up on Monday and Tuesday. Miss Monday and Tuesday and you're going to start your Wednesday two hours and fifteen minutes in the hole. "I'll just skim through the scenes with JR and Babe and Tad and Krystal and ignore the rest," you think, but suddenly it's twelve-thirty in the morning and you're wondering what the hell happened to your evening, and hey, at what point did your husband go to bed without you?

So this boycott, it's been a good thing. Though I was flipping through the entertainment section of the paper yesterday and accidentally glanced at the weekly soap update. Nothing was revealed I didn't already know, but still, it was enough to peak my interest. AMC, what have you done to me?

In other news, today is the last day of the first month of Luke's and my new budgeting system. More details tomorrow.

Communists, that's who.

Since being asked to teach a blogging class for Saint Joe this fall, I've been on the lookout for material to share with my class. And I've not been disappointed. There was the "10 Things Your Blogger Won't Tell You" article in my first issue of Smart Money magazine, a subscription Luke scored free of charge thanks to his generous accumulation of Coca-Cola bottle caps. The Indianapolis Star recently featured an editorial from a doctor who cautions readers about taking stock in medical advice from bloggers hopping on popular treatment bandwagons without conducting the necessary research. I've stumbled across books on blogging I didn't know existed, and I've taken a new interest in resources and features that normally wouldn't have inspired a second thought.

Like Technorati. I've seen those "Technorati Tags" featured at the foot of someone's entry every now and again, and from what I can gather, it functions as a search engine specifically for the blogging community, monitoring updates and tracking links made from one blog to another. Before I accepted this teaching gig, that level of understanding would've suited me just fine; however, now that I'm charged with introducing ten to twenty undergrads to the most current trends in the blogosphere, I can no longer allow myself to turn a blind eye. So this morning I registered for a Technorati Profile that will enable "spiders" to capture my blog and make the contents searchable to the masses. Part of that process involved posting a link to my profile on my blog, which is the only reason you're seeing an entry from me this fine Saturday afternoon. Because I posted my Tragic Love Friday entry so late in the day yesterday, it's only received six comments so far. I hate the idea of posting a new entry when the previous one hasn't received its fair share of "air time."

Technorati says I can delete this post once they've officially "claimed" my blog, so I may do just that. But probably not, seeing as at this point I've already spent a good thirty minutes online, and dagnabbit if I'm going to let it all be for naught.

Next up: widgets; video (the ones from my wedding don't count, that was all Molly); podcasts (what are your thoughts on hearing Luke perform the theme song I wrote for my short-lived Chicago Chicks Club?); RSS feeds; maintaining a list of blogs to share with my students that vary in style, content, and popularity, the majority of which will probably never earn a spot on my blogroll.

My students better appreciate this come August.

TLF fans, please don't forget about your latest fix. This week is really quite fun. Plus, there's a contest! To win free things! And who doesn't like free things?

Tragic Love Friday and I'm Going To BlogHer WOO HOO

So, in case you weren't following the comments yesterday, BlogHer cofounder Elisa Camahort addressed my concern regarding whether or not this year's Chicago conference would be in an affordable price range, and she laid my fears to rest when she said one could attend both days for around $250, which includes breakfast, lunch, and cocktail appetizers for each day. Her good news was all it took for me to return to BlogHer's Web site, grab the HTML for one of their "I'm going" buttons, and voila! I'm going! Molly and I are going, and Isabel is going, and her BBF HollowSquirrel is going, and did I mention the venue will be Navy Pier? You all remember my connection with the Pier, right? Move outta my way, muthafuckas, because I'm getting myself a salted garlic Parmesan cheese pretzel or two or three, cholesterol be damned, is all I'm saying.

Oh, and also, for those of you worried about my not having an ob/gyn already, I schedule my womanly exams faithfully every December with my general practitioner. I don't care who's down there with my who ha, so long as the ultimate result is a clean bill of health.

On to TLF.

People, we have twenty-two pages left before the sequel, and rather than stretch it out for as long as I can, I'm just going to type in excerpts of normal length so we can move on to bigger and more dramatic storylines. However, before we move on to part two, I'd like to give non-TLF readers a chance to join in on the fun without having to spend an hour or two reading the archives to catch up on what they've missed. So I'm hosting a little contest. Whoever writes the best Tragic Love Friday synopsis will win their very own copy of...

Beverly Hills, 90210: The First Season. What better way to pay homage to TLF's theme of love, betrayal, and batshit-insane teenage antics then with the gang that started it all?

All participants will receive a little something for their efforts, which will be equally fabulous but about thirty dollars cheaper.

The winning review will include character descriptions of our main players, summarize all major plot points (how you choose to work in this information will be entirely up to you), and feature a word count no longer than an average TLF post. It also has to be funny as hell so non-TLF readers will be persuaded to hop on the part two bandwagon. Submissions must be turned in by the Wednesday after part one's last excerpt is posted, which should happen in the next few weeks. Don't stress out too much over spelling and grammar, as I promise to fix typos, missing words, and the like. I will NOT edit sentence structure or overall content. That's all you, sugar.

Please tell me you think this is a fun idea. In the meantime, we've got a baby to find!

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN - KAYLA

I woke up to the sound of my bar door being opened loudly. I glanced at the small clock at the foot of my bed. 8:30 A.M. I jumped out of bed and found myself staring into the eyes of 2 police officers. "Kayla Evans, we have to give you some bad news," one of them said, looking grim. I shook my head. "Whatever it is can wait. A nurse should be bringing my baby here to be fed. She SHOULD have been here an hour ago."

[You know, because babies fewer than three weeks don't really care when they eat. They're breezy!]

"At 12:27 A.M. last night, Katherine Marie Evans, your daughter, was reported missing from the prison's nursery."

[So she's probably still hungry, then.]

"No," I whispered. "You must be mistaken." I felt my legs turn to jello. One of the officers noticed my wariness and grabbed my arm. "It's all true. Now sit down so we can ask you some questions."

My head started to spin. I stumbled and fell on my bed. My vision started to blur. I was vaguely aware of the officers in the room. They ignored my condition and started firing questions at me.

[For this scene, I like to imagine Kayla throwing herself dramatically on the mattress while the cops roll their eyes and uncap their Bic pens. Honestly, what some people will do for attention!]

"Do you have any idea of who could have taken the infant? Have you any enemies? Or," the policeman asked, raising his eyebrows, "did you arrange the whole thing?"

[Dun dun dun!]

It took all my willpower to keep myself from knocking him out. "I love my baby," I sobbed. "I would never hurt her. How can you accuse me of such a thing?"

"Because you started receiving visitors the week of the baby's birth, and then suddenly she's gone," he snapped.

[Oooh, good point. Nice job, lil' Frema!]

"Believe me, I would never--"

"Shut up!" he shouted. "How can I believe you? You, who killed your lover and attempted to murder his pregnant fiance! She lost her baby. Why should I think that you care about yours?" He shook his head in disgust, and motioning to the other officer, they left me alone.

[So, now that I've berated the kidnapped baby's mother and thrown out wild accusations, I'll just be on my way. Nothing to see here!]

I cried for a long time. When I finally calmed down, my thoughts wandered to the welfare of my child. Was Katherine being fed? I breastfeed her. How would she react to formula? Was she even alive? Why did the kidnapper take MY baby?

The kidnapper. Who was it? They had to know the set up of the building. First chance I got, I'd call Jenna and we could--

A terrible thought occured to me. [And the lightbulb finally goes off!] I banged on my door, yelling, "Guard! Guard!"

He came running. "What is it?"

My hands were shaking. "I - I need to make a phone call." He raised an eyebrow. "You're only allowed one call a day. You sure you want to make it this early?"

[Maybe you'd rather, I don't know, SHARE YOUR SUSPICIONS WITH THE POLICE.]

"Yes." We went to the phones, and I punched in Jenna's number. Her mother picked up on the first ring. "Hello?" I asked. "Is - is Jenna there?"

"Kayla? She's gone," her mom angerily said, sobbing. "Food, clothes, and our biggest butcher knife is gone. Don't you dare call again, you murderer!" The line went dead.

[And Mrs. Meddows is the proud recipient of today's Random Dialogue of the Week Award!]

I took a deep breath and screamed. I pulled at my hair. The guard tried to hold me down, but I pulled away. "No!" I screamed. "She took my baby!"

He slapped me then, and I felt the world fade away as I collapsed to the floor.

[More violence against women. Cassie's probably got two black eyes by now.]

[Also, Lifetime? Feel free to approach me about a movie script at any time.]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - JENNA

My eyelids fluttered. Rolling my head from side to side to loosen the stiffness in my neck [your mom's got a stiffness!], I glanced sleepily at Katherine, who had nestled comfortably in my lap, and then at Michael, who was still driving. He looked like he would fall asleep at the wheel. I reached out and squeezed his shoulder affectionately. [A little lower, Jenna, a little lower....] "Hey there, angel. I think it's time for you to catch some Z's, don't you?" He smiled at me and yawned. "Don't worry about me, Doll. I'm fine. We crossed the border into Wisconsin a few hours ago."

[What? Doesn't everyone drive through Wisconsin to get to Iowa? Clearly geography was not my best subject in school.]

"Really? That's great." I took a look at my wristwatch. 9:00 A.M. I wiggled into an upright position. "Katherine should be wanting to eat soon."

[Sweetie, if Katherine hasn't eaten since she left the prison, she's probably dead. No need to rush.]

"I fed her already," Michael replied, his eyes on the road. "She woke up crying an hour ago, so I just threw together a bottle for her [one-handed, while driving]. A while later, she went back to sleep."

"I didn't know you knew anything about babies," I said, surprised.

"Sure. I have lots of younger cousins."

I stared at my companion's profile as we drove on. He was very cute, in a different way. [So now Clark Kent's not good enough for you? For cripe's sake, Jenna.] He was built, and he had wavy black hair that fell over his right eye. He also wore wire-rimmed glasses.

Michael was a great guy, but the girls I knew at school labeled him a do-gooder. [Don't worry, the kidnapping charges will take care of that!] He didn't date much. Sometimes I felt sorry for him; you could tell he was lonely.

A little while later, we came across a local drugstore. "Let's stop in," Mike suggested. I agreed. "We can't both go in with the baby, though. We'll be noticed." I ruffled his hair playfully. "You need a disguise, too."

I went in first. I felt like a spy as I purchased a baseball cap and a pair of black sunglasses similar to mine, and a few bottles of mineral water. I ran to the car and stopped in my tracks. Michael had his back turned towards me. Peering through the window, I saw him tickle Katherine; she made sounds that seemed like laughter. He said something I couldn't quite hear, and she laughed again. I smiled. Michael would make a good father someday. A good husband, too.

[Hello, Foreshadowing, my old friend...]

I tapped on the window. Startled, he gathered the smiling baby in his arms and opened the door. "Having fun?" I asked.

He looked embarassed to have been found playing with the little girl. "She needed a clean diaper," he said, blushing. I smiled and gave him the thumbs-up sign. "Sure, Mike. I believe you." I took Katherine from him and gave him the bag. "Here's your disguise. The water's for the baby." He nodded and got out of the car. "I bought everything. You don't have to go in," I said. He grinned.

"Nature calls."

Five minutes later, we were on the road again, only this time I was driving while Michael fell asleep with Katherine in his arms. I sighed. Michael didn't hesitate to join Katherine and me on our "journey." He must really care about what happens to me. I didn't deserve such a great friend.

[If she were a real person, I'd happily give her a second slap for being so damn blind.]

For the first time I thought about Kayla. She must be going out of her mind, I thought, but I wasn't as happy as I thought I would be. She didn't know if her baby was alive, dead, or being taken care of properly. [Kayla also wouldn't be thrilled at the thought of her daughter cruising around Wisconsin with her head in another man's crotch, but that's neither here nor there, I suppose.] I felt a pain in my heart as I thought of Mary Katherine, lying beneath 6 feet of dirt. My baby was gone because of the hatred Kayla felt for me.

Tears welled in my eyes, and I reached out and touched Katherine's cheek. She stirred and opened her eyes, giving me a curious stare. [Probably wishing this crazy woman would just leave her the hell alone to dehydrate in peace.] I pulled the car over and took her in my arms. Her mouth formed in a tiny O. As I held her to me, I thought of my actions. I had kidnapped my ex-best friend's baby. Even though I told myself I hated Kayla, I found myself rationalizing her actions. Yes, she made love to my fiance, but it was obvious that she'd never stopped loving him. And she didn't demand anything from David until she found out she was pregnant.

I hated to admit it, but I missed Kayla; I missed the girl who used to be my best friend. When had things changed?

When I started dating her ex-boyfriend.

I was crying. My body shook, and I began to wonder what I was doing. I was hurting my...my best friend. Michael's words came to my mind:

"'Make peace with Kayla, and yourself so you can go on with your life! If you leave with that baby, it'll never be over!"

God, how I wanted the pain to be over. As I gazed at Katherine, she smiled, showing me her toothless gums. Oh, I loved this baby like it was my own. It had just taken one look at her and she was in my heart. It would be like losing another child when I gave her back to Kayla.

But I knew that's what I had to do.

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Happy Friday, everyone!

Giving You the Best That I Got, Which Isn't Much Today

In snippet form:

This morning I saw my general practitioner for the second time in seven days to see how the urinary tract infection I've been suffering from all month responded to the antibiotics. While everything appears to be in tip-top shape, I'm still running to the bathroom every eight seconds, so he prescribed a second round of meds to treat any lingering effects. UTIs are nothing new to me; I've gotten at least one a year since my sophomore year in college, most likely due to the fact that I don't get thirsty very often, I'm afraid a liberal intake of fluids will result in bathroom overload, and I hate the logistics of leaving my office, marching down the corridor, and going through the whole depants-pee-handwash routine twelve times a day. Of course, this eventually guarantees that I'll leave my office, march down the corridor, and go through the whole depants-pee-handwash routine twelve times a day, only with a sharp pain in my bladder and a heightened sense of urgency. My plan, she's not working so well.

During my visit, the doctor and I talked about how Luke and I plan on actively trying for children soon and discussed the importance of finding an ob/gyn now, so I have time to interview different practitioners and determine which one will be the best fit. Besides abandoning artifical birth control last year, this is the biggest step I've taken to acknowledge that I (hopefully) (some day) will become a mother. For some reason, it's freaking me the eff out. Any suggestions of questions to ask when putting these MDs in the hot seat?

My much-anticipated Big Love season one, disc one DVD came in the mail on Tuesday and I popped it in last night, as Luke is away on business and completely uninterested in watching the life of a closet polygamist unfold on the small screen. Thirty seconds into the opening credits I already loved it, knew it would be a work of art, and spent the next two hours learning about the marital interworkings of Bill and Barb, Bill and Nicki, and Bill and Margene.

Storywise, it's fascinating, watching this man juggle three different families and serve as a referee of sorts in the family's interactions with each other. It's also disturbing; Margene, his youngest wife, can't be older than twenty-two, and the way they communicate reminds me more of a father/daughter relationship (minus all the sex, of course) ("Oral is moral!") instead of one in which each partner is on equal footing. (One might argue that women involved in plural marriages aren't looking for equality, but that's a post for another day.) And I can't help feeling for Barb, who spent ten years of her life with a man in a committed, monogamous union before talks of a second wife began. How betrayed she must have felt; how heartbroken she must have been to know her husband was interested in adding another woman to their family.

I don't know if watching this show will be a good idea for me in the long run, but I plan on plowing through a few more episodes, maybe even the entire first season, before I make a final decision.

BlogHer '07 is fast approaching, and updates regarding theme, location, and seminar topics are showing up more frequently in my Gmail inbox. One tiny fact that has yet to be revealed: the freakin' cost. When perusing the list of upcoming conferences, I noticed that BlogHer's business extravaganza in New York City is running for a whopping six hundred and ninety-nine dollars. The hell?! What middle-class Jane Doe can afford to drop a grand in conference and travel fees at a moment's notice? I'm hoping and praying the Chicago shindig is more reasonably priced, seeing as the majority of women who blog either do so without the benefit of financial compensation or generate meager sales from ad revenue and/or shopping paraphernalia. With Luke and I working so hard to get into a house this summer, I can't in good conscience do anything to jeporadize that. However, the possibility of not going makes me very, very sad. Maybe I can talk to Saint Joe about shouldering some of the costs--you know, for academic research!

When the nurse weighed me this morning, I registered at an even 133, even with my clothes on. So apparently I lost four-point-eight pounds in twenty-four hours. I could get used to (delusions like) this.

Yesterday I realized that, whenever I say my blog title in my head, I'm totally doing a throw-back to Biff from Back to the Future, in the scene where he grabs the fifties version of George McFly by the collar in their high school cafeteria and snarls "What're you lookin' at, butthead?" to an onlooking Marty McFly. That'll be a fun story to share at dinner parties.

Double-Duty Wednesday

I was pretty sneaky last week, huh? Going on about my teenage years and former flames, parental trials and tribulations, basking in the afterglow of the Internet's sympathy, all the while ignoring the white elephant that was Weight Loss Wednesday.

I didn't skip out completely--I did submit myself to the unforgiving nature of the scale, and I was neither pleased nor surprised with the one-point-two extra pounds of insulation I seemed to have accumulated watching all those DVDs from Blockbuster Online.

Things aren't much better this week:

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.8

Apparently skipping out on my after-dinner ice cream indulgence last night was just enough to register a loss this morning. Go me.

After work yesterday I abandoned the business-casual khakis I wore to the office and slipped into a pair of my favorite NY&C jeans, and I was horrified to realize how tight they felt in the thigh. I could still button them without cutting off circulation to my brain and legs, but it wasn't a comfortable fit, and I didn't make it further than watching Monday's episode of Heroes before I was rummaging through my dresser drawers, searching for my favorite draw-string pajama pants, pants that probably deserve an Honorable Mention in my hypothetical top five, so often are we together.

As I mull over another week of missed opportunities to become a stronger, healthier person, I also remember that today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, the first of forty days (forty-six, actually, thanks Wikipedia!) spent in preparation for Jesus's death on the Cross and subsequent resurrection. I can remember going to church after school with my mother as a kid to receive my yearly thumbing of ashes, contemplating a suitable sacrifice to show my thanks, which usually turned out to be something like cookies or chocolate (Chips Ahoy products being the ultimate tester, Mom loved to keep a package in the freezer) and I never made it past week two. Since stumbling blindly into adulthood, I can't remember making any Lenten offerings, but this year, in light of all that's taken place in my spiritual journey and how truly blessed I feel to enjoy this stage of my life with such a wonderful person, I think I have a special responsibiltiy to do something outside of myself, something to show God how appreciative I am for everything He's given me, which includes the body I spend so much time picking apart.

I complain and complain and complain about my rolly-polly belly, my alarmingly round face, my flabby back fat, and yet I continue to gorge myself on cookies and candy and handfuls of shredded cheese when I'm supposed to be washing pots and pans. I'm not thirteen pounds overweight because of a slow metabolism or gestating baby, but rather a lack of self control, and I've been so angry with myself for caring more about snacks than the importance of maintaining a healthy weight. It's not right, especially when I have an actual condition to control. In addition to wanting to be around for my husband and our future children for decades of years to come, I have an obligation to God to make smarter choices with this body He created specifically for me.

So, during this season of reflection, every time I reach for that bag of Keebler Fudge Stripes, every time I think of diving into a mountain of berry rainbow sherbet, I will remember what God has done for me and and treat my body with more respect. I will think before I open the pantry door. And I will remember that my spinach-dip recipe doesn't really need a full cup of Parmesan cheese. (Ah, cheese, both friend and foe!)

I am also giving up All My Children. What, you didn't think I'd take the easy way out, did you?

Since I've been dragging my feet over the weight-loss thing for such a long time, and since it's actually a personal benefit to slim down and eat better, it didn't seem right to offer my harmful caloric intake to God. I thought it would be more of a sacrifice to cut out a vice, something I genuinely love and encounter on a regular basis but doesn't add to my quality of life. Luke suggested spinach dip, but since I only pig out on a batch once or twice a month, that didn't work, either. Then he suggested my blog, and I laughed hysterically. AMC it is.

I also wanted to make a positive commitment during this time and settled on reading some part of the Bible every day. I like hearing scripture readings during church services, and though I studied scripture in high school and college, I don't remember a lot of what I learned, so I'm looking forward to reaquainting myself with the Good Book.

There's still one week to go before March, but already I'm experiencing a new beginning.

Tragic Love Friday

So. Apparently you all were shocked by my teenage willingness to mention human reproductive organs in poems calling attention to the spiritual consequences of infant abuse. I have to say, the others were quite jealous of all the attention "Stupid Mommies" received, throwing around phrases like "show off" and "special treatment" and "I thought the Mrs. Fletcher bit was HILARIOUS. She was gipped, I tell you, gipped!"

But that's all in the past, and as I post today's TLF installment, I indirectly continue my theme of highlighting my adolescent works of "art." Too bad I couldn't just scan in all of these pages and submit them to Cringe Book, eh?

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CHAPTER TWELVE - MICHAEL

I was heading towards my room, looking forward to a good night's sleep when the doorbell rang. I hurried to the door and unlocked it quickly, so it wouldn't wake my parents. There stood a woman with short red hair holding a sleeping infant in her arms. "Jenna, is that you?"

She nodded, and I motioned her in. She sat on the couch. I followed her, mesmerized by her sudden and different appearance. "I just came to say good-bye," she said softly.

"What? Good-bye?" I rubbed my eyes and finally realized that Jenna was holding Katherine, Kayla's daughter. [What the hell did you think it was, Michael? Her Cabbage Patch?] I felt sick to my stomache. She had kidnapped her.

"Don't leave," I said.

"You know I can't stay here, Mike," she said and started to cry. I took Katherine from her. "Why, Jenna? Why did you take her?"

She looked around the room sadly with those big green eyes that broke my heart. "I--I...I can't be alone. You know I was never happy unless someone was with me."

I shook my head. "You're lying to me, and to yourself. Just admit it: you did it for revenge." She stood up and glared at me. "So what if I did? You don't know me, Michael Spencer. You don't know the pain I'm going through, or the anguish I feel when I wake up in the morning! Two parts of my life were taken away when Kayla hit David and me. [Except you weren't hit, remember, sweetie?] You don't understand! You never can!!"

That did it! I laid the sleeping baby on the couch [car seats and bassinets are SO overrated] and slapped Jenna's face, good and hard! She let out a small cry and raised a hand to her cheek. "The hell I don't!" I yelled.

"Michael? Michael, what's going on?" I heard my mother call from upstairs. "Nothing, Ma," I called back. "It's just the T.V."

[Nothing, Ma. Just smacking around the woman of my dreams!]

[Also, if I'd been just a few years older at the time of this writing, Jenna would've slapped him back, you know, to even the score, and after a moment of mutual heavy panting, grabbed him by the base of his neck and kissed him passionately. They would've ripped each other's clothes off, fallen down to the carpet, and come together in a spontaneous round of hair-pulling, grunt-inducing Angry Sex, giving Katherine an inside look into how babies are made.]

I lowered my voice. "The hell I don't," I repeated. "I do know you, Jenna. I know you better than you know yourself. No, I can't imagine your pain, but it's over now! Make peace with Kayla and yourself so you can go on with your life! If you leave with that baby, it'll never be over!"

[First the prison speech and now this. Man, Mikey's just knockin' em right out of the park!]

There was silence for a few minutes. Then I ran upstairs. "Where are you going?" she whispered.

"With you," I said. In my room, I got out my gym bag and threw in clothes from my drawers. I put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. My wallet had 50 dollars. I put it in my back pocket. Taking the bag, I snuck into my parents' room. I went through my dad's wallet and found 350 dollars. [Because of course adults carry this much cash on their person at all times. They're adults!] I gave them one last glance and ran back downstairs. "Let's go," I said. "You don't have to go," Jenna said in a hard tone. "I'll be fine without you."

"How about Katherine? Do you have a car seat for her?" She shook her head. [Now Michael is Mr. Mom?] "And what about money?" I asked. "How much money do you have?" By the surprised expression on her face, I could tell she hadn't remembered to bring any. "Come on," I pleaded softly. "Let's go." Jenna hugged the infant to her chest and together we walked to her car. She gave me the keys and got into the passenger's seat without a word.

First, I got the car's gas tank filled. I had been driving for a half an hour when I decided to break the ice. "Where do you want to go?" I asked. "We could always go to the prison and--"

"No," Jenna cried.

"OK, OK. Where then?"

"Iowa," she said dreamily. "It's such a pretty place. Very peaceful."

[Clever strategy, Jenna. The police would never think to search for a missing baby one state over!]

"Have you ever been there?" I asked.

"Mmhm. My grandparents used to live there a few years ago."

"What happened to them?"

"They died."

"I'm sorry," I said suddenly.

"Don't be. They died a long time ago."

"Not about that. I'm sorry I hit you." I took my eyes off the road for a minute and stared at her intensely [aka "creepily"].

"It's OK," she replied after a minute. "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. You don't deserve to be yelled at by a bitch like me." [But you deserve to be slapped? Low self-esteem, anyone?] She smiled. "Your my guardian angel, remember?"

I shuddered as I drove on. How could I tell her that I wasn't the angel she made me out to be? That I was the one who brought up David's old feelings for Kayla, so maybe he'd go back to her and I could have Jenna all to myself?

She could never know, I thought. If she did, I would lose her.

That was something I couldn't bear.

[OK, it was a crappy thing, but not really the big deal Michael thinks it is. David was clearly looking for excuses to get it on with Kayla, and even though he never admitted his love for her beyond their one-night stand, and even though we never hear Jenna's thoughts on the affair, I think a part of her knows she and David never would've worked out; that if he were still alive today, he'd probably be with Kayla. Maybe that's why she takes the baby, because she couldn't live in her own skin knowing Kayla had "won."]

[Also, Michael's "encouragement" never does come out, in this book or the sequel. I really wasn't very smart.]

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A shorter excerpt today, but I'd really like us to savor this time we have together, and that's not going to happen if I share more than a few pages at a time. However, the sequel is longer, lustier, and even MORE inappropriate. There's even incest! V.C. Andrews would've been so proud.

Indulge me, dear readers. What would you like to see happen in the sequel?

We're sending help immediately, Mrs. Fletcher

Yesterday, as I was packing up my journals and trying to get over the embarrassment of exposing my teenage desperation to the World Wide Web, I noticed the stack of faded notebook pages sitting on top of my filing box, pages that had immediately come to mind the first time I heard about the Cringe Book. I kept my journal entries "private" as promised, but I did submit several poems that highlight my ability to talk about a variety of important subjects.

The importance of optimism (and my inability to accept Randy Wooten as the boy of my dreams):

The proper way to implement religious metaphors:

And a very merry day to you, too!

How to work popular advertising into deep and meaningful verse:

The dark side of important family/social-justice issues (also, examples of words to rely on when you can't think of anything that rhymes with "sick"):

And lastly, proof that it IS possible to listen to Jewel's Pieces of You album one time too many:

All of these were submitted to the book for Sarah Brown's consideration. I'm confident they'll inspire a happier kind of cringing than my journals did, cringing that won't thrust a desire to slit one's wrists upon the masses.

It's Important to Share Exquisite Pain with the Ones You Love

I don't think I'm cut out for this whole Cringe Book thing.

This morning I ditched the office again so I could continue to sift through journal entries documenting my tortured past and submit the most awkward ones for possible inclusion in a book that'll be publicized on a national level. And when I first pulled those books out, it was fun. I'd shriek with delight over each memory and eagerly shove a diary into Luke's hands so he could read passages aloud in his best little-Frema voice. Oh, the days when life's biggest problems included agonizing over which New Kid to pine for!

However, as I moved on to my pre-teen years and straight into full-blown adolescence, it became harder and harder to laugh.

I've written enough about Nick--The One Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, the boy who happily accepted my offer of virginity before I took off for college, the guy I obsessed over for FIVE YEARS--on this Web site that the following entries don't need much backstory. The first one was written on February 6, 1996, almost four months after we broke up for the first time.

See how "grade" I was doing? So what if I was afraid to leave the house in case I missed a potential phone call? Who cares I was creating elaborate schemes to make secret contact with the boy who plainly told me I needed to be with someone else, or that I included phrases like "exquisite pain" in my vocabulary?

We got back together that June, but by August we were fighting again. Break-up number two involved confessions of drug use, theft, and contact with another girl in a nearby suburb, with a big "Fuck you!" from me as he fled the scene as fast as his legs could carry him. By spring of my senior year, we were dancing around each other again. We went to prom. We did the Deed. And in between, there were missed phone calls, week-long absences, and awkward conversations about "where this is going." Just like before.

So when I read the entry below, written just days after admitting to my part in our Horizontal Tango (in such detail that I made myself blush, and I wrote the damn thing), I really do physically cringe.

Page 2:

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl! I can't believe how stupid. I was preparing to spend the rest of my life with someone who chipped away at my self-esteem time and time again just to rid myself of religious guilt. Because God would've much preferred me to commit to a man prematurely rather than just call a spade a spade and let him go. Classic flawed logic--like when I was debating sex in the first place and thought we shouldn't use a condom because the Catholic church is against artifical contraception. A+, Frema. Well done.

I read these entries and can't decide which is worse: that I let myself get so wrapped up in a relationship before I was ready to stand behind my beliefs or that one day I might have a daughter who feels the same way and I will have to watch her suffer the same way my parents watched me. I was so angry with them, especially my mother, who I often yelled at for not having enough trust in me to make good decisions, right before I ran to Nick's house and spent four hours on the smelly mattress in his bedroom pretending to watch Die Hard. I was in control! I knew when to stop! And when I finally gave in completely, I still believed I knew what I was doing. It was my body! My choice! Who was she to tell me what to do?

I think about having similar arguments with children of my own when they're that age and I'm petrified. I'm in awe my mother was able to restrain herself from popping me in the mouth.  I wonder how many nights my father had to comfort her to sleep because I was so quick to declare my independence, so cocky as I threw her teenage pregnancy in her face and informed her how much smarter I was, how I was determined to live a different life than the one she'd panned out for herself. I acted like her advice couldn't possibly have value because I didn't want to admit how self-destructive it was for me to insist on staying with Nick, refusing to "give up" even when he wanted me to. As wrong as he was for me, he wasn't a bad person. He gave me plenty of outs, and if I'd told him to stay the hell away from me, he would've done it. It was me who kept going back, enticing him to come back, making excuses for his behavior so I wouldn't have to think about life without him.

I'm glad I gave this Cringe Book a shot. I'm glad that I'm twenty-seven years old with a wonderful husband (who celebrates his thirty-third birthday today, Happy Birthday, sweetie!) and insanely understanding parents. I'm glad I wrote these entries because the act of putting my feelings to paper was sometimes the only way I could get a handle on my emotions. But I'll also be glad to pack these books up and retire them to my closet again. Refusing to share them out of context with a mass of strangers (I refuse to think of you guys as strangers) will be the Valentine's Day present I give to myself.

A Winter and Financial Wonderland

Indianapolis currently has its undies in a bundle over the snowfall that began late yesterday and is expected to shower the state's capitol with five to twelve inches of snow by tonight. Last week three inches of the white stuff turned my twenty-five-minute work commute into an hour-and-a-half nightmare, so I've decided to boycott the office today. Which means I can lounge around in my Peace Frog pajama bottoms, catch up on Monday's AMC, flip through the bajillion books* that have accumulated around my nightstand, and cringe over childhood and adolescent ramblings from days of old. Also possibly do The Track to "SexyBack." On a snow day, anything is possible.

I will also be recovering from Saturday's unveiling of our January Visa statement. A whopping two thousand six hundred and forty-one dollars and fifty-one cents worth of statement. Somebody grab me a bucket, because just typing this challenges my ability to keep the butter-and-jelly English muffin I just wolfed down--well, down.

Some of the charges are legitimate, like the five hundred bucks for my implant because my health savings account was short and the hundred and forty smackers I shelled out to update my plates a whopping year and a half after my move to this circular city. We also purchased a new digital camera, a camera we were eventually going to buy anyway but were "inspired" to do so last month after Luke's work one was damaged during his trip to California, because who isn't motivated by an employer's potential wrath over a cross-country business trip's lack of productivity?

These were costly necessities. However, I'm positive that the five hundred and eighty-five dollars we spent at Super Target between January 2nd and February 1st weren't all for milk, chicken, and vegetables, because otherwise I'd be much more depressed over Weight Loss Wednesday. That is the same number I write on our RENT CHECK, people. With all those "groceries" lying around the house, you'd think we avoided restaurants like the plague, but we still managed to rack up two hundred and eighty-three dollars and sixteen cents on activities of the eating-out variety. I'm truly embarrassed over how careless we've been with our money, because even though we cover our bills and remember to "pay ourselves first," that's no reason to be wasteful.

It used to be much easier to commit to a budget. Before Luke started working, I would diligently write out our expenses for each pay check two months in advance and estimate how much we'd have left for miscellaneous items like a parent's birthday or routine oil change. When Luke landed his job, we electronically deposited his entire check into savings with the hopes of paying off the Cobalt by spring. However, after penny-pinching for almost a year, we thought it might be fun to allot ourselves some play money and transferred a small portion of his take-home pay into our checking account. Then we went to the dentist and learned it would take the price of an arm and a leg to pull out Luke's wisdom teeth and accommodate some minor gum surgery and replace my extracted molar and botched crown, so we re-designated our funds to funnel half my check into the HSA and half of Luke's into checking to offset the difference. Because we're paid on alternate Fridays, we were suddenly getting checks every week, and because I'm not very smart, I stopped budgeting expenses and just paid the bills as they came in, not stressing over twenty-five dollar trips to the Original Pancake House until we had to withdraw the entire amount of this damn bill from savings. We spent that. damn. much.

On Sunday night, Luke and I sat ourselves down and, for the first time, actually did the math to figure out how much house we can afford on one income and what kind of down payment we can realistically expect to cough up by August in order to make a purchase by the end of the summer. We created a monthly spreadsheet template to track our spending and categorized our receipts into envelopes labeled for each week of the month, making them easier to record. We signed up for Blockbuster Online's ten-dollar monthly plan to provide ourselves with cheap entertainment. We're still jabbering on about buying a state park pass so we can hit the trails once all this damn snow stops falling and the long underwear can once again find a permanent home in our chest of drawers. And once again, we thanked God for being blessed with the financial means to correct our mistakes and move on with a smarter attitude.

Now, if you're so inclined, please suggest some movies we can add to our Blockbuster queue, even though we've made close to twenty selections already, because seriously, it's so much easier to pick a movie online than it is in the store. We can stand in front of the New Release section for a good half-hour, hemming and hawing over this title or that, because we so rarely rented movies before that we experienced a debilitating case of performance anxiety; who knew when we'd have another opportunity to spend four dollars on the first disc of the first season of Big Love**?

* Don't get crazy over all those pregnancy books. They've been handed down to me by Molly, who's very encouraging on the baby-making front.

** My pick, not Luke's. I'm strangely fascinated by polygamy.

*** This doesn't relate to anything, but did you know that the first season of She-Ra (Princess of Power!) is out on DVD? I'm so adding this to the queue.

Tragic Love Friday with a Side of Cringe

When Dooce first brought Sarah Brown's Cringe Book project to light last month, I instinctively knew I had to be a part of it, or at the very least try. I received my first combination-lock diary for Christmas when I was nine years old, and I spent the next ten years documenting the highs and lows of my tortured existence through prose, poetry, and song. Discussion topics ranged from my passionate (one-sided) love affair with a local parishoner at Sunday morning Mass and who will be forever known as Church Boy to the day my cousin threw shreds of toilet paper at the bathroom door while I sat defenseless on the john to the first time a boy's tongue found its way into my mouth. I was the Queen of Cringe; to confine those gems to the pages of my college-ruled notebooks and hardcover journals would be a crime against the blogosphere. So I pulled out my tupperware bin containing the chronicles of my past and jumped right in.

I expected to laugh at the reliving of celebrity crushes, pre-teen angst, and my first French. But I didn't expect to feel so sad.

It's those high school entries, covering a time where I was struggling to grasp what love was, what friendship was, what it meant to nurse a broken heart, that get me the most. It's through those entries I'm transported back to November 14, 1995, to the abandoned field outside the 35th and Archer Elevated train station where Nick broke up with me for the first time; to August 9, 1998, when my mother and I had a two-hour blow-out because she'd found my diary and learned that I'd had sex. I wrote about everything in such detail that I can't help putting myself back in those shoes, during a time period where I had no clue how to set boundaries or stick up for myself or get through a bad day. I'm not just cringing; I'm cradling my head in my hands.

However, I can still see the merit in sharing a few of these stories, because as painful as those experiences were, they were also universal, and they're still funny, because I was so damn My So-Called Life-ish about everything. So I'll continue to delve through these masterpieces and attempt to share some in time for the February 14th deadline.

As if this post weren't tragic enough, it's time for another installment of TLF. Try not to sigh over the Angela Chaseness of it all.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN - JENNA (CONTINUED)

I went back to the prison and straightened things out with Kayla the following day. We talked for a while, and I asked a lot of questions about Katherine and the setup of the prison and infant wing. She answered each question in detail. I revealed very little about myself. [Just because Kayla killed Jenna's baby and was prompted for intimate details regarding the facility's security enforcements and her daughter's feeding schedule doesn't mean J's bonding attempts are anything but sincere!]

Just yesterday, a woman brought in Katherine to be fed. [I like the wording of that line, as if eating were an occasional pastime, like going to the park.] Kayla avoided my eyes as she fed and fussed over the child. I studied closely the way Kayla treated her baby; the way she soothed her cries and made her smile. It still hurt to see the baby, but I promised myself that I wouldn't cry. She'll be in your arms soon, I told myself silently. [OK, Jenna's inquiry on how to obtain expressed breast milk was a little odd, but still. BFFs!]

After I left prison, I went to 'Barb's Beauty Palace' and had my waist-length hair cut so it rested just above my shoulders. I considered getting it dyed while I was there, but I vetoed the idea. A woman there could identify me too easily. I went to the local drugstore and bought baby wipes, baby bottles, formula, a couple of baby toys, and a bag of diapers. [And she's worried about her hair color raising suspicion?] I picked up red hair dye for myself.

At home I applied the dye to my hair. The box said it had to sit on my hair for a half hour. During that time, I packed a suitcase for myself. It contained 2 changes of clothes, some toiletries and, as an afterthought, the largest butcher knife in the house. Just in case, I told myself. [You know, like if the baby tries to talk back or call the cops.] Then I set my alarm for 10:00 P.M. and fell asleep with dreams of the future in my head.

[It wasn't until the mention of hair dye that I remembered my mental image of Jenna changed at this point from Finola Hughes to a young Laura Leighton, aka Sydney from Melrose Place. I thought she was absolutely stunning. Also, God I loved Melrose Place.]

* * *

RING!!!!

I hit my alarm and fell out of bed. It was time to get ready.

I hopped in the shower for a while. I got out and put on black jeans and an oversize black sweater. I brushed my hair and let it fall on my shoulders. I gazed into the mirror.

The changes in my hair made me look drastically different. The red hair looked natural, and the color brought out the green in my eyes. I looked like a new person.

I put the suitcase in the backseat of my car, then went back inside. I grabbed my jacket and threw bags of pretzels into a small plastic bag. [In case you didn't notice, I was obsessed with recording every. single. detail. of my characters' appearances and actions. I'm surprised I didn't outline the intensity of their bowel movements.] I slipped black glasses on my face for the finishing touch. I ran into the car and turned on the engine, giggling. I felt (and looked) like the Terminator.

[Growing up, my entire household was in love with Arnold Schwartzenegger and his portrayal of America's favorite cyborg who rocked the casbah with his black leather jacket and once steriod-induced pecks. My mother taped the first movie for us when it aired on cable, but it wasn't until I was an adult that I realized she had conveniently paused the recording during Kyle and Sarah's romp in the motel. I did think it interesting that they went from making out to tying their shoe laces, but it was the eighties, for cripe's sake. What did they know about editing?]

It was 11:30 when I reached the Prison, and I wasn't smiling anymore. My heart was pounding like crazy. What was I doing? How could I even think about taking someone's child?

Because her mother took mine. [This line was originally written as follows: "Because her mother doesn't deserve her. I could give her a better life, a life that she wouldn't spend visiting her screw-up of a mother behind bars." I'm not sure why I scratched it out.]

With newfound determination, I took the butcher knife out of the suitcase, pressed it to my side, and quietly walked into the prison. [If the guards ask, I'll just tell 'em I was making a sandwich! Who doesn't eat their turkey on wheat with the crusts cut off?]

The jail was brightly lit up, and a small man stood at the desk. He looked old, like someone's grandfather. I discretly slid the knife blade-up inside my jeans, covering it up with my sweater. [How does one "discretly" shove a sharp object down their pants? No pun intended, of course.] Limping, I walked up to him. "Hi," I said, smiling weakly. "I'm here to visit Kayla Evans."

He gave me a smile. "It's late, young lady," he said kindly but firmly. "Can't it wait?"

I managed to squeeze a few tears. They clouded up my vision through the glasses. "Oh, please," I begged. [She's still wearing the glasses? Some anonymous woman comes staggering into jail after hours wearing all black and security isn't the least bit alarmed? Jenna must have some grade-A boobies.] He softened [or should I say hardened?] and held on to my arm lightly. "OK. Let's go." He had forgotten to search me, and for that I was grateful. [Another missed opportunity on behalf of a lust-filled man.] He glanced at the metal detector. "I don't need to turn that on to check you, do I?"

"Oh, no sir," I said, shaking my head innocently. "You can trust me."

[In one of my Nancy Drew books, Nancy took on a suspect's identity and weasled out of signing a credit card slip by feigning a hand cramp. Which means this scenario is totally plausible in fiction.]

We went up a flight of stairs, and we started to walk down the hall towards Kayla's cell. A guard was at the end of the hall, his back facing us. "You should go back to the desk. I can go the rest of the way," I whispered.

He smiled. "OK. Bye now." I tiptoed quietly towards the guard until the deskman was out of sight. Then I walked quietly back to the stairway and made a left turn. I found myself staring into the window of the prison's nursery.

The nurse sat in a chair inside by the door. She was snoring, and her head was against the door. [Your tax dollars hard at work, everyone!] There was no one else.

I opened the door slowly and slipped in.

There were about 20 babies, but I spotted Katherine right away. I gazed at her in her bassinet and my heart swelled with happiness. I gently picked her up and held her to me. She started to stir. [Apparently these babies are all on the same schedule. Prison IS strict!] I covered her with my jacket and zipped it up. Cradling her as if my stomache was hurting, I exited the room and took the stairs two at a time.

[Can you picture it? The concealed knife and now-suffocating baby jiggling around in Jenna's coat as she makes her great escape? I could totally see this happening on Melrose Place. Totally.]

The deskman looked surprised as I walked slowly, my arms wrapped around my belly [a baby's limb poking through the sleeve of her coat...]. "I have to go," I gasped. "My period is really heavy this month."

He reddened. "Go on," he said, waving me away. [Ah, the old menstrual card. Well played, Jenna!]

I ran into my car and scrambled inside. I wiggled out of my jacket and wrapped Katherine securely in it. Her eyes gave me a curious stare.

I took off my glasses and gazed at the baby in my arms. I covered her face with kisses. At last! The baby I had dreamed of having was with me. I placed her on my lap, and putting one arm on the baby and using my free hand to drive, very slowly started to pull away from the curb. In 15 minutes, I was right in front of the Illinois Cematary. [Yes, just one for the whole state. Apparently people aren't accustomed to dying in Illinois.] I couldn't enter; the gates were locked. I just stared at the gravestones beyond and whispered David a tearful good-bye.

"I'm so sorry, David," I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. "I'm sorry I lost our baby, and I know that by taking Katherine, I'm making things worse. I know it's wrong, but .... I don't want to be alone." My body was shaking. The baby started to cry. "Dont cry, baby girl," I whispered in a soft but trembling voice. I rocked her in my arms for a few minutes, and she went back to sleep.

A few minutes later I was on the road again, heading for my last stop before I left Illinois for good.

[A few lines down from that last sentence is the following post-script: "When Jenna leaves with the baby, let her pass Cassie and try to talk to her. Next day, Cassie goes into fits of hysteria." For fans wondering about the wherabouts of TLF's favorite batshit-crazy mental case, this is the last mention of her until the sequel.]

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We're nearing the end of Part One, folks. Only twenty-seven pages to go until we find out how the first segment of this tragic tragedy ends. Anyone brave enough to make a wager?

Greedy or Not Greedy? (See Also: Could've-Been-Worse Wednesday, But We'll Get to That)

Last week I mentioned several topics I've been meaning to address in upcoming entries, and seeing as tonight I experienced a series of conniptions over a social worker's rejection of almost two hundred thousand dollars, this is the perfect time to discuss Deal Or No Deal, only the best game show to hit television since Ray Combs hosted the Family Feud.

Besides the charming, gloriously bald essence that is Howie Mandel, one of the reasons I'm so enraptured with DOND is that at any given moment, the life of an average Joe (or Josephine) can change forever--if you know how far to push your luck. You're delighted for the middle-class construction worker who can open up his own restaurant, for the Italian retiree who can finally pay off his home and arrange for quality medical care.

(Unless you're the twenty-year-old college student who settled out of the game for a pink Escalade, a vehicle whose value will depreciate faster than you can release your own urine, in which case you deserve every high-interest loan this world has to offer, you stupid, foolish twit.)

Whether the amount is ten thousand or one million, that money is a gift that holds the power to relieve burdens and rectify situations that otherwise might've taken decades to resolve. And of course, it doesn't escape your attention that, one day, that contestant could be you.

Every time Howie relays the banker's latest offer, I think about what I would do with that money, understanding that my priorities will change according to the rise and fall of the numbers. If it's twenty thousand dollars, I'd pay off the Cobalt and set aside the remaining dough for a down payment on a house, which when combined with Luke's and my savings would total that magical twenty percent. With fifty thousand, I'd spend ten on the house, ten on the car, and pay off my private Sallie Mae loan, whose monthly payment fluctuates every quarter and will soon be equal to the price of our new digital camera. With a grand, I'd put it towards the Visa and thank the Lord we didn't have to pull from savings to foot the bill. I don't even entertain the million because seriously, people, nobody on this show has ever gotten the million. You have a better chance of marrying your second cousin than you do winning a million dollars, which is exactly why I don't understand the contestants who turn down offer after offer after offer because they're confident the million is in their case. They're on a mission. They "deserve" this money, and they're going to get it.

Except when they don't. Emika, tonight's audience pick, was a social worker with a small son who admitted her salary was fewer than 50K a year. In the first round she knocked out five amounts smaller than fifteen hundred dollars, thus increasing her chances of toting a significant wad of Benjamins in her case, so she passed on twelve months worth of income. She did it again at sixty-one thousand, and sixty-eight thousand, and again at eighty-four thousand, and once more just for the hell of it at ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS. Approximately four times her pay. The cost of one middle-class house. A mind-blowing retirement account that could reap immeasurable benefits via compounding interest. Paid tuition for her son to the best schools this country has to offer. But she said no. And why? Because a two-million dollar figure taunted her from its place on the tally board. Because her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and urged her to open one more case, even though the next highest amount plummeted to fifty thousand bucks. Because even though Emika was visibly sobbing over the thought of saying "No deal" to such a life-changing amount of money, according to her, "I came here to win."

So she opened one more case--the two-million-dollar case--and minutes later received an offer of seventy-five hundred dollars, barely the cost of a used car.

Oh, was I mad, because I so badly wanted this woman to win her some money. I wanted to see her cry tears of joy when she realized she would never lack for anything again, that this money provided a platform on which to build new opportunities, a new life that didn't involve debating over generic versus name-brand products at the grocery store or fretting over how to finance her son's continuing education or even her own. But no. A hundred and seventy thousand dollars is a miracle, but not miracle enough. Thanks anyway, Jesus!

Lucky for her she still made a good deal, eventually accepting 15K before learning her own case contained just two pennies. It could've been worse; last month, some pervy dude from Alabama turned down two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars only to walk away with a fin. Here, buddy; enjoy this White Castle sack with NBC's compliments.

This may sound incredibly naive, but I would never want to win a million dollars, mainly because it'd create more problems than I'm equipped to handle. When you have that much money at your disposal, how in the world do you spend it? Which charities do you support? Which requests do you honor? Should every single relative on both sides of the family get a small cut, even if they already make a comfortable living, or do you reserve it for the ones in danger of having their heat turned off? Will Grandma Ethel bitch about her five thousand because she knows it could've been fifty? Will any amount you offer ever be enough?

I once read in a magazine that it makes Howie physically ill to see so many people casually dismiss six-figure amounts in search of the elusive mill. Well, Howie, if I ever make it to the show, I won't even think about the damn million. If I could get the Sallie Mae monkeys off my back, I'll call it a day and let you touch my breasts and then invite you to live with Luke and me in our new villa in France. As a strictly platonic token of my gratitude, of course. As long as you stay bald.

Not that he's on my top five or anything, or that I even have a top five.

(However, in case you follow the link, know that my last (hypothetical) spot is currently being filled by John Krasinski of Office fame. We could be Frim!)

In other news, thank you all so much for your supportive comments regarding my upcoming leap into academia. So far, it looks like I'll be teaching for two and a half hours on Thursday nights from late August to mid December, with one week off for Thanksgiving. In the meantime, I spend the majority of my waking hours devising the class syllabus and determining my overall goal for the course, which so far is to compare and contrast current blogging styles to personal memoirs and essays and give students a taste of the current blogging culture. I also want to demonstrate the practical application of blogs in fields like marketing and business and their ability to generate income through ads, merchandising, and paid writing gigs. I already know I'll require students to maintain their own blogs and explore non-literary features that can enhance the blogging experience and their place in the blogging community--photography, videos, podcasts, widgets, etc. This means I'll be doing a lot of research and mucho head-banging against my computer monitor because I'll be damned if I even know what a widget is. But that's what books are for.

I'll be especially eager to pick your collective Internet brain. Who are your favorite personal essayists? Favorite bloggers? What attracts you to someone's site? What can turn you away? Be on the look-out for future posts on all of these topics and more as I attempt to tackle blogging in a way that validates its credibility and elevates it to a more sophisticated level. (In your face, MySpace!)

Finally, lest it think it's been overshadowed by a hottie game-show host or trendy online phenomenon, it's Weight Loss Wednesday. (At least it was two hours ago when I started this entry. Whoops.)

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 135.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12

Normally I'd be more upset over my set-your-watch-by-it lack of progress, but I received a couple of esteem-boosting compliments from Saint Joe friends over the weekend and Luke complimented my knack for filling out Banana Republic turtlenecks, so I'm gonna take the numbers for what they're worth and appreciate that my husband thinks I'm hot. Whatever helps you sleep at night, you know?

What a Difference a Weekend Makes

Three days ago I was a lukewarm Bears fan with a dream to enlighten unsuspecting undergraduates in the culture of blogging. By 10:15 last night, I was cheering for the Indianapolis Colts as they won their first-ever Super Bowl and mentally sifting through potential discussion topics and workshop ideas for the blogging class I'm now slated to teach this fall. I've even coined a catchy new vocabulary word sure to spread like wildfire at Saint Joe: bleaching! Because blogging plus teaching equals....

Well, maybe not like wildfire, but I just might find a way to sneak it into my syllabus.

I'm going to be a teacher. An adjunct professor. Me, who can't make it through even one staff meeting without frantically searching for the "Pause" button on my Real Life DVR remote so I can jot down a rough outline expressing intelligent, thought-out responses to spontaneous lines of questioning because I'm afraid of accidentally complimenting somebody's bra. I shared the good news with several colleagues from the college's alumni volunteer board and flapped around like a fish out of water when one of them commented, "That's going to be hard. I mean, has anything academic even been published about blogging?"

I received official word on Friday, when Luke and I made the trek to Rensselaer for my quarterly alumni board meeting, an hour and a half before midnight, within minutes of hugging my good friend Maia, who once mentored me through a year-long publications internship with the college's marketing office and saw me through an abrupt transition from intern to employee. I'm honored that the department is willing to entrust me with a classroom full of impressionable minds and hope my course meets their expectations; at the very least, I'd like to refrain from vomiting before I have the chance to introduce myself. They'd probably appreciate that, students and faculty alike.

Tragic Love Friday

For the last twenty-four hours, my brain's been jam-packed with ideas for potential entries, but I had to go to the dentist so he could chip at the layers of decay plaguing the nubbin of a tooth still hanging on in my mouth and sit in on an IT meeting where I had the privilege of rehashing the same three points I've made at the last two meetings. I also squinted at my computer monitor for forty-five minutes in an attempt to figure out how to remove the glare reflecting off the spectacles of one of our scientists so I could include his new photo in the latest edition of our clinical directory, but I did get the hang of it, so it wasn't a total wash.

Anyway, just wait and see what I come up with next week, when there will be smoking! Cringing! MySpacing! Ranting about contestants on Deal Or No Deal who turn down offers as high as two hundred thousand dollars because of course their case has the million! Of course!

In the meantime, it's the moment TLF fans have all been waiting for. Michael finally speaks!

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CHAPTER TEN - MICHAEL

"I called Kayla today," Jenna announced quietly.

"You what?!?" I cried in disbelief.

"I called Kayla at prison."

Jenna and I were at her house watching some movies when Jenna let me know about the call. I couldn't believe it. "Does this mean that..."

"No, I haven't forgiven her for....what happened. I don't think I ever could." Her eyes filled with tears. "But maybe we could stop hating each other and become friends again."

I hugged her. "That's a great idea, Doll. I hope you guys patch things up, too. I still don't like her much, but if you can find good in her after all that's happened, well, I can, too." She smiled up at me. "No matter how things turn out with Kayla and me, she could never compare to you, Mike. You're the person who was always there for me, no matter what." She laughed. "You know what? Sometimes I think you're my guardian angel."

I gazed into her eyes. "There's nothing else I'd rather be." [Well, the object of your affection is a close second, but I'll take guardian angel. That's cool.]

For a moment, there was silence. Then we turned our attention back to "DYING YOUNG." Suprisingly, Jenna picked the movie. [And really, who wouldn't grapple with a few painful memories to get a glimpse of a terminally ill Campbell Scott?] [Quick aside: Every time I thought about TLF yesterday I pissed myself because I knew that line was coming up and couldn't stand living in my own skin knowing I had unleashed such a painful marriage of cheese and tragedy onto the world.]

[And another thing: what the hell is up with teenage girls being completely oblivious to the emotional hard-ons of their male BFFs? Because when I was seventeen, every boy was considered potential boyfriend material. Seriously. There was Tom, a neighborhood local who frequented the video store where I worked after school and had oddly placed ears, sort of like Sloth from The Goonies, plus two of his front teeth were brown, but I still said yes when he asked me on a date to see U.S. Marshalls because I was desperate for a guy--any guy--to find me attractive. I thought maybe our budding romance would inspire him to visit a dentist and possibly a reconstructive plastic surgeon. Only it never got that far because he decided it was appropriate to leave messages on my family's answering machine every fifteen minutes inquiring about my wherabouts, but hey. At least I tried. (Note to self: Video-store job is EXCELLENT source of blog fodder. And fiber! Must play that up soon.) Also, Jason Chambers and I were thick as thieves for almost all of high school, and I had a huge crush on him the entire freaking time. What kind of girl doesn't want to date her hottie man friend? Which is really the point of this whole comment.]

As I went home a few hours later, I thought about everything that had happened in the last 7 months. David had died, and so had Jenna's baby. Two of my friends were sent to prison for their murders. It was a lot to handle.

What a summer this turned out to be. [I could've had a V-8!]

Then my thoughts focused on someone special: Jenna.

God, she was beautiful. Blondish-brown thick hair that came in waves down her shoulders. Piercing green eyes. A snow-white smile.

I had met Jenna in my freshman year. I was 14, shy, and a new kid. We became fast friends. She introduced me to Cassie, David, and her best friend Kayla.

Now I was 3 years older, & 3 years wiser. But I still couldn't work up the nerve to tell Jenna that I loved her. [As I sit here typing out this week's excerpt, jamming to my love songs collection on iTunes, I'm thinking we need to come up with a song for these two. A song that speaks to unrequited love, heartbreak, and longing. A song that celebrates the sentiment behind Dying Young. Will continue to think this over as I type. Yes.]

She was still in pain. Anyone could see it, no matter how many times she said she was fine. You could see it in her eyes. Her eyes always revealed her true feelings.

[I get lost. In your eyes. And I feel my spirits rise....]

Once I had almost told her how I felt about her. Before I could say anything, though, she had revealed she was pregnant with David's baby. I had never tried to tell her again. [Little lady, you look so fine; can't turn my eyes away, so much I wanna say....] Instead, I became her confidant, her best friend. I offered her tissues when she was sad, and cracked jokes to keep her laughing. In turn, Jenna would drag me outdoors when I became depressed, and together we always watched old movies when things weren't going well for either one of us. [Why does it hurt so bad? Why do I feel so sad? Thought I was over you, but I keep crying...]

Maybe, after a little more time had passed, I could tell Jenna everything. That I loved her with all my heart, and more than anything, I wanted her to be my wife. [Meet me in the altar in your white dress. We ain't getting no younger, we might as well do it!]

* * *

The next few days I stayed at home. Jenna didn't call me, so I figured that she wanted to be alone. Finally, she did call.

"Hey, Doll," I said happily. "It's been a few days since I saw your pretty face. Anything wrong?"

"No. I've just been busy."

"Oh." Silence, then Jenna said, "Mike, I need a favor."

"Sure, Anything for you, Doll." [I see you've dropped a quarter down your panties. Let me get that for you!]

"I - I need a ride to the State Prison." [Capitalized, of course, because there could be no other name for a state prison.]

"You're going to see Kayla, aren't you." It was a statement, not a question. [Your mom's a statement!]

"Yeah. Can you give me a ride?"

I didn't hesitate. "Of course. I'll be right over."

Jenna was silent as I drove to the prison.

An hour later, I let her out of the car. "Will you be OK?" I asked. She tried to smile, but didn't quite make it. "I'm a big girl. Can you just wait for me here? I won't be long."

"Take your time." I'd wait all day for her.

[Maybe my passionate love for The Office and John Krasinski is clouding my judgement, but Michael and Jenna are totally Jim and Pam. With a flat iron and some smokey eye make-up, Jenna Fischer would make a great Jenna. Hey, look at that! She really would!]

CHAPTER ELEVEN - JENNA

My hands felt sweaty and I swallowed back tears as the guard led me to Kayla's cell. I wasn't sure why I was so scared of seeing Kayla. I hated her. I wanted her to hurt like I had. I wanted her to wake up in the morning and wish she was dead, just like I had so many times.

"Calm down, Jenna," I whispered to myself. The guard gave me a funny look. I stayed behind him as he unlocked Kayla's cell and yelled, "Evans! You've got a visitor." She stood up as I approached her slowly. The guard locked me in [!] and went down the hall [double !].

"Jenna!" She cried, her eyes lighting up. "I was hoping you'd come."

"Hi." I couldn't meet her eyes. Kayla noticed my nervousness and smiled shyly. "I know it must have been hard for you to come today."

"It was hard," I admitted. "I don't know why I did, actually." Our conversation was interrupted by the guard. [Yeah, it's probably best not to leave a baby killer alone with the victim's mother for more than, say, ZERO SECONDS.] He unlocked the door and let in a woman carrying a small bundle in her arms. "It's time for her feeding," she said. I didn't see a bottle. Kayla must have been breastfeeding.

She took the infant from the woman, and then she and the guard left after we were locked in again.

[This is the craziest, most lax correctional facility ever. Well, maybe not quite. Anyone remember Dangerous Women? It was like a female Oz for the nineties. That place was pretty awesome, too.]

Kayla unbuttoned her blouse, and the tiny baby immediately started drinking her mother's milk. [What's Kayla doing wearing a "blouse" in jail? The least she could do is don a freakin' jumpsuit for special guests.]

She was a beautiful baby. Dark brown hair framed her face, and as I leaned over to get a better look at her, I saw that she had chocolate brown eyes. She was so tiny! I knew premature babies were small, but this one looked like she had been swallowed by the blanket. Tears came to my eyes. Would Mary Katherine had looked so precious?

"She's beautiful," I whispered. Kayla smiled and gently carressed her daughter's cheek. "Isn't she? Did you hear that, Katherine? Jenna thinks your pretty, too," she told the baby.

"Katherine?" I asked, puzzled.

"That's her name."

I closed my eyes and put my hands on my head. I felt dizzy as the tears fell down my cheeks. She had named her baby Katherine. How could she? Didn't she know how many painful memories that name gave me?

Yes, of course she did. She didn't want to make up. She wanted to tease me with the fact that she had a baby to hold, and not me.

[Oh, c'mon. Without the "Mary" it's totally different. Like teal and aquamarine!]

"Jenna? Jenna, what's wrong?" Kayla asked, concerned.

"You - you named her Katherine..." I sobbed. I started to shake uncontrollably. I slid to the floor. "My baby--Mary Katherine...." [Shit, bitch is fading fast! Has nobody gotten her into counseling yet?]

"Oh Jenna! I'm sorry!!" Kayla looked like she wanted to hug me, but with the baby in her arms it was impossible. "I named her Katherine so her sister wouldn't be forgotten." [I was just trying to be nice. Way to make it all about you, Jenna!]

"Guard!!" I yelled, struggling to get up. He unlocked the door, and I walked out unsteadily. "Bye, K - Kayla." As I heard her shout after me, I hardened my heart.

I could never forget.

* * *

Hours later, I lay in my bed, going over the events of the day in my mind.

When I had reached Michael, I was still sobbing. He had reached out to hug me, but I'd pushed him away. He'd drove me home and I'd ran to my room and sobbed for hours. [Sob. Boy, I liked word, huh?] My parents had tried to help me, just like they had tried after the funerals, but I pushed them away, too. They didn't understand. Nobody could. [It's not supposed to happen this way! I'm supposed to go first. I've always been ready to go first! I - I don't think I can take this! I - I don't think I can take this! I - I just wanna HIT somebody 'til they feel as bad as I do! I just wanna HIT something! I wanna HIT IT HARD!]

[I hope I didn't say that out loud just now.]

After a while, my thoughts began to focus on Katherine. She was so perfect! A baby so precious didn't deserve a life with a mother behind bars. She needed someone to give her security and love. [Now, to be fair, Kayla can offer her plenty of security. Six years and one ankle bracelet's worth!]

I could give her that. I wanted to give her that. I needed her. My arms ached to hold her. I felt connected to her by David. At that moment I knew what I needed to do.

[Watch Dying Young again. What? It's a really good movie!]

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Poor Jenna. Girl done lost her mind.