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

Minus the cup of Joe

Are Luke and I the only people who dig listening to music on their TV?

Last fall when we moved into our new house, we finally bit the bullet and signed up for satellite service after three years without any cable whatsoever. Which was all very well and good for us, but we still weren't into formally introducing Kara to television. It wasn't that hard at the apartment when we only had a few choice channels at our disposal, but suddenly there was TLC and Lifetime Television for Women and TBS and TNT and SOAPNet oh my God, SOAPNet, I missed you most of all. It's hard to completely abstain from watching those types of shows during daylight hours, and I'm definitely guilty of watching All My Children while she's running around playing with her toys, but overall we're careful to limit her overall exposure. However, when nothing's on it can feel oddly creepy throughout the house, and we're often too lazy to go upstairs and sort through CDs to bring downstairs, and there's no good place to stash the CDs downstairs, and there's only so much Baby Einstein and Fischer-Price you can take before you want to cut out your own eardrums.

Thankfully, it wasn't long before we discovered the beauty that is satellite radio via dish service, giving us the music variety we need without having to shuffle through our DVD player all day long. There are a few stations we listen to more than others--where was Love Songs when I needed it the most?--but by far the winner in our house is the Coffee House, where singer/songwriter tunes reign supreme. It's a slightly biased station, as in any given hour you can bet you'll hear at least one song from Tracy Chapman, Ryan Adams, Ray LaMontagne, or the the Indigo Girls, but it's great background music to have on while going through the motions of your day-to-day.

Listening to the Coffee House has expanded our iTunes playlist considerably, so I thought it might be fun to share some of the newer stuff I'm listening to these days.

"Sweet Pea" - Amos Lee
I first heard this in a recent commercial for a cell phone provider--the one where the dad takes his daughter's stuffed animal on a business trip and photographs it in different places. That little girl looks a lot like I imagine Kara will in a few years, so the song stuck with me; when I heard it on the Coffee House, I recognized it immediately and knew I had to have it.

"Love is All Around" - Toby Lightman
This was played constantly during the first couple of months I was home with Nathan, so whenever I hear it, I think about my adorable little family. I like to sing it to Kara (the parts I can recite from memory, anyway), and when I get to the "love, love, love, love" part, she always smiles.

"Amie" - Counting Crows
When Luke and I lived in Rensselaer, we once attended a coffee house set by a local band who played this song, so now whenever I hear it, I think of that time in our lives when we were dating and holding down two apartments even though we shared a bed at least five days a week. This version isn't that different from the original, but I like the Counting Crows, and I don't know, it felt more age-appropriate to download this one.

"Brand New Day" - Joshua Radin
I first became a fan of this one on an episode of House where Foreman and 13 are in bed together and Wilson finally washes out his dead fiancee's coffee cup. Apparently the Coffee House liked it, too, because now it's in constant rotation. While filming a home video of Kara last week, this song happened to be playing in the background, making me love it even more. I'll try to post the video sometime soon.

"Beautiful Wreck (Live)" - Shawn Mullins
I've always liked Shawn Mullins, starting when he released his "Lullaby" single in the late nineties, so this was an easy sell.

"Hello" - Schuyler Fisk
This song strikes me as one teenaged Frema would have taken to, setting it to repeat on her CD player for hours while reminiscing about former loves and missed opportunities. As an adult, I listen to it and reminisce about teenaged Frema's (many) (many many many) mistakes. Hello, hindsight, my old friend.

"Wonder" - Natalie Merchant
When I was in high school, I thought Natalie Merchant was boring. Now as a 29-year-old wife and mother, I think she's brilliant. This song has Girl Power written all over it.

"Least Complicated" - Indigo Girls
Seriously, ALL THE TIME. Only switch out " Least Complicated" with "What Are You Like?" which I'm not so much a fan of. This one's cool, though.

"Come On, Get Higher" - Matt Nathanson
I knew about this one before the Coffee House, but I couldn't bring myself to sing along because of the "swing of your hips" line. It gives me the tinglies. I'm over it now that I hear it multiple times all the livelong day.

And two non-Coffee House staples:

"Saturday in the Park" - Chicago
The opening chords to this song always transport me into a state of J.D.-like reflection. I heard it in a movie or TV show around the time I was pregnant with Kara and included it on a CD of baby-rocking tunes for myself, so now I assoicate it with those early months with her.

"The Book of Love" - The Magnetic Fields
Peter Gabriel's version of this song was featured in the Scrubs season finale last week, during the J.D.'s futuristic home-video montage, and I bawled like a baby, partly because Scrubs has been a pastime of Luke's and mine since almost the beginning of our relationship, and I was so sad about Zach Braff leaving the show, and also because the lyrics are simple but also really beautiful.

What are you jamming to these days? Really, I want to know.

Also, all this music talk totally has me jonesing for another CD swap. I can't believe it's been almost three years since the last one! As far as themes go, I was thinking something along the lines of either a summertime mix or a life soundtrack sort of thing. Anyone game?

Go, go, Gadget, random!

I've been meaning to post this since Monday, partly because I wanted to title it "Just another random Monday" and partly because I have the best of intentions when it comes to updating this Web site. But alas, now it's twelve-thirty in the morning on Thursday, and for sure I'll be dragging for work tomorrow but who cares, LET'S GET ON WITH THE SHARING.

* * *

If I had posted this on Monday, I would have totally retracted the claim in my last entry that Nathan wasn't anywhere near sleeping through the night, because on Sunday he slept soundly in his bassinet from ten until six, and Luke was all, "Yes, we can!" because he refuses to believe our son would be so cruel as to continue with these three a.m. feedings for much longer. Too bad I was up until one o'clock paying bills and missed out on the gloriousness that is passing out for longer than three to four hours at a time, because the following night he woke up at one and again at three. We'll see about tonight.

I would also retract what I said about my pants being a smidge too big; they are more than a smidge too big. THEY ARE FALLING OFF MY ASS. Which, you know, hooray, weight loss! but also shit, because we are not made of money and I could think of better things to do with my time than parade around my place of employment pulling up my pant legs to keep from tripping on the hem. Why didn't I at least TRY ON the size twelves? Low self-esteem, you are a bitch.

* * *

In an attempt to flatten all the layers of skin currently bogging down my mid-section, I ordered a Spanx cami online to pair with my back-to-work shirts. After all the hype I've been subjected to about Spanx (one of my Saint Joe students back in 2007 even focused on Spanx for my "Create a blog for a company" assignment), I was totally prepared to love the Spanx, maybe even write an entry titled "Spanx you very much," but alas, to my dismay, I am not loving the Spanx. The bust portion of the shaper is fine, but the blasted thing keeps rolling up to my belly button whenever I sit down. I fully acknowledge that I could've ordered a size too small, but if a large is too small for a freaking UNDERGARMENT, please hold on while I curl up into a ball and cry.

* * *

Starting last weekend, Gilmore Girls is now running on SOAPNet. I didn't watch this show when it was on the WB (that's where it was, right?) a million years ago, so why I'm so excited is beyond me, but I can tell you that there are two episodes saved to my DVR and seriously I am so, so excited. Other ancient shows I would like to Be In The Know About include Dawson's Creek and the original 90210. For the latter, I'm Mostly In The Know, but I stopped watching sometime in the late nineties; I picked it up again on SOAPNet while on maternity leave but fell off during two crucial plot points: Valerie's exit and the series finale. Why did Valerie leave? Do Dylan and Kelly end up together? Does Steve marry Janet? What about Gina? Man, Gina was a bitch. Inquiring minds want to know but are too lazy to search Wikipedia.

* * *

Baby-sitting, take one! One of the new coworkers in my department spent a year in New York working as an au pair and has already offered her services to me, so she is on the calendar to sit with Kara and Nathan when Luke sleeps through and I rock out to Billy Joel and Elton John next month. We're going to have her and her husband over a couple of times prior to that so she can meet the kids, but that cannot happen until I have thoroughly disinfected my house, and that cannot happen until I'm a little more well rested. In the meantime, I stare at the spittle on the bathroom mirror and the splotches of God knows what on the kitchen floor, and a part of me dies inside.

* * *

Luke and I talk a good game about getting off our asses and going back to church--there's an Episcopal church not ten minutes from our new house that seems very nice--but it never works out, and I hate to admit it, but part of me is hella nervous about leaving Kara in the nursery with a person we've never met before. (Nathan is not even an option right now. The boy, he will stay with me.) Paranoid much, Frema?

* * *

Does anybody besides me still do all their blog reading the old-fashioned way (loading each page)? I have a Google Reader account, but it hasn't been checked in probably a year. I really love the design aspect and functionality of blogs and feel like I have a more personal experience with the bloggers when I keep up with their actual sites.

* * *

My mother is on Facebook. My MOTHER, a woman who routinely asks me if I can print out pages from my blog and mail them to her, is on Facebook. I am not on Facebook. This must change.

* * *

In the last week or so, Kara's interest in Nathan has skyrocketed to the point where she spends a considerable portion of her waking hours just trying to hug him, and if you think there's anything more precious than watching your toddler daughter nearly suffocate her infant brother, you would be dead wrong, my friends. Dead wrong.

 

Going in for the kill, dun dun dun dun dun dun....

 

Nathan: Why, God, why?

 

Mission accomplished. Happiness all around.

Yes, we can!

And we're out.

(Kudos to Luke for the pictures.)

Yes, I still watch All My Children, and yes, I'm excited for Kendall to wake up, even though I think she's whiny

As I sit down to write this, it's twenty after five on Tuesday. The Indy area is expecting four to five inches of snow. It's snowing right now! And it's rush hour. A number of employees took off early to get home without killing themselves. But I am still at work. Why? Because I am a colossal idiot. This is true for two reasons:

• Being so consumed with work that I didn't turn off my computer until five.

• Locking my keys in the car.

You hear that? I LOCKED MY KEYS IN THE CAR. IN THE SNOW. DURING RUSH HOUR. WHILE IT WAS RUNNING. WITH THE HEAT ON FULL BLAST.

Yes.

My boss was a peach and stuck around long enough for me to call Luke on her cell phone so I could inform him that he and my innocent baby daughter would have to brave questionable weather and incompetent drivers to bring the spare set of keys for our new (used) Mitsubishi Outlander, which I totally think is to blame for this mess because it's the first car I've ever driven with automatic locks, and I must've hit the black button one time too many because one minute I was closing the door and the next I was making puppy-dog eyes at my laptop, Dave Sedaris book, Nirvana Unplugged CD, and purse.

Anyway, I'm in my boss's office now, waiting for Luke to finish up with Kara's dinner before they come to get me. I could be working on any one of the bazillion projects I'm trying to finish before next Tuesday--my last day in the office before maternity leave--but seeing as I'm already exhibiting colossal idiot behavior (for evidence, see above), instead I'm going to ramble on about TV. You like TV, don't you? I do, even more so now that I have satellite and a DVR and the stupid writers' strike is over, and all of those things are causing me to re-evaluate how I spend my TV-watching time.

Pre-writers' strike, pre-baby, during the days of apartment living and no cable, Luke and I were fairly simple with our prime time repertoire. We had a few shows that we liked: Heroes, 24, Scrubs, and The Office were set to record every week on the VCR. Bones and House were fun to catch when we remembered they were on. Supernanny became a low-key, Friday night tradition (except for a recent episode where the family in need consisted of a woman with a four-year-old son and a five-month-old baby and a husband who died from some horrible illness and they started taping the show before he passed away and actually aired footage of him, bed-ridden, trying to play with his kids. Then they showed clips from his funeral and the mom releasing a balloon in the air in his memory or something like that, and she broke down while talking about how she didn't know how to raise her children without him, and after ten minutes I was sobbing so hard Luke deleted the show from our DVR and I haven't watched the show since). Deal or No Deal was non-negotiable for me,but Luke could take it or leave it.

Then came Kara and maternity leave and the need for something to do while I laid on the couch with a newborn nestled into my chest. Enter Lost. Enter Heaven and a renewed love for Charlie Matthew Fox and a brand-new love for Merry from Lord of the Rings and the main guy in The Stepfather (who is also the rich girl's dad in The Cutting Edge, something I learned just two weeks ago, thank you, Hallmark Channel).

Then came the writers' strike. Good-bye, 24. Good-bye, any chance for a decent season of Scrubs.

UPDATE: It is 6:08 p.m. Luke called to say that he and Kara are on their way but that the road leading out of our subdivision isn't looking good. Fabulous.

Then we moved into our first-ever house and decided it was time to upgrade. Hello, DISH Network and fancy, schmancy DVR that records shows without using a video tape and possesses the ability to pause live television! Enter shows that weren't even possible to watch before, like What Not to Wear and Man vs. Food, and 2 a.m. programming that doesn't revolve around medication designed to enhance sexual performance.

Then the creator of Lost wrote a new show for FOX called Fringe. And House got really good and Heroes got really confusing. 30 Rock turned out to be pretty funny! Luke decided to check out The New Adventures of Old Christine. And I couldn't keep up with NBC's random airing of DOND.

Now that the winter TV season has begun and the writers' strike is over, the Frema-Useless Clutter household is in the process of determining which shows are actually worth our time. Due to a DVR malfunction, we lost three episodes of Heroes and the 24: Redemption movie. I was half-sleeping through Heroes to begin with; the idea of jumping in now after falling so far behind does not appeal to me. Is that even on again yet? I have no clue. Meanwhile, Luke is ready to abandon Jack

UPDATE: 6:28 p.m. Luke and Kara are here! I'll finish this at home.

UPDATE: 1:09 a.m. on Wednesday. Thankfully, the ride home was uneventful. Let us proceed with the trivial dialogue.

Luke wants to abandon Jack Bauer altogether, and I'm inclined to agree except that I still think Kiefer Sutherland has the best voice in Hollywood and he isn't exactly hard on the eyes, either. Plus, my brother-in-law likes to make fun of the show's over-the-top drama by shouting things like, "Step away from the bomb!" or "You can't handle the truth!" and I think that's really funny. Though probably not a valid reason to tune in this season. I totally spaced on the premiere but managed to record the second hour as well as the last two. Maybe I'll catch up on maternity leave. I've gotta have something to keep me alert for those 3 a.m. feedings, you know?

Also complicating matters is the fact that Scrubs is back on a different network with writing that's more remniscent of the earlier seasons (thank you, ABC) and good God, there are only so many hours in a day.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure these are the shows that we'll stick with:

• House
• Fringe
• Scrubs
• The New Adventures of Old Christine
• Man Vs. Food (on the Travel Channel. Tell me I'm not the only one who lusts after the pancakes in the opening credits)
• Lost
• The Office
• 30 Rock
• Supernanny (though I'm not afraid to delete you, Jo! That's what you get for making pregnant mothers cry)

Those who remember my former obsession with Howie Mandel don't have to worry; I haven't sworn off DOND. But really, when the hell is it even on? Every time I watch it, it's because I happen to be flipping through the channels and catch a random shot of a model opening a case.

Feel free to share your TV trials and tribulations here. You can also touch on the whole keys-in-car thing, unless it's to call me a colossal idiot, because dude, I've SO got that covered.

I feel old. (Also, I have no interest in Clerks II)

What else could I possibly feel after tuning in to an easy-listening radio station and hearing Sisters With Voices on my way to work?

The year was 1993; I was thirteen and on the cusp of starting eighth grade when their first single came out. I remember one of The Sisters had scary-long finger nails, but they weren't enough to deter me from buying the cassette from Venture (formerly Zayre's, currently non-existent) with my hard-earned baby-sitting money. Yes, I'm well aware that was fifteen years ago, but still, isn't it a tad premature to lump the girls in with the likes of Phil Collins and John Mellencamp?

That said, the following songs were just downloaded from iTunes by a member of the Frema-Useless Clutter household. I'll let you guess which one. 

"Dreamlover (Def Club Mix Edit)" - Mariah Carey
"Right Here" - SWV
"Remember the Time" - Michael Jackson
"Easy Lover" - Phil Collins
"Land of Confusion" - Genesis   
"Live for Loving You" - Gloria Estefan   
"Live Forever" - Oasis   
"Again" - Janet Jackson

Forty more cents and I would've grabbed "Cherry Bomb," too. God help Baby Brother's musical taste post-womb.

In other Frema nerdiness, as I sort through my things and decide which items are worthy of storage space at the new house, I came across a few gems that might be of interest to some of you.

My apologies for the prime real estate given to the boobage and butt crack. I wasn't consciously trying to showcase that issue, and honestly, I'm kind of embarrassed about the oversight, but I'm too lazy to upload a new photo, so there you go.

My senior year in high school, I worked for a mom-and-pop video store minutes away from my house. Because it was so small, hiring was sparse, partly because you only needed one or two people per shift but also because the perks were so good nobody my age ever wanted to leave: no uniform, free movies, and you could do your homework on slow nights without fear of repercussion. It was every teenager's dream job, and the kids in my neighborhood knew it. Rich, the owner, was bombarded with requests for applications every day. I should know, because I pestered him every couple of months or so until one day I came in at just the right time and he hired me on the spot. He was a little concerned about my age; I was only 17 at the time, and there was a whole section of Adult Movies that needed constant restocking and supervision, but apparently that stopped being a problem because soon I found myself on the other side of the swinging doors, charged with reshelving such thought-provoking titles as Wet and Wild 5 and Wednesday is Hump Day.

Anyway, that job is the reason I learned about Kevin Smith and the brilliantness that is Clerks. And once I saw Clerks, Mallrats and Chasing Amy weren't far behind. By the time I left for college, I owned them all on VHS. There were posters, soundtracks, and screenplays, quizzes online to test my knowledge of dialogue (NERD!), and utterances of "Snootchie Bootchies!" more times than was appropriate for a person who didn't wear flannel clothing or spend free time dreaming up new characters for Dungeons and Dragons. But whatever, it was fun, and Kevin Smith was hella cool in college.

I didn't learn about the comic books until my second serious boyfriend. Mike gave me the above-pictured graphic novels after just a week of dating, and at that stage in my life, they were better than roses. I actually attended that year's Comic Con with him and his friends a few months later specifically to meet Kevin Smith, but Mike's BFF was an hour late picking us up, so by the time we got there the line had already been roped off, and I totally cried. I did get a comic signed by one of Kevin's cronies, though. I'm keeping that one.

This I bought after the release of Dogma, which I didn't enjoy as much as the other films (don't even get me started on Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back), but I love Jesus, and I loved Kevin Smith. Who could ask for anything more?

The comics and figurine were proudly displayed in my dorm room until I graduated, and they've survived all of my moves within the great Hoosier state. Now, eight years later, I think I'm finally ready to say good-bye. I considered donating them to Goodwill, but if it's possible, I'd love to give them to someone who I know will appreciate them. Plus, I'm afraid the Goodwill guys will take one look at the comics and laugh at me behind my back.

ANYWAY, my point is, are you interested? If not for yourself, perhaps for a friend? First person to call dibs wins.

(By using the phrase "first person," I'm assuming more than one of you a) know who Kevin Smith is and b) care enough about his movie memorabilia to want this stuff cluttering your home. Please don't make a fool out of me.)

Edited to add: Holy cow, you guys, I had no idea even one person would be interested, let alone four! Let me think more on how to give this stuff away.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who occasionally refers to Jack as "Charlie"

Why didn't anybody give me a heads up that DeLurking Week was more than two freaking weeks ago?

At least, I think it was. Its creator, Sheryl of Paper Napkin, hasn't really done anything with it since 2006, but when it comes to comment-inducing events, the blogosphere isn't about to let one go without a fight, so I assume its spirit is alive and well. Right, Liz?

Anyway, for this period of delurkism, I'd like to talk about television. You know, that thing that used to be cool before last fall's writer's strike? Now it seems the best most networks can do is either put out new crap like Dance War: Bruno versus Carrie Ann or recycle older, tired crap like American Gladiator. Although dude, I'll be damned if I didn't watch twenty minutes of Dance War last night.

So, what I want to know is: how are you surviving the strike? Luke and I have embraced our Blockbuster Online membership and recently finished the first season of Lost. Why the hell we weren't watching this show before is a mystery to me, but we are loving it now. It took us about three weeks to get through season one, and we just started the first disc of the second season last night. I've also been pleased as punch that Deal or No Deal is on at least twice a week now.

Since it appears the strike's going to last for the rest of the current TV season, we're in the market for ideas of other shows we should get into. The second season of Big Love is already on our queue, and we're contemplating The Sopranos and Six Feet Under (LOVE hottie Peter Krause). And the fifteen-year-old in me is seriously considering going for Dawson's Creek, because I never caught that show, either. Dawson wasn't exactly my cup of tea, looks-wise.

OK, have at it, people! And of course, if you just want to compliment my baby, that's fine, too. She's quite delicious.

If the stair climbing doesn't do it, Carol's sexual innuendos will

I was so sure it was going to happen last night. The contractions were coming every fifteen minutes or so, Luke and I walked around our apartment complex to jiggle the baby up, and I bounced my ass off on the birthing ball; plus, ten minutes before bed I proceeded to have a nesting panic attack so severe that Luke mopped our floors and took out the trash for me. At midnight. Because suddenly everything seemed filthy.

This morning we woke up and took another walk. I vaccuumed the shit out of our apartment, bleached our sinks (wearing gloves, don't worry), and did several laps on the stairs in our building. When Luke comes home for lunch, we'll do some more walking, but in the meantime, I'm watching A Very Brady Christmas in hopes that the awfulness of the dialogue, wardrobe, and continued abuse of Alice (if she's really a houseguest, why not encourage her to get out of that damn uniform?) will be enough to make Freka want to flee the confines of my uterus before the ending credits have a chance to roll.

Seriously, this movie is terrible. Between Carol's thinly veiled "let's do some business together" sex talk, Mike's pairing of a watch and a bracelet on the same wrist (I really can't stand jewelry on men), Greg's selfish wife (who refuses to visit the Bradys for the holidays this year because her favorite aunt will be in town, EVEN THOUGH they've been to her family's house for Christmas the last two years), Marcia's whiny, jobless husband (who has no qualms sharing their dismal financial state in front of their two bratty kids), and Peter's willingness to sleep with his boss but not make her an honest woman because she makes more money than he does, I haven't a clue as to why I look forward to watching this drivel year after year after year.

But, God help me, I do.

Deep thoughts from my first day off; also, in case it isn't obvious, no baby yet

Yesterday, while reading Marie Clare:

Christina Aguilera, I don't think buying a house qualifies as "nesting."

Will I ever be in a financial situation that can justify spending four hundred dollars on a purse?

God, I miss normal-people clothes.

While showering:

Hot damn, is this a pain in the ass.

While brushing my teeth:

Hey, our soap dispenser is almost out. I wonder which Bath and Body Works pump I should put out next: Country Apple or Warm Vanilla Sugar?

I really should floss. Tomorrow.

While watching The Parent Trap:

Uh, Susan? Telling your camp buddies that The Girl Who Looks Exactly Like You is the spitting image of Frankenstein doesn't bode well for you, honey. Also, you are a bitch and totally deserved to have the back of your skirt cut out at the Saturday night dance.

I wonder if Hayley Mills got bored acting with herself.

Maureen O'Hara was gorgeous. Does my generation even have a Maureen O'Hara?

Vicki was actually pretty nice to the girls until they submarined her.

Wasn't Mitch in The Shaggy Dog? I've never seen it, but still.

Am I the only person who remembers the sequel to this movie? Who was it that the divorced sister hooked up with in that one?

Mitch has every right to be mad that his ex-wife is prancing around in his bathrobe while he's meeting with his fiancee and wedding minister. Where the fuck does she get off punching him?

I bet the sex was pretty good.

Tom Skerritt.

Ben and Jerry, your Banana Split isn't bad, but it's no Chunky Monkey.

While watching The Sound of Music:

Did Julie Andrews ever have long hair? Mary Poppins doesn't count, that was totally a wig.

Captain Von Trapp is HOTT. HOOOOT.

I don't care if I'm a dork, I LIKE Maria's handmade dresses.

Liesel is so pretty. Look at those eyes!

Her shoes are cute, too.

I wish handsome boys delivered telegrams to MY house and then twirled me around in a gazebo in the rain.

When I was a kid, I always thought the German/Austrian conflict stuff was kind of thrown in after the second act, but really there were subtle clues throughout the whole movie. Damn network television and their edits for clouding my original impressions!

The adult dialogue in this movie is actually pretty clever!

I wonder what the age difference is between Maria and Captain Von Trapp?

HOOOOT.

"Climb Every Mountain" is the worst song in a musical ever, mainly because it's sung by an eighty-year-old nun.

Would a sixteen-year-old girl really enjoy helping out with a damn puppet show?

I remember when I wanted to be a nun. Good thing that didn't work out.

Poor Captain Von Trapp, having his homeland torn apart by Nazis.

HOOOOT.

Braxton this, Mr. Hicks; also, the episode where Brandon met Emily in San Francisco was also a Turkey Day one, right?

Long day, people. Long day. And because of it, the 38-week photo shoot is lacking, I think.

But don't worry. Frema finally found her happy face!

I'm working on it.

Tonight, Luke and I had a fun time trying to time my latest round of Braxton Hicks contractions, which were (sometimes) strong enough to inspire my breathing exercises but never regular enough to merit real concern. I did get one hell of a foot massage out of the deal, though. With lotion! Bath and Body Works lotion! Such a lucky woman, am I.

Continuing with the Q&A goodness, Jenny asks: 

Have you been watching The Office this season, and if so, what do you think so far?

Luke and I have been huge Office fans ever since we discovered the show during its season two run; every episode is guaranteed to withdraw at least one heartfelt guffaw from each of us. Michael's stupidly painful (yet unfortunately, still very boss-like) antics! Toby's depressing life! Dwight's cousin Mose! It's all too much!

At the end of season three, when it appeared that Jim and Pam were attempting to make a go of things, we both cheered. And at the beginning of season four, when we saw their relationship wasn't going to dominate the show's entire story arch, we breathed a sigh of relief. But now? Now, I'm not sure how I feel. The show is still very funny, but at this point it's kind of...I don't know...slow? The Dwight and Angela break-up is interesting, but it's not picking up fast enough for me. Jim and Pam are adorable, but I'm getting some very strong "Ross and Rachel season three" vibes--you guys know what I'm talking about, right? When Rachel went from being a waitress at Central Perk to a fashion executive at Bloomingdale's, and Ross got all iffy, and now Pam's trying to shed her receptionist shell to pursue leads in graphic design, and Jim's all iffy? Branch out a little, NBC writers, is all I'm saying.

What is your favorite Mexican food/Italian food?

This may come as a shock to you guys, but I'm a picky eater. I know! Despite the Mexican genes I've inherited from my father, it's a miracle I even eat tacos. I do, though. They're very good. But steak fajitas are the best.

As far as Italian food goes, same thing. When Luke and I go to places like Olive Garden or Macaroni Grill, I usually get either spaghetti (with sausage, yum) or pizza. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, am I right?

I think I'm right.

What is your favorite (or strangest) Thanksgiving memory?

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays because the focus is so simple: family and food. No worries about decorations or presents, and most everyone gets to enjoy a lovely four-day weekend without having to lose a vacation day. I can't ever remember having a bad time. Memories that stand out include a broccoli fight shared between my mom and one of my aunts when I was eleven and the first time Luke and I spent it together in 2005. Prior to that we were usually apart for the actual meal on the actual holiday, so finally being able to share that with him was extra special.

If it's strange you want, I also have a lingering memory of a Beverly Hills, 90210 episode that aired on Thanksgiving, probably when I was in middle school. I never did see the whole thing, but Brandon was hanging off a cliff. Anyone care to fill in the blanks for me?

And I don't even watch the damn show anymore

Luke and I will be leaving for the much-anticipated Tori Amos concert in three hours, and I've been sitting in front of the computer all day, half working from home, half indulging on clips from General Hospital that highlight the tumultuous love triangle between Jason, Liz, and Lucky, and Liz's giving birth via emergency c-section to Jason's baby but passing him off as Lucky's, and then the baby being kidnapped, and then Liz and Lucky getting in the middle of a nasty divorce, and Lucky trying to take Jake away from Elizabeth under the guise of "custody strategy," and I've cried three times because I keep thinking about what would happen if I had an emergency c-section and died and Luke and the baby had to be without me. I haven't even showered yet.

It's just one of those days.

Tragic Love Friday: She's (not) having a baby

Ah, the gloriousness of a three-day work week. Aren't they the prettiest things ever?

Last night was spent in a whirlwind attempt to finally put our dishevled apartment back together, catch up on five episodes of All My Children, and finish one of the blog books I'm reading for class. I was on the verge of high-fiving myself when the taco I had for dinner decided to resurface, and I spent the last twenty minutes before bed rinsing out the toilet seat cover and bleaching the sink, all while Luke slept like a baby.

Almost fifteen weeks along and I'm still gagging myself with a toothbrush. Will it ever end?

Also, a random AMC note for those who watch: Is anybody else digging the new Greenlee? The character's a total biotch, of course, but the replacement actress they found is actually doing a decent job. Meanwhile, I continue to hate Ryan Lavery with the burning passion of a thousand suns. Just because Greenlee is the reason that Kendall was impregnated with Ryan's sperm doesn't mean she has any "moral claim" to Spike, seeing as she abandoned her gestating BFF the minute she found out Kendall used her own egg because Greenlee's were destroyed in a city-wide blackout and Ryan's sperm was thawing and there was no time to collect more of Greenlee's eggs and Kendall was terrified that Greenlee would kill herself because Ryan had faked his death by driving off a cliff and she wanted his child more than anything in the world, even though Ryan wasn't into kids at the time and actually had a vasectomy but sneaky Greenlee stole his sperm from a fertility clinic, which was donated back when Ryan first came to town and needed cash. The nerve of some people.

But anyway. On to TLF.

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CHAPTER TEN - KATHERINE (CONTINUED)

It was final. I was pregnant. I had officially become a statistic, and I hated that. It wasn't my fault! I didn't want kids; never had, and definitely never will. Yet here I was, an expectant mother.

But would I stay that way? I wasn't a fool; I knew my options. A baby was definitely not on my list of accomplishments this year. I couldn't do it. I had to get rid of my kid--I mean, the fetus. That's it.

"I'm having--I'm having--" I couldn't say the word "abortion." I just couldn't. "I'm ending my pregnancy," I said to myself firmly. That sounded better.

[Is Katherine breaking your heart yet? This poor girl can't get a break. I don't know if I have the heart to snark on her. But I'll try.]

Well, one thing was for sure. I wouldn't be able to go and have an abortion. The doctor would call my parents faster than I could say [your mom! Ha, I did it!] my name. Don't doctors have to say those things? I wasn't certain, but I didn't want to find out. [Apparently, neither did 'lil Frema. What a lazypants she was.] Also, I was broke. I'd have to do it myself. But how?

I felt horrible. I was planning to end a human life, on my own. "Oh, God," I sobbed, burying my face in my hands. My tears flowed, and for once I couldn't stop them. Shaking, I walked into my parents' room and grabbed the bottles off my mother's dresser. I examined the contents and labels. Sedatives, sleeping pills, anti-depressants... It suddenly hit me that my mother was emotionally unstable, probably had been for years. "Don't think about that," I whispered, my voice unsteady. My eyes were blurred with my tears, so I couldn't read the fine print that followed the "WARNING" label. I didn't care. I'd be OK in the end. I popped open the lid to the sleeping pills and only took one. Right now I needed rest. I'd plan everything out later. I swallowed the pill and curled up on my parents' bed, trying to drown out of my head the consequences of my decision.

[Remember when Julia was pregnant on Party of Five and wanted to an abortion but actually experienced a miscarriage? Even lil' Frema knew that was a cop-out on behalf of the writers. So, in the instances when you're too icked out for words--and trust me, folks, it gets icky--at least commend this youngling for her literary bravery.]

* * *

When I awoke, I felt groggy, unaware of everything. Where am I? I wondered. My head felt as heavy as a truck, and it hurt. I felt a distinct movement in my stomache. I got up slowly and fumbled around until my hand found the lightswitch. The room was filled with light, and I had to close my eyes. I let the wall support me as I slid down to the floor. When I opened them, Shannon was kneeling next to me.

I blinked my eyes. "Sh-Shannon." My tongue was like leather. "How come you're here?"

"Lucas let me in. No one else is here. We have to talk." She pulled me to my feet. "C'mon."

"Wait a minute." I pulled away and tried to glare at her, but it turned into a frown. "I have things to do. It'll have to wait until--maybe, in a few days--"

"With what, Katherine?!? What do you do besides veg out at home and isolate yourself? Nothing, and I'm sick of it. It's not healthy! Look at you!" Her eyes filled with tears. "Let me help you. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong! Who the hell do you think you are talking to me like that? I'm FINE. Or I was until you showed up." I opened my mouth to yell some more until I saw the look on her face. Suddenly I felt bad. She was only worried about me. She had no idea what was going on.

My best friend saw my body loosen up, and she opened her arms. I accepted, and her embrace was tight. It's a good thing; otherwise I know I would've fallen.

[Shannon's a good pal and all, but don't you think her language is a little intense? It's like they're lesbians without benefits.]

"C'mon," she repeated. "Spend the night tonight."

[I rest my case.]

"Can't. Tomorrow's school," I replied, letting go.

"Today's Friday, Kath."

"I gotta ask my mom, and she's not home." Shannon looked hurt; I couldn't blame her. My mother wouldn't care, and she knows that.

An idea popped into my head.

"I'll leave a note," I relented. "I just gotta get some stuff." She nodded. She was waiting in the kitchen; I grabbed two of each pill and stuck them in my pocket. The rumble in my belly was painful. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what those "WARNING" labels were for.

Before I left, I checked on Lucas. He had an old photo album on his lap. "THE BRADY BUNCH" was on TV. I sat down beside him. "Whatcha lookin' at this stuff for, Luke?" He shrugged. We stared at the TV screen as Mike kissed Carol before he left for work.

"Dad doesn't do that anymore," he commented.

"No," I agreed. "But Mom's not home when he leaves. She works in the morning, or she's asleep from the night before."

"Nobody cooks dinner," he continued. "Dad doesn't play checkers anymore. (His favorite game.) Mom won't help me with my math. I got an 'F' on a big test yesterday." My brother's forehead wrinkled, and his chin trembled. "Leigh's never home. I hate her. And you act funny. You're staying at Shannon's, aren't you?" he demanded. I nodded, and he grabbed my arm. "Please don't leave, Kathy. I hate being alone!" His face completely crumbled, and he buried his face in my sweater. I cradled him in my arms. God, I felt awful for going. "I have to, Luke," I whispered. "I'll be home tomorrow, and we'll have a checkers marathon and we'll go over your test, and anything else you want to do." He lifted his head. "Promise?" I hugged him again. "I swear it."

I left him sitting there. I forget that he's only 12 sometimes.

"Let's go," I told Shannon.

[Too bad Katherine doesn't want children. She's already a better mother than Jenna and Kayla combined.]

END OF PART TWO

[Don't worry, I won't leave you hanging! I brought the next--the last! (sob)--notebook with me to work!]

PART THREE

CHAPTER ELEVEN - KATHERINE

We sat on Shannon's bed in silence. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't her, but I couldn't tell her the truth.

"I'm sorry," I finally said.

"Why?"

"I know I haven't been the greatest person to be around. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"You were that way for a reason, Kath. What's wrong?" she asked gently.

"It's OK now, Shannie," I replied, ignoring her question and thinking of my pills. "Everything's gonna be OK. I don't want to think about it anymore."

"Katherine--"

"Shannon, please." I hugged her quickly. "Don't ask."

Thankfully she let it drop. We ate pizza and painted our nails. I caught up on gossip, but my heart wasn't into it. She could tell. "Kath, I've seen Kyle around with Andrea Polly," she said tentatively. "What happened with him?"

"It didn't work out," I answered. "He's a real jerk. Too possessive." Lies, lies, lies!

[Actually, that's the truth. He was possessive. Illegally and brutally possessive. Of her poor, innocent body.]

"Oh," Shannon cried. "I feel so stupid! That's why you've been like this." She squeezed my hand.

"It's alright, Shannie. There was nothing you could do." I stood up. "Be right back."

In the bathroom, I clutched the six pills in my clammy hand. I glanced in the mirror, only I didn't see me. I saw a little girl of about four or five. Her golden hair was in piggy tails, and her smile revealed shiny white teeth. Her eyes, however, had no pupils.

[So I guess the sleeping pill Katherine took also induces hallucinations? If that's the case, Jenna's been having a grand ole time these last few years. Also, from this description, I can't stop picturing Cindy Brady. And the brat wasn't even cute! Damn lil' Frema and her references to sixties-era television.]

"Mommy, ouch! That hurts! I don't feel good." The toddler's body cringed, and she cried out. "Momma, stop! Stop, momma, I'm in here!" I held back my sobs. "Go away, go away," I whispered, shaking my head and blinking hard. The little girl was gone. I was alone in my reflection.

["Are you pregnant? Do you feel trapped and alone? If so, take the wire hanger away from your vaginal canal and call the toll-free number at the bottom of your screen." Thus concluding lil' Frema's first pro-life commercial.]

[This making fun of people's pain, it's easier than I thought!]

"Katrina," I said, and I liked the sound. "Katrina," I continued, swallowing one pill; then another and another. "I'm not your momma. God gave you to me on accident. I'm returning you to Heaven, that's all." I drank a little water. "I wouldn't be a good momma anyway." I kissed the mirror, just in case my baby came back. "Bye-bye, Katrina."

[I got the "toddler's" name from my best friend in high school. We're still friends today; she even stood up in my wedding. Lucky for lil' Frema that her first initial fit in with the whole "K" theme she's got going on.]

Back in my friend's room, we turned off the lights and put on a movie. All the while my stomache churned, my head pounded, and my tongue felt too thick for my mouth. As the room started to fade, I started to panic, and for the first time I thought about the possibility that I could die. I would've deserved it.

My mind blanked, and all was dark.

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So, now that we're seeing more of Shannon, which celebrity do you think should play her? Let me know in the comments, and I'll find a picture of the one who collects the most votes.

Also, there are only fifty-three pages left until the end of the sequel. There is no part three, and I'm still not sure what to do. Keep going without the charm of lil' Frema or let TLF die peacefully in the "What're you lookin' at?" archives? This is how Meryl Streep's character must've felt in Sophie's Choice, I swear.

Everything-But-the-Kitchen-Sink Wednesday

So, I tried on my swimsuit for the first time this year, and you know what?

I totally look pregnant in it.

Parading around my bedroom in front of our full-length mirror, marveling at the lessening gap between my gut rolls, I couldn't stop gazing at myself, couldn't stop rubbing my belly. I've taken the tests, I've heard the heartbeat, I've lost my dinner more times than I can count, and yet, it was like discovering I was pregnant for the first time. Like, oh my God, something is totally growing inside of me.

Needless to say, it's time for a new swimsuit.

(And since I'll be at the mall anyway, new underwear. My pants fit fine, but the skivvies are cutting off my circulation. When will Victoria's Secret wise up and start a maternity line?)

Things are at an even keel around here, as far as weight goes.

WEIGHT ON 2/28: 135.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 129.4
TOTAL PREGNANCY POUNDS GAINED: -6.2

Lunch is getting harder and harder to plan for, as soups of all textures and flavors currently turn my stomach and frozen dinners and sandwiches sound as appealing as chunks of cardboard, so I've been trying to make do with apples, nectarines, yogurt, and a Ziplock bag stuffed with pickles until it's time to go home. This afternoon I broke down and spent five dollars and ten cents on three cheeseburgers, an order of mozzarella sticks, and a small fry from White Castle, but two bites into my second burger Freke sent a stern message via my digestive tract advising me to make wiser choices in the future. Can this really be a child of mine? Next thing you know it'll be jonesing for seafood. I love this baby, but not that much, you know?

I've also been busy pouring through potential texts for my blogging class this fall, as you can tell by the endless list of Amazon links on my About page. I didn't take any education classes in college or grad school, so teaching is brand-spanking new to me, and I'm terrified I won't have enough material to keep my students engaged for two and a half hours a week for thirteen weeks. Worse, I'm afraid my tendency to stumble over my words and talk too fast in front of large groups will give these undergrads the impression that I'm a complete and total idiot. And I'm not, I promise you I'm not, no matter what your mom might tell you.

Here are some of the topics I plan to address:

• The origin of blogs
• Popular technical features
• Available blogging technologies
• How blogs have influenced politics, business, advertising/marketing, and communications
• Web standards
• Copyright protection
• Privacy/safety issues
• Blogging versus the traditional personal essay
• Creative writing versus blogging
• Money-making opportunities

If you were taking my class, what else would you expect/hope to learn about blogging? Inquiring minds want to know.

Let's see, what else can I blab about? Luke and I are still waiting to see a two-bedroom apartment on hold for us within our complex, an apartment that's been vacant since May 13th but for some reason still isn't presentable enough to view. Whether it's this unit or another one, though, we are set to move on the last weekend of the month, and every few days or so one of us questions our decision. On one hand, we can get rid of a few items in our current place and find room for a crib and a Pack 'n Play, but on the other hand, wanting to have a kitchen table isn't that outrageous a desire, is it? On one hand, it'd be nice to save the extra ninety-five dollars a month a bigger apartment will require, but on the other hand, how long can two adults and a baby live in 675 square feet without somebody requesting a divorce or parental emancipation?

Round and round and round we go with the whole discussion until we realize that we just plain want the extra space because car seats and strollers and dressers and cribs can't be stored in our hall closet, so we are moving and that's the end of that.

Of course, too much space could also be an issue, as evidenced by the movie First Born starring Elisabeth Shue, which Luke and I rented and watched on Monday night. I'm a sucker for films revolving around demon-baby plots, and since the DVD's cover art featued an upside-down cross in the title and a tagline of "Stay away from the baby," I thought for sure I'd hit the supernatural jackpot. Only not so much.

The movie is centered around a couple of ritzy city-dwellers who find out they're with child and move to the suburbs, in a house larger than your local Dominick's, to provide a safe environment for their budding family.

(Spoilers ahead, in case you care.)

Elisabeth Shue goes into premature labor after tripping over rocks in her lawn and receives an emergency c-section. The nurse who shows her how to breastfeed tells her "it's all downhill from here." Her asshole husband--who had previously PROMISED to take time off when the baby arrived--leaves for work at six in the morning and never comes home earlier than ten. She develops mastitis. She accidentally locks herself in the basement while her daughter cries in her crib upstairs. She runs to the store and forgets to take the baby into the house. The doctors she contacts for help cut off the ends of her sentences. She finds an abandoned doll on the subway and takes it home, but it has a hard time staying in the same damn place. And through it all we're led to believe Elisabeth's Shues troubles might be caused by spirits in the new house or a manipulative witch masquerading as a kindly, elderly baby-sitter.

In the end she buries her baby in the backyard, thinking it's the doll, so my bet is on post-partum depression.

Probably not the best flick to see when you're one week away from your second trimester. We should've gone with Fast Food Nation.

Apparently all I needed was a little cuddle time with the television

Because after I came home from work on Friday, bawled on my couch for ten minutes for reasons I could barely explain to my own husband, and satisfied my flair for the dramatic with a non-negotiable daily dose of All My Children, all was right with the world. Luke made pizza for dinner, and we watched some Law and Order, and then we spent the rest of the night taking turns on the Wii, he with the newest Legend of Zelda game, me with a download of the original NES Ninja Gaiden, which, may I say, is much more fun to play on the Wii because the hard drive will save your progress. Which means I can continue to try my hand at beating the multi-armed samurai featured in the first world of the fourth level until the end of time.

Saturday was spent doing much of the same, so much of the same, in fact, that neither one of us hit the showers until five o'clock. Luke passed out a few hours later while I warped back in time to the year 1990, the year I discovered the first, the best, the video-game-princess-I-love-more-than-life-itself Zelda, whose graphics are refreshingly one-dimensional and music is catchier than any chart topper on contemporary radio. I couldn't put down my controller until four pieces of the triforce were charged to my care. For intellectual stimulation, we watched Thank You for Smoking (fantastic) and the last few episodes of Big Love (I can't believe I have to wait a freakin' year before the second season is over and available on DVD to find out if the families will be driven out of Utah for their now publicly polygamous ways and how Margie's pregnancy affects her status with the other two wives, who currently treat her like a five-year-old preparing for her first day of kindergarten on a daily basis. Also, I still think Nicki's a bitch, but it was really cool to watch her stand up to Barb's sister, and she actually looked very pretty for the "Beehive Mother of the Year" awards ceremony). I didn't leave our apartment for the entire day. Luke ventured out to the supermarket in the morning, for cinnamon rolls. Bliss.

Our Sunday was equally glorious. We purposefully showered before noon so we could go out to lunch and see a matinee screening of Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, which I thought was a lot of fun and much more worth my money than Spider-Man 3; good thing, too, because by the time the lights went up Luke and I were already engaged in a full-fledged sprint to the bathroom, which caused us to miss a pivotal scene that aired after the ending credits and is rumored to tie up a few loose ends in the plot, which means we will probably see it one more time before the conclusion of its theater run. We ended our day with dinner, dishes, and bills, the latter two chores being mine, and it was a pleasure doing both because Luke has been so good about keeping up on things around here while I moan on the couch, and the dishes were the result of steak and roasted potatoes and I wanted to show my appreciation for his hard work in the kitchen. Also, it was the first time since this whole "morning sickness" started that I actually approached our bills with vigor; as I write out checks and balance our register, I'm always reminded of how lucky we are that we can meet our financial obligations and still put a respectable portion of our earnings into our savings account.

So basically it took me three paragraphs to tell you that I'm feeling much better, and it can only go uphill from here, as Luke and I are leaving on Friday morning for a four-day romp through western Michigan and Mackinac Island, home to the best fudge on Earth. This trip is most likely going to be the last one we take before the baby's arrival, and by George, we're going to make every second count. For real, peeps.

Coffee Talk Wednesday

Somehow, it seems, through no official planning on my own, Wednesday has become our time--the Internet's time--for which I retreat from the worn spot on my couch to bitch to you about the insignificant melodramas that make up my life. I don't like coffee, but I did just gulp down half a glass of orange juice. What's your beverage of choice this evening?

Since it is Wednesday, first things first.

WEIGHT ON 2/28: 135.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 133.8
TOTAL PREGNANCY POUNDS GAINED: -1.8

Pre-pregnancy Frema would be so proud of her bad-ass self for finally keeping her hands out of the Ben and Jerry's, but pregnant Frema is hoping the weight loss will justify the second-trimester cravings she plans on fulfilling the minute she can tolerate foods other than grapes, strawberries, select flavors of yogurt, toast, lemonade, Minute Maid juice boxes, and certain kinds of pizza. No milk, unless with cereal. No water, period. No Cheerios or Fig Newtons. Luke made bacon sandwiches for dinner last night, one of my very favorite foods ever, and I had to force it down. I don't think I've ever eaten so little in my entire life, and that includes my stint with Weight Watchers. My household is definitely ready for the first trimester to be over.

In the meantime, I regularly consult the five-dollar, cheapie Wal-Mart mirror in our bedroom hoping to pinpoint physical evidence that a condition other than an eating disorder is taking over my body, but there's still nothing visible to the naked eye, no matter how many times the well-meaning accountant at work compliments my stomach rolls. "I think someone's pouching out," she exclaims every few days, delighted, and every few days I reply, "Nope. That's just my gut. Seriously. It's that big."

The weird thing is that even though I've lost weight, my pants are somehow eating up all the extra space that should exist between my hips and theirs. Work slacks are fine because the material is stretchy, but jeans are another story. One day I said to hell with it and wore them zipped up but unbuttoned TO THE OFFICE, opting to cover the waistband with an oversized college hoodie from my undergraduate years. Pair that with a fro that's weeks overdue (not to mention weeks away from) a hair cut and a face that can't bear the feel of make-up and you have one smoking woman.

(The face thing is my fault, seeing as I've stopped taking my acne meds because I can only swallow so many pills in one freakin' day and have reduced the application of the topical creams to once every morning. I don't even brush my teeth before going to bed anymore. I'm afraid of my gag reflex.)

(Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?)

The icing on the cake? I had to schedule a doctor's appointment for tomorrow morning because it burns when I pee and there are undeniable signs that a yeast infection is camped out in my nether regions.

Is this TMI for coffee talk?

To wrap things up, I want to thank those of you who've sent in assvice stories thus far. I had originally hoped to post one on Monday, because these gems must be shared with the world, but you know, that would've interfered with the whole laying-on-the-couch master plan, so next week, definitely. Plus, I have plans to blog tomorrow! Two days in a row! I know! It has to do with the graceful way I announced my pregnancy to my boss last week. Just in case you were wondering if it'd be worth it to check back.

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Holy crap, this entry was posted for eight seconds before I realized I forgot to talk about American Idol. Can anybody tell me what the hell Blake is still doing on this show? I mean, his "rock star" rendition of Bon Jovi's "You Give Love A Bad Name" consisted of miming a record player and spitting on his microphone with his JT-wannabe beat box sounds. He has yet to belt out a tune but gets away with changing all of his songs into cookie-cutter techno recordings. And the judges eat him up, even Simon. Why, WHY? At this point, I don't even know who I'm rooting for. Melinda's great, but I don't think her sound is modern enough to sell albums. LaKisha is too diva-like, and Jordin is good but occasionally resorts to cutesy tactics on stage that irritate the shit out of me. What to do, America? What to do?   

What? It's Technically Still Wednesday

Geez, with only sixteen minutes left to Weight Loss Wednesday, you'd think there was bad news to report. But actually, I did myself proud.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.2

Not bad, right? I'm not sure how it happened, really, since not only did I move forward with my plans to indulge in a big, heaping bowl of spinach dip this weekend while my beloved was out of town, I did it TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW. Once on Saturday night while enjoying my long-awaited Sex and the City marathon, and once the night before at a quaint little pub with Jessi, a blog reader who works and attends law school in Indianapolis. I was so nervous about meeting someone whose sole perception of me was based on meticulously crafted entries and goofy pictures that almost always involve Photoshopping some of the acne off my cheeks, so afraid I'd look like an asshole when referencing something from my blog, as if I assumed people had nothing better to do then commit my archives to memory, but the minute I laid eyes on her happy smile outside the Aristocrat in Broadripple, I immediately relaxed and let myself be carried away by good conversation. Which lasted two hours. It was that awesome.

Plus, I felt a little like a rock star when we would delve into a new topic and she knew exactly what I was talking about, like when we were swapping stories about old boyfriends and I'd said only a few words about my second one before Jessi was like, "Oh, when you were Trophy Frema?" And I was like, "Oh, yeah!"

(How many of you have met other bloggers/blog readers? Did you have a similarly awesome experience?)

In other news, I can't deny my feelings any longer. I miss All My Children.

The Bible reading is becoming harder to keep up with, despite my intentionally leaving the Good Book in plain sight on the nightstand instead of tucked away on a shelf halfway across the room, but I still manage to get my time in more often than not. And I still enjoy it and feel like I've learned a lot. However, the absence of AMC from my daily routine is almost impossible to bear. No, I haven't cheated, thanks so much for your faith in me, that is, unless you count desperately flipping through soap mags in the check-out aisle at Target as cheating, which I don't, because I totally didn't learn anything about whether or not Krystal's had her illegitimate baby, Tad knows his own son is (unknowingly) (of course) playing daddy to the long-lost daughter he once thought died in utero, Babe's fake death has been brought to light, or Kendall is still carrying hottie Zach's child. Easter Sunday will indeed be a glorious day, because in addition to celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, I'll also be reprogramming my VCR to record channel six every week day at one o'clock eastern standard time. Let us rejoice and be glad.

On a related note, Carrisa asked me last week why I decided on AMC as my Lenten sacrifice, which was a perfectly valid question; after all, boycotting daytime television doesn't eliminate disease or help the poor or even make a difference to anyone but me. I really wanted to pick something, though, that hit me where it hurt, and if you had any idea how much time I spent catching up on episodes, lurking on message boards, and combing through character bios, you'd know that by the time Lent rolled around this year I was on the verge of obsessed. For my own peace of mind, I wanted to know that I wasn't as dependent on such a shallow form of entertainment as I thought, and when times got tough, I tried to remember how insignificant my sacrifice was when compared to what Jesus did for us, even though it was an insanely important part of my life. I love the history and the characters and the laughable plots and the inappropriate wardrobe choices made for Susan Lucci (how many times did she wear strapless dresses in November, girlfriends? How many?) and the guilty-pleasure escapism provided by the great and wonderful land of Pine Valley, but I had to prove to myself I could take a step back when that love got out of control.

How about the rest of you fellow Lenten observers? Are you happy with the choices you made regarding your own Easter sacrifice? (If in fact you gave anything up in the first place; I know not every Christian denomination does this.) How did you do? What did you learn?

P.S. Both Bethiclaus and David have decided to take the WLW plunge. Let's show 'em some love, shall we?

At One Point, I Even Liked Titanic

First things first. Deal or No Deal. It was on tonight. For two hours. And during the first sixty minutes? Firefighters. It was a blessed, blessed thing. (Although wait, my dad is a lieutenant for the Chi-town fuego department, so that might be weird) very nice. Even better was the twenty-four-year-old Hot Dog on a Stick employee who was pulled from her usual routine of squeezing lemonades and refilling ketchup bottles to win sixty-two thousand dollars. Apparently Shell had been with the hot dog place for nine years. She didn't have any children to support, and her arms and legs bore no evidence of track marks, so I'm not sure which events in her life led to the questionably long tenure, exactly, but I'm hoping her newfound wealth provides her with ample motivation to give them notice, buy a suit, and snag an interview with a more upscale establishment, like, I don't know, Barnes and Noble. Then she could afford a copy of Suze Orman's Women and Money and really make something of her life.

Secondly, you can all sleep soundly tonight, for yesterday I finally succumbed to the gods of the gag-me-with-a-spoon genre and watched The Notebook. My sisters love The Notebook. My friend Trina hung up on me when she found out I was watching it because she felt guilty about keeping us apart. And when Silly Hily learned via Google Chat that I found the movie for a measly four bucks last Christmas, bought it, and then returned it for a refund, she said--and I quote--"If I knew you in person and saw you on a regular basis, I would beat you the next five times I saw you." That was probably the kicker.

Two hours later, I was quietly sobbing over my corned beef and cabbage leftovers, because Jeez Louise, who wouldn't cry at the thought of a dying old woman suffering from Alzheimer's who can't recognize her own husband, a man who has nothing better to do than read aloud scribbles from a college-ruled, tattered journal? If Luke hadn't chosen to join me for the last ten minutes, I could've gone all out with the yelling and pulling out of my hair, but in an effort to maintain some semblance of dignity, I conjured up a scene from an early episode of Scrubs, the one where Bob the dementia patient randomly tackled various hospital staff out of nowhere while shouting, "Who am I?!" Did you guys catch that one? It was really funny.

Seriously, though, I'm a sucker for tales of gut-wrenching misfortune. Like the time a few years ago, when I was flipping through the channels at my parents' house and ended up using the belly of my sweatshirt as a hankerchief because there was a movie on Lifetime in which an entire town was reeling from a hurricane slash flood slash tornado slash any other natural disaster you can think of, and an elderly couple and their adult children were loading onto a small boat to head for safety because said natural disaster was on its way back any minute, and the mother said she couldn't do it, couldn't leave the house her father had built with his own two hands to be carried away by the ravenous appetite of the Earth, so the father decided to stay behind and drown with her, and the adult children floated away on their life raft, while the couple stood frozen with fear in their living room, clutching to each other while swirls of water danced around their ankles.

Even though my entire knowledge base for this small-screen masterpiece had been accumulated in fewer than eight minutes, my eyes were blurry with tears, and I felt like the spirit of the Lifetime Network had captured my heart and slurped out its essence with a straw, because the love, it was REAL, people. And the couple's impending death? Well, that just fucking sucked.

I also remember losing it over Go Towards the Light, another made-for-TV movie, about a little boy who was diagnosed with AIDS, and if you're looking for a good reason to hiccup into your pillow at two o'clock in the morning, just imagine a mother holding on to her son while he takes his last, ragged breath, encouraging him to--you guessed it--go towards the light. Go ahead, read the quotes. If you can make it to "My heart took a picture" with a dry face, there's simply no hope for you or that withered vessel you call a soul.

The Notebook was good. Young love and social prejudice always make for a fun time, and I adored Rachel McAdams's forties wardrobe, and Ryan Gosling's house rocked the casbah, and the sex scenes.... Well, let's just say I wouldn't mind replaying the extended versions in my head on those nights when Luke is out of town. Or running to the store for milk. But ultimately it was one predictable cliche, starting with Noah's insistence that Allie lay in the street with him because she needed to do something for herself for once, or something. Whatever.

I'm surprised that I wasn't more taken by the movie, but I think I'm drawn to snappier love stories, ones with sharper wit, like When Harry Met Sally or While You Were Sleeping. However, I do have a soft spot for How To Make An American Quilt, which documents the life of a young Winona Ryder as she prepares to marrry, gathering anecdotes from the women in her life about their own romantic hardships and struggles with love. Just like the old couple dying in the flood, I cried because the characters' histories felt so real to me, so true, and at the tender age of fifteen, it was impossible to fathom that one day I would have a love story, a history to share with other women, and my own lessons to share. Plus, Claire Danes was in it and I was hooked on My So-Called Life, so there you go.

C'mon, ladies and gents, have at it. Which flicks turn on your water faucets?

Priorities

Last night Luke and I were plowing through the aisles of Super Target, accumulating items scribbled onto our first shopping list of the month, and it was within the first ten minutes of our entering the store that my loyalty to The Spreadsheet was tested.

We were strolling through the electronics section searching for possible gift ideas for my brother-in-law when, through a series of red-and-white sales tags strategically positioned at eye level, the TV kiosk announced that every season of Sex and the City was available for an impressive twenty bucks a pop. I gasped and clutched at my heart over the wool of my pea coat, so excited that I thought Luke was going to have to fetch the eyeballs that had just somersaulted out of my head. My fingers reached up to caress the case for season three, as I already have the first two and the second half of season six (purchased in a frenzy almost two years ago when Luke's VCR missed the last ten minutes of the series finale on TBS); the unedited unfolding of Big and Carrie's extramarital affair could be mine, all mine, for the price of Women and Money, Suze Orman's latest book, purchased the night before at Barnes and Noble. Ms. Orman is constantly inspiring me with her frank approach to personal finance, and the gems I gleaned from her Money Book for the Young, Fabulous & Broke helped me to choose funds for my 401(k) account at work, and their average annual rate of return seems to hover around eight percent, thank you very much, thus cinching my undying devotion. Plus, I am a woman and I have money. It's like Suze wrote it just for me!

However, making a decision about the DVD was more difficult, because you see, Luke and I only allotted fifty dollars for miscellaneous spending this month, and my upcoming hair cut in Chicago will cost exactly that much with tip, so I was already kicking myself a little for buying the book but figured the difference could be offset through thriftiness in other areas of our budget. The cost of the DVD coupled with the hair cut would definitely leave March in the red.

There was one possible solution to this dilemma that would allow me to walk away with the book, the DVD, AND the hair cut: postponing the purchase of my salon-brand shampoo and conditioner and opting for a cheap knock-off brand to tide me over until April, at which point all budget lines would be replenished and I could blow the thirty dollars with a clear conscience.

(Yes, I realize how selfish I am for hoarding our miscellaneous dollars for frivolous indulgences, but Luke made out like a bandit for his birthday last month, and I have already directed the appropriate prayers to God asking for guidance in being a better wife. Together, the three of us have it covered.)

So, there they were, my two choices, each one threatening equally horrific consequences. Do I restock my ISO products and forfeit the chance to add to my sorely lacking Sex collection when I know damn well the next big sale might not be 'til I'm thirty-eight years old, or do I subject my hair to the pooptasticness of Garnier Fructis so I can spend my free time picking apart Charlotte's first husband?

It's unfair for any woman to find herself in the throes of such polarizing circumstances, and I hope it never happens to you, Internet ladies, because either way, such a woman is going to suffer.

But I know I made the right choice.

Sarah Jessica Parker would be so proud.

Of course it was all for naught, because when I came home and examined March's budget I found that seventy-one dollars and ninety-one cents had been unaccounted for. So I hopped over to Beauty First and bought the ISO refills after all.

(J/K, peeps. Totally waiting for April.)

While I had the camera out and about, for some reason I felt it necessary to document proof that I really am trying to be more budget conscious.

See that compact? I bought a new one last October, at a point when I thought this puppy was days away from crapping out on me, so imagine my surprise that the powder is still holding its own as I rub my cotton ball in circles over the metal face for ten minutes, determined to squeeze every last drop from a foundation that costs twenty-one fifty. If I wore make-up more often, it would've been retired to the garbage can around Christmas, but as I fight with various dermatological products to finally get my acne under control and weep over the massive afro poof that has become my hair, I haven't really been in the mood to subject myself to further prettification. I'm counting on you, Brenda, is all I'm saying.

Tragic Love Friday: Coming at you like a spider monkey

Well, our free two-week trial with Blockbuster Online is officially over. Our first monthly payment of ten dollars and fifty-nine cents was charged to our Visa on February 25th, but do you know how many movies we saw in February? Six. SIX MOVIES FOR ELEVEN DOLLARS. This is record-breaking for us, and reason enough to establish a permanent love affair with ordering films online.

It all started on the thirteenth when we received the eagerly anticipated Click (which was very good and even made me cry a little). After we'd had our fill of Adam Sandler shenanigans, we brought it to our local Blockbuster chain because online mailers double as coupons for free rentals in the store, which is how we came across The Illusionist (highly recommend), which in turn held us over until the first two episodes of Big Love arrived while Luke was away on business. That weekend we returned The Illusionist and used the Big Love mailer to score The Grudge 2, which I feel obligated to inform you was not a good decision. Meanwhile, our account had been credited with an e-coupon for a free rental just for signing up with BB online, so we redeemed it for A Sound of Thunder, another questionable choice but Edward Burns was kind of cute so it wasn't all for nothing.

On Tuesday we received Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, and that movie is so damn hysterical we had to watch it twice. Shake and bake!

"We could watch this every day for the rest of our lives without paying any late fees!" I informed Luke in a sort of awed wonder.

"Or we could just buy it," he said.

There is that.

So yes, this newfangled idea of renting online is working out splendidly, mainly because we're not limited to renting online and we keep getting coupons for additional rentals. Some of the thirty-five titles currently stored in our queue include The Departed, Lady in the Water, Adaptation (which I first watched for a screenwriting class in grad school and can't wait to see again), Proof, Fantastic Four, the first season of 90210, and The Notebook.

Speaking of notebooks (OMG, what a fantastic segue), we are down to the last fifteen pages for the first serial of Tragic Love Friday. Next week will showcase the final installment, and then it's on you guys to come up with a really hysterical summary for this tale of questionable morals and unbridled passion. Remember? Not only will you be performing a huge service for potential part-two readers, but you'll also score yourself an opportunity to relive the days when Brenda Walsh ripped holes in the knees of her jeans and Brian Silver's cousin accidentally killed himself wearing a cowboy hat (or something). What about that sentence isn't appealing?

Some of you expressed concern over the guidelines I laid out, but really, don't pay them any mind. Just summarize the story as you remember it. If I receive multiple submissions, which I REALLY hope I do, I'd like to feature them all, so if you miss something, chances are another reader will pick up the slack. You're also allowed to team up with other bloggers to present The Mother Of All Summaries, but then it's up to you to figure out what to do about the DVDs, because dudes, I love you, but not enough to contribute seventy dollars of 90210 goodness to the World Wide Web when I'm stuck renting it all online.

Here we go, my pretties. The second-to-last installment. Cherish it while you can. 

-------

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - JENNA (CONTINUED)

"You're sure you want to do this?" Michael asked, once again in the driver's seat.

"Positive."

A few hours had passed since I made my decision. We were just about 3 miles from the Illinois border. The area was deserted.

"Stop here," I cried suddenly.

"Why?"

"I - I don't want to go back yet. Give me till tomorrow. Then I'll give her back."

Michael pulled over and parked near a cornfield. He squeezed my hand. "It'll be harder if you wait," he said softly. [That's what my first boyfriend said when he wanted to have sex!] "Just give me till tomorrow," I pleaded. He nodded.

I fed Katherine some formula, then Mike and I ate a little lunch. "I'm proud of you," he said out of the blue.

"Why?"

"I know how hard giving Kayla back Katherine [Awkward Phrasing, how I've missed thee!] will be for you. It won't be a great experience for me, either. I've grown to like the little tyke." He smiled at the baby and tickled her under the chin. She squealed with delight.

"I'll be alone again, Michael." I shuddered and wrapped my arms around my chest. "You'll never be alone as long as I'm around." My friend gazed at me with such intensity, I had to look away. "So much has changed in such a short amount of time. It's scary when you think about it." I yawned. "I'm so tired."

"So am I. Why don't you sleep in the backseat with Katherine, and I'll sleep at the wheel."

"No," I argued. "You've been driving for hours. You sleep back here, too." His face flushed. [I thought you'd never ask!] I felt myself turn red, also. "I mean...if you could just hold me, protect me. That's what angels do," I teased. [But do angels help emotionally unbalanced women kidnap children from maximum-security correctional facilities? Now's not the time to quibble over job descriptions, Jenna.] He smiled shyly and made himself comfortable in the backseat, while I snuggled against him. Katherine was asleep in my arms. It would have made a pretty picture.

I closed my eyes and let sleep take over me.

[This girl so owes Michael a blow job. Really. At this point the poor boy's balls must be bluer than the sky.]

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - KAYLA

I was pacing back and forth in my cell when the officer who was handling my case, Officer Kujak came barging in. [This name sounded so authoritative to me at the time, kind of like Columbo or McGyver. A Kujak could carry his own show, don't you think?] "We have news about your baby, Evans," he informed me.

I felt my body come to life. "How is she? WHERE is she?"

"A woman spotted a car that matches the description of suspect Jenna Meddows."

"In Illinois?"

"No. Wisconsin."

I ran my fingers through my hair. "Is she alive? What's being done?"

"The witness didn't think about the car until she heard about the kidnapping on the news. She was already back in Chicago by then." Kujak checked his watch. "Me and 3 other squad cars are on our way any minute. I've got to notify the Wisconsin police."

"No!" I cried. "If she sees police, she might panic and hurt Katherine." My shoulders sagged, and I felt like crying again. "She's got a butcher knife."

"OK; you might be right. Now I've got to go." [Members of the law are so easily influenced by the flawed yet seemingly reasonable logic of civilians! This kind of exchange happens in Lifetime movies all the time.] He turned to go. I grabbed his arm desparately. "Wait! Take me, too."

"Are you crazy?"

"Maybe. But I have to be there when you find my baby. Please! You can cuff me, gag me [hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me], whatever!" Kujak grabbed my arm and cuffed my hands behind my back. "I'll see," he said.

We were gone in 5 minutes. Please don't hurt her, Jenna, I thought as we drove to Wisconsin. If my baby's OK, I can forgive you. "How long until we're there?" I asked. He checked his watch. "It's 4:00 PM now. We should be there by 6:30."

I couldn't get there fast enough.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - MICHAEL

I woke up from a fitful sleep at around six. I had gotten up twice to change and feed Katherine, letting Jenna sleep. She needed it more than I.

[Jeez Louise, she's had the kid fewer than twenty-four hours and already she's a lazy mother. Michael's like a single dad, only with no actual children!]

I got out of the car and stretched. The sky was shades of pink and blue. Such a beautiful setting, such a sad situation. In the car, my love stirred. I saw her sit up and blink her eyes sleepily [probably rolling Katherine onto the floor in the process]. I went to take the baby from her [See? He knows she can't be trusted] and motioned her to join me. She sat on the hood of the car, hugging her legs to her chest. She was so beautiful. I sighed. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," I lied, a lump rising in my throat. Tell her, tell her! my mind was shouting. "A lot of things are going to happen after Katherine's returned," I commented. "We'll be put in prison."

Jenna shook her head. "Only if Kayla presses charges against us." [You know, because the state of Illinois has no qualms with you stealing babies from their facility. One less mouth to feed!]

"You don't think she will?"

"No. She knows why I did it. She'll forgive me."

"What are you going to do?" I asked. She looked thoughtful; thoughtful and sad, too. "I can't go home. Things are too different."

"Where will you go?"

"Far away from here." She laughed bitterly. "My parents will hug me, write me a huge check, and then I'm gone."

"You can't go," I whispered. "I'll miss you." [Please don't go, girl. Never ever go away....]

She smiled. "I'll miss you, too."

"Jenna." I mustered up all my courage. "I - I love you." [Go, Mikey, go! You can do it!] She looked surprised, then said, "I love you, too, Mike. You're my best friend."

"You don't understand. I love you, Jenna. I'm in love with you, and I need you here with me." I was so scared, I could have cried. How would she react?

[Oh my gosh, I'm so nervous for him! My heart is pounding like crazy as I type this.]

Jenna shook her head. "You're just confused. You can't love me."

I secured Katherine in jackets and blankets in the backseat, and I left the car door open [so someone else could kidnap her?]. Then I grabbed Jenna's hands and gazed into her eyes intensely. "I do. I think I fell in love with you the first day I met you. You're the first thing I think about in the morning, and the last thing at night. It hurt so much when you were pregnant with David's child, because I wanted you for myself."

[Um, thanks for being happy my baby is dead?]

I leaned closer until her face was inches from mine. "I love you so much it hurts," I whispered. "I can't live without you now." Ever so softly, I kissed her lips. My hand reached to caress her cheek, and I kissed her again, only with more passion. She responded slowly. Soon, she was in my arms. Her fingers played with the hair at the nape of my neck. I kissed her forehead, and her eyelids. [That last part was creepy. I don't want anyone kissing my eyelids.] "I would die without you," I whispered in her ear.

I shouldn't have mentioned death. She stiffened and pushed me away. "No," she cried. "This can't happen. You're my best friend."

"I can be more," I said, hurt by her resistance. "I want to be more. Can't you see that?"

"You're just lonely for someone," she insisted.

Tears sprang to my eyes. "Don't you love me, even a little?" Jenna started to cry, too. "I - I don't know." I grabbed her shoulders. "You have to know!! I need to know!"

[OK, OK, I love you. Just please don't hit me again!]

[Also, I don't know why I put so much emphasis on "you" and "I" in the above paragraph, when really "have" and "need" were the ones who warranted extra attention.]

"I don't know," she sobbed. "Even if I do, I can't get involved with you. Love hurts too much! David said he loved me, and then he went to Kayla!"

"I'm not David! I'm Michael; I'll never hurt you!"

"Raise your hands where I can see you! This is the police! I repeat, put you're hands where I can see them!" I turned around and lifted my arms above my head. During our conversation [read: hottie make-out session], policemen had slowly surrounded the car. Jenna, looking terrified, did what I did.

It was all over.

-------

And now it's all over for me. Except for two more quotes from Talladega Nights, because really, so hilarious.

"Dear little baby Jesus, who's sittin' in his crib watchin' the Baby Einstein videos, learnin' 'bout shapes and colors, I would like to thank you for bringin' me and my momma together, and also that my kids no longer sound like retarded gang-bangers."

"I wet my bed until I was nineteen. There's no shame in that."

Hakuna Matata, bitches!

(OK, three quotes. Go see this movie!)

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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

OMG, I am so glad this week is over. Work is climaxing in regards to story load, but at least the end is near. Luke spent two days this week out of town and will embark on another excursion next Tuesday, a day trip to South Carolina, and works late hours himself in between. Our little four-foot tree was assembled over the weekend but as of today is still naked, its ornamental dressings tucked neatly away in tupperware bins currently camping out under the breakfast bar, and I haven't watched All My Children since the first of the month, which means I've missed all the drama surrounding Simone's death and most of the hype over daytime television's first transgender character, neither of which I'm losing any sleep over, seeing as Simone's been pigeon-holed into a slutty businesswoman stereotype for the last two years and the transgender guy is played by an actor who guest starred on the show a few months back as a mega-bucks recording artist named Zarf who read fortunes from tea leaves and framed his eyes with liner as a throwback to Ricky Vasquez from My So-Called Life. The guy was annoying enough in a temporary role; why couldn't they give this potentially ground-breaking storyline to a character already on the canvas?

Plus, it's barely 10:30 and I've already eaten my lunch.

Sometimes Tragic Love Friday is the only thing keeping me from ripping off my own earlobes.

Along that vein, can I just say your comments on these entries will go down in history as my absolute favorite? I so appreciate you patronizing me as I relive my obsession with these imaginary people, people I know so well I could swear I see them shopping in Super Target for flank steak and margarine tubs. To date this series (yes, series, there's a sequel, aren't you lucky?) is still the most significant writing project I've ever tackled, a writing project I'm extremely proud of, even with all its flaws, even though the plot is no better than the most predictable Harlequin romance novel. You guys rock for making my fourteen-year-old self feel so damn special.

But enough with the emotional sentiments. We have a one-night stand to resolve.

-------

CHAPTER THREE - KAYLA (CONTINUED)

When I woke up, he was gone. It wasn't even light out yet, and the fire had gone out long ago.

I slowly put on my shirt and robe, and then I ran upstairs to my room. I crawled into bed and then the tears began to fall. I pressed my face into my pillow and sobbed, my whole body shaking. I remembered the sincerity in his voice when David told me he loved me.

"I love you, too," I whispered.

Eventually I cried myself into a dreamless sleep.

[Don't feel bad, Kayla. My first time sucked, too. It was the summer before I left for college, with Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went Three Weeks Without Calling, the guy I couldn't seem to keep away from. Afterwards he walked me home and hung out for exactly ten minutes before he made some lame excuse about having to get up early the next morning even though he was unemployed. I remember sitting on our deck outside, holding my stomach and sobbing, praying to God Nick would come back and just sit with me a while, not to talk, but to remind me I wasn't alone, reassure me I hadn't made a mistake. That night I felt so alone.]

[Way to bring down Tragic Love Friday, Frema. Could I BE any more cheerful? Jeez.]

* * *

"Kayla? Kayla, honey, get up."

I opened my eyes. My mother was shaking me. "What time is it?"

"Almost 1:00." She put a hand on my forehead. "Are you feelin' OK? You're so pale."

I sat up. "I'm fine."

"Cassie just called. That's why I came up. She said she'd be stopping over in a while. If you're hungry, your dad just bought ham. We're going out for a while now. Will you be OK?" I nodded, and she left me alone. I heard the front door slam a few minutes later.

I climbed out of bed and stared into the mirror. Mom was right. My normal peaches-and-cream complexion was now pale, and my eyes were bloodshot from crying. [And her mother thought she was fine? What the hell was she smoking? Also, since when does sexual intercourse result in cause for dermatological concern?] "I look like a ghost," I said to myself.

After taking a shower and putting on some make up, I looked a little better. Maybe when Cassie came over, she wouldn't notice that something was wrong.

Fat chance. When she came over an hour later, she took one look at my face and asked, "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying to me. If you don't want to talk about it, then say so."

"Cassie, I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine. Wanna go see a movie? We can go see 'ACE VENTURA, PET DETECTIVE' at the dollar cinema."

[How sad is it that the only film I could think to advertise in my story was one that highlighted Jim Carrey talking with his ass cheeks?]

I smiled. [See, even Kayla's laughing at me now.] "Sure." I knew she wouldn't push me to say what's wrong. She knew I'd tell her when I was ready.

At the theater, I couldn't focus on the movie. I kept having flashbacks of the night before. By the time the movie was over, I was crying. People were giving me strange looks. Cassie took me outside. "What's going on? Why were you crying?"

"The - the movie was just so sad," I lied. She gave me a 'Kayla-you're-looney look. "Kayla, 'ACE VENTURA' is a comedy." [I'm thinking the ass-cheek bit tipped her off.] She folded her arms. "Now what is wrong?"

"Oh Cassie!" I started to cry and hiccup at the same time. My friend crushed me in a hug. "Talk to me, girl!"

I shook my head. "I can't. Not yet. I'll tell you when it doesn't hurt so much."

She nodded. "Just tell me: does it have anything to do with my brother?"

"Yes." She nodded again. "It figures. I bet that he'll come around soon, Kay. He can't be too serious about Jenna." [They're only ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED.]

"You're right," I answered sarcastically. "He got her pregnant because he had nothing better to do."

"It was probably a one-time thing." [I think Cassie's in a deeper state of denial than Kayla is.]

"No," I stated firmly. "David wouldn't use anyone." Last night came to mind. I blushed.

Cassie laughed and ran her fingers through her short dark brown hair. [I always pictured Cassie as a Jo look-alike from Melrose Place, and now you can, too!] "My brother's not a saint, Kayla. Believe me!"

"I know, but he's a good person." She hugged me again. "Yeah, but he makes mistakes. His biggest one was leaving you. Jenna will ruin him."

Silently, I vowed to save David from the clutches of Jenna.

He loved me better anyway.

[Yes, Kayla. He love you long time. For about eight minutes.]

* * *

David called me later that night. I knew what he would say to me before he said it. [More psychic abilities! That's the third character so far.] "Kayla, about last night--"

"Please don't say you're sorry," I interrupted. "I'm not."

"I'm not either. But...Jenna has my child, and I do love her. I can't leave her. Not now."

"I wont hold you to anything you did or said last night. I know you were drunk," I said softly.

"I wasn't that drunk. [Except for when you were so very, very drunk.] When I said I loved you, I meant every word. But I can't leave Jenna. She needs me too much."

[Because every woman dreams of a man who makes five bucks an hour handing out Big Macs and can't keep his mouse in the house.]

All my plans of taking David away from Jenna went down the drain. It would hurt David, and his daughter, too.

"Good luck with your daughter and...everything else," I said, tears in my eyes. "Do you have a name for her?"

"Mary Katherine." I smiled through my tears. "That's pretty."

"Good-bye, Kayla," he said. "Take care of yourself."

"I will. Good-bye," I said quickly and hung up the phone.

I cried all night because I knew it was really over.

END OF PART ONE

-------

Well, now that everyone's good and depressed, have a nice weekend!

Just kidding. Before you go, tell me your thoughts on the characters so far. What do you think of them? Who do you feel for more, Jenna or Kayla? Whose death would upset you the most?

Not that a major character dies in part two or anything.

I mean. Um. Yeah.

Romantic Comedy My Ass

A few weeks ago, Luke and I rented The Break-Up. And to my surprise, it was actually about a break-up. Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn played a couple who'd been together for a couple of years, bought a townhouse, and communicated so badly they were ready to call it quits.

The movie sat with me for a couple of days in an uncomfortable sort of way, like I'd just removed my glass from the adjoining wall of my neighbor's bedroom, listening to intimate conversations not meant for a stranger's ear drums. I've always been bothered by couples who argue in public, because those arguments are just that--intimate. They provoke frustrations and anger, assign hurt and blame, raise every doubt you've ever had to the surface. It's a miracle anyone ever makes it to the altar.

Luke and I are married six months today, and I think a lot about what it takes to make a relationship work. Who could blame me? Not a day goes by that somebody isn't breaking up, in Hollywood, at work, even in my own circle of friends. Each pairing starts out in faith, with hope, in love, and yet they allow one of those emotions to die in its sleep.

I think a lot of it is due to laziness, simply because it's so easy to be selfish. I've exnayed walks in the park to catch up on soap operas; frowned upon one of Luke's video game purchases after spending a hundred dollars on new clothes; ditched Victoria's Secret lingerie for the comfortable fabric of an oversized tee shirt. I'll let the entire evening pass in a quiet stew, answer "Nothing" when he asks what's wrong, only to unveil my anger at the exact moment he wants to turn off the lights for bed. I'm often guilty of neglecting and disrespecting the very union I swore to God in front of family and friends I'd put above everything else.

But God understands I'm not perfect, and so does Luke. He sees past my shortcomings in the same way I overlook his (most of the time--I'm still not a fan of the water puddles that form around the bathroom sink after he washes his face). In this first year of marriage, I believe we're learning how to see the forest for the trees, realizing no matter how bad a situation might seem in the moment, it'll only count for a small part of our life together, and each bad spot has to be approached with the confidence that it's going to get better. No more peeking over the fence for greener pastures, no more entertaining the "what ifs." On our wedding day, we promised not to give up on each other, and that means having the guts to answer tough questions, to rise above the monotony of the day-to-day, to cop to all of your hang-ups and admit you can't always be right. I'm sure many people who get married are incompatible from the very beginning but are too proud to admit it until later, while others could've made it but were too intimidated by all the work they'd have to do to fix their problems.

In The Break-Up, I'm not sure what kind of couple Gary and Brooke were, but I know it broke my heart to watch them fight, because their issues were so real, because they never took a step back to examine the big picture. What was probably a good thing ultimately failed because they were each too concerned with proving their point. Which they did.

But at a pretty steep price.

Sorry, Isabel, But I'll Probably Never Watch Veronica Mars or (Gasp!) Project Runway

For the first time since Friends went off the air and 24 and Scrubs were moved to spring premieres, I'm actually enjoying the new fall television season. If so inclined, I could theoretically watch one new show every night of the work week. The current Frema-Useless Clutter line-up is as follows:

Monday:
Deal or No Deal
Heroes

Tuesday:
Law and Order: Criminal Intent
Law and Order: Special Victims Unit

Wednesday:
Bones (when we remember)

Thursday:
My Name is Earl (occasionally)
The Office
Deal or No Deal

Friday:
Law and Order
Deal or No Deal

Deal or No Deal. Oh, man, I love this show. There's something about wanting to win a shitload of money that everybody can connect to, that makes everybody root for the underdog, because if they can do it, by God, why not you? I love holding my breath as Howie instructs each model to "open the case;" I love trying to remember all the models' names, as it was just last week I realized each case is always opened by the same woman; I love imagining what I would do if I were the contestant and the banker was offering me two hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars to turn over my case, which, hello, the possibility of a million bucks can't compare to the reality of paying off my student loan debt and paying for a starter home in full.

Heroes is good. After watching the first episode, I thought the premise would've been better suited for a miniseries, because how can they maintain such heightened drama for an entire season? It's working so far, though, and I'm anxious to see what happens next. The characters are pretty intriguing, and I'm loving Hiro, the little Japanese man who can travel through time. I like Claire, but I can't look at her without pondering how much she resembles the snot-nose hussy in Roseanne who was always trying to get with Darlene's boyfriend and wondering if she's an actual blonde. I'm not sure what Nikki's heroic abilities are, unless you call stripping for the Internet in your garage and summoning a Sybil-like alter ego to threaten menacing gangsters heroic, and the young Dr. Suresh is without any supernatural abilities at all. It'll be interesting to see how this storyline progresses, that's for sure.

I've always been a fan of the Law and Order franchise, particularly SVU, and back when I had cable, it wasn't uncommon for me to succomb to the nightly four-hour marathons on USA. Once I cut myself off from the good stuff, I convinced myself that weekly prime time does could never be good enough. Now, a year later, I have returned to the show once again, finally experiencing the joy that is watching brand-new episodes on their original air dates. However, I have no idea what happened to Olivia, some blond woman whose cop husband was murdered by a couple of punks is posing as Elliot's new partner, and Munch is trying to get in the pants of one of the forensic pathologists. A little help, anyone?

Bones is good, but for some reason, Wednesday is a hard day to remember to flip through the channels. Plus, I have to catch up on All My Children sometime.

My Name is Earl. Back in college, I was a huge Kevin Smith fan and took weekly Internet quizzes testing the breadth of my knowledge regarding Smithsonian dialogue from Clerks, Mallrats, and Chasing Amy. ("I'm not even supposed to be here today!" "In the back of a Volkswagon?" "I brought a lunch, and a soda, and I'm not leaving until I see this sailboat everyone keeps talking about.") When I heard Jason Lee (aka Brodie/aka Banky) was headlining his own show with none other than the sailboat man himself, I was so psyched.

And then I watched it.

It's not that the show is bad, exactly, but there's no oompf. No spark. No clever wit. That's all been reserved for The Office, which rivals Scrubs as the funniest show on the airwaves. If you don't agree, either a) you've not watched the show, in which case you deserve to have a nine-inch stiletto thrown at your forehead, or b) you watched the show and didn't think it was funny due to the large pinecone hiberating in your nether regions, in which case, you deserve to have a nine-inch stiletto THROWN AT YOUR FREAKIN' FOREHEAD. I can't believe Luke and I didn't discover the series until the end of the second season, at the height of Jim and Pam's sexual tension. So riveting!

There's a lot of talk about television on the Internet, about shows I've never seen and probably never will. Veronica Mars? I have no idea what this show is about. Project Runway? It's like The Apprentice for fashion designers, right? Where's the fun in that?

Just another reason I'll never be an A-list blogger.

(Quick, somebody check on Isabel. I have a feeling she's clutching at her chest and shouting unmentionable obscenities in the direction of the Midwest.)

What are you all diggin' right now?

In Which I'm Given Two Reasons To Babble About All My Children

You know that a meme has gone totally sour when your blogging partner in crime says, "I totally forgot about those things!"

For your sake and mine, let's just get this over with.

At one point, but probably not so much now, Lizzy wanted to know:

Where is and what is in your "junk drawer"?

Both as a child and an adult, no matter where I've lived, the kitchen has always been home to the family junk drawer, and Luke's and my current apartment is no exception. For some reason, the kitchen is always the room with the leftover drawer space. Are they intentionally designed this way? Is anybody's junk drawer NOT in the kitchen? Inquiring minds want to know.

Behold, the evidence.

If I were more skilled in Photoshop I would've put numbers on each item and wrote funny captions enclosed in cartoonish thought bubbles, but I'm not, and there are too many thingamajigs to cover each one, anyway, so this is what you get. From where I'm sitting, I see candles we forget to burn, redeemable stamps from whitewater rafting trips with Saint Joe, batteries, scissors, paper clips used to seal half-eaten bags of chips, a glue stick, tape, an extra sponge for the George Foreman grill, the lining paper I used to address our wedding invitations, and other miscellaneous necessities. Nothing terribly exciting; it's not even that full, since I make a habit of cleaning it out every couple of months.

God, I'm boring. Why are you even here?

Ever have a celebrity run-in in which you behaved like an absolute ass?

Glory be, I actually have an answer to this question. The celeb in question is former AMC hottie Mark Consuelos. Let me 'splain.

While it's true my current soap habit started couple of years ago, it was first born at the impressionable age of thirteen, thanks to my Auntie Donna, who babysat two of my cousins when my Auntie Debbie was at work. In between diapering, feeding, and entertaining a newborn, she managed to keep up with Days of Our Lives, and on one of my visits, I came across an episode where Vivian had buried Carly alive in a desperate attempt to keep her from romancing Laurence and Marlena was frolicking about behind closed doors with John, who'd been brainwashed by Stefano to believe he was Roman Brady, Marlena's long-lost husband, who had just resurfaced to reclaim his life.

Thirteen was a hard age for me, and I kept to myself a lot, so it was easy to embrace this new world. I became so enraptured with the soap genre I eventually added three more shows to the roster, spending the majority of that summer glued to Days, All My Children, One Life to Life, and General Hospital.

Fast-forward to 1995, when I was a sophomore in high school and not so dependent on daytime television, though I was still a huge fan of Days, and had a newfound interest in prime time, mainly due to an attraction the entire male cast of Party of Five (minus Owen, of course). It was around this time I had a short stint selling fudge at McCormick Place in Chicago, and one particular auto convention boasted of a panel of small-screen celebrities who were available for personal meetings, autographs, and the like. It featured actors from both shows--Jason Brooks (Days's Peter Blake), and Michael A. Goorjian (Party of Five's Justin). There was also a third star, Mark Consuelos, but since I hadn't kept up with AMC and Mark had only recently joined the cast, I didn't have the foggiest idea who he was.

On one of my breaks I stood in line for twenty minutes, waiting eagerly to participate in some inappropriate snuggling with men ten to twenty years older than my awkward, freshly dumped self.

I was not disappointed.

It's the second shot that gets me the most, as I remember throwing a quick nod in Mark's direction before promptly helping myself to Michael Goorjian's lap. Mark was the only one of the three who didn't receive my request for an autograph, as I wasn't sure his John Hancock was worth another three bucks. See how jealous he looks? And now he's the only one who still has a career. I sure know how to pick 'em.

What's your favorite joke to tell?

Anybody who knows me even a little bit will tell you I suck at telling jokes; thus, my favorite joke to tell is also the easiest one to remember, thus eliminating the possibility of forgetting the punchline.

Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven eight nine!

I first heard this joke from my parents when I was nine. We were all amazed at its cleverness, which possibly explains where I get my sense of humor from.

Eight years ago, Lost A Sock wondered:

What is the current color on your toenails?

Part of the reason I put off answering last round for so long is this very question. The last time I sported paint on my toes was August, but I didn't want to admit to the Internet that I waddled through the end of the summer with bare feet, so I vowed not to post a response until I had properly rectified the situation. Well, weeks went by, with my toes still shamelessly naked, so this morning I made the executive decision to skip the polish and go for the funny, mentally drafting an answer along the lines of "While I'm lacking in the personal pedicure area, my feet aren't totally neglected. I do shave the hair on my big toe from time to time," imagining everyone would enjoy a hearty laugh in appreciation of my comedic skill.

Then I read Amalah's latest post, after which I could only assume Amy called upon her trusty mind-reading powers to steal my toe-hair thunder. Thus, my new answer is:

Nothing.

If not a writer or a SAHM, what's your next career choice?

Something that allows me to interact less with my computer and more with living, breathing human beings, like a teacher or a career counselor. A friend of mine in Saint Joe's English department once brought up the idea of me presenting a course on online writing in an adjunct capacity, so I'm curious to see if that ever comes to fruition.

In a perfect world, if Erica Kane could marry any man and live happily ever after, who would that man be?

The answer to this question requires some major soul-searching on my part. Currently on her tenth husband, there's been no shortage of marital bliss (and unbliss) in Erica's life. The roll call is as follows:

1. 1971- Jeff Martin
2. 1975- Phil Brent
3. 1978- Tom Cudahy
4. 1984- Adam Chandler
5. 1987- Travis Montgomery
6. 1990- Travis Montgomery
7. 1991- Adam Chandler (fake)
8. 1993- Dimitri Marick
9. 1996- Dimitri Marick
10. 2005- Jackson Montgomery

The writers approach the show with the philosophy that Erica and Jack, the brother of the father of her youngest daughter, have been soul mates all along, and now that they've finally made it to the altar, I'd hate to see them break up, even though Jack has the sex appeal of a coat rack. I like her better with more seductive, more vindictive men, like the evil David Hayward, who once drugged an entire yachtful of people with a libido-inducing drug to set the stage for Tad's one-night affair with the resident psycho while he was attempting marriage for the third time with Dixie Cooney. She also has wonderful chemistry with Zach Slater, a casino manager who hired her as a showgirl for his Vegas number a few years back and went on to marry her oldest daughter, who was once engaged to his son. Maybe one of them will become husband number eleven.

Who let the dogs out? (Who? Who? Who? Who?)

This one's easy. Your mom!

The questions, they are done. Now we can talk about more important things, like your favorite scary movies and the difficulty in determining your cervical position. Good times.

Contraception and Religion: Good Alone But Better Together

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whoops.

Are you on birth control now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next thing you know I'll be vaccuuming in stilettos and falling asleep with plastic rollers snapped to one-inch sections of my hair.

So, the whole Weight Watchers thing? Has not been going so well. As in, I've abandoned journaling and point-counting in favor of Bits-N-Pieces milkshakes and frozen cheesecake goodness, with only occasional trips to the gym. Lately I've been coming home from work hungrier than YOUR MOM (ba dum bum ching) (sorry, the cheap shots are out of my control now) and eating whatever I can get my grubby little hands on, usually pretzel ties and Fig Newtons, even though dinner's just forty-five minutes away. Each day I recommit myself to an attitude of self-control, and each day all efforts crumble the moment I pull into my parking spot, approximately the same time my brain starts taking inventory of what little nourishment remains in the fridge.

However, after sorting through all the literature I accumulated from my weight-watching days, I decided there was one dish I owed it to my budding cooking skills and my cholesterol to tackle: the program's famous garden vegetable soup, known for its tasty, made-from-scratch, zero-points-per-serving, guilt-free attributes. I made it for the first time last week and it went swimmingly, except I forgot to buy the zucchini, and my carrots remained hard as nails even after sautéing them in chopped-up pieces of garlic and onion. Tonight I used the remaining ingredients to make a second batch and strayed from the recipe a little in regards to serving size, opting instead to just start throwing random amounts of shit into the pot--extra carrots, extra cabbage, extra broth, resulting in a soup abundant in carrots, cabbage, and broth, but with slightly less zing, as I only minced the two garlic cloves and half-cup of onion originally called for. It still rocked harder than your mom, though (I really am sorry), and in between hurling vegetables at my stove I even managed to fit in a side of Pillsberry dinner rolls, thus creating the illusion of a thought-out, well-balanced meal. For someone whose idea of gourmet is microwaving the leftover chicken Parmesan pasta from last week's hurrah at TGI Friday's, this is revolutionary. Today, soup; tomorrow, the world.

Anyway, all that extra's about to come in handy, because Luke is abandoning me for a business trip that begins tomorrow morning and ends Friday night, which means I'm on my own in the kitchen for the next three days. I've already purchased the necessary components for my best spinach dip yet, which I promise to share with you, and made a list of the ways I plan to utilize my alone time:

1) Pass out in a bowl of spinach dip.

2) Recover from the gaseous side effects of said spinach dip.

3) Finally tear into the first season of Murder, She Wrote on DVD.

4) Sweat my tushie off for Pam the Vietnam Vet Aerobics Instructor, who actually seeks me out to make sure I'm attending the regular Wednesday step session, which I always totally do, even though last week I saw a beetle crawling in the vicinity of my floor mat.

5) Decide whether or not to continue watching the catastrophe that is Celebrity Duets, the latest reality train wreck slash American Idol knock-off to debut on FOX. On one hand, this program assumes the fuzzy memories you have of jamming to Michael Bolton in fifth grade because rap was forbidden in your house, thereby FORCING you to memorize all the lyrics to "Time, Love, and Tenderness" against your will, is enough to peak your interest in the awkward pairing of B-list personalities with has-been A-list performers without any backstory on the pop-culture significance and/or hopes and dreams of its participants.

On the other hand, "Time, Love, and Tenderness" was a damn catchy album, and Michael Bolton's golden tresses saw me through some tough times. Plus, Little Richard's on the judge's panel, and based on several of tonight's comments, I'm convinced he's channeling the spirit of an inebriated Paula Abdul:

"Boy, you got to pull out the mustard and catch up!"

"You just made my big toe shoot up in my boot!"

"He's got what it takes and it takes what he got!"

"Woo woo! Umm, ah. Oh!"

6) Catch up on phone calls.

7) Revel in the glory of saving fifteen percent on my car insurance. (I really did!)

8) Pine.

Before I go: I know I've done something like this before, but seeing as I'm about to have oodles of nothing on my hands and Silly Hily's results have been so much fun, I'm asking anyone with deep, burning, personal questions about me (not your mom) to bring 'em on. All I ask is to keep in mind my husband's parents read this blog, and if it's all the same to you, I'd appreciate being able to look them in the eye at my mother-in-law's family reunion this Saturday. That being said, I've touched on religion, birth control, and my fat ass with little to no embarassment, so really, anything goes. Also in my favor, I've got the whole Labor Day weekend before Luke can decide to divorce me.

Edited to add: I now regret turning on the computer again at one o'clock in the morning to add the above disclaimer, as I'm afraid it'll scare you away from asking questions inappropriate for children under thirteen. What's a little thought-provoking discussion among friends, is my new attitude, and anyway, my in-laws are way cool, so now I'm begging you to send me to that reunion with a paper bag over my head. Really. I dare you.

Doesn't Your Pastor Have a Blog?

I mean, really.

Check it out, peeps.

Also, random AMC update: Dixie is alive! And Tad knows! And is engaged to her half-sister! Who's been hiding Dixie's whereabouts for months and met Tad by posing as Dixie herself! Very exciting. Know what else? Dixie's portrayer has a blog, too.

Spirituality and daytime television. I swear, if trapped in a burning building with instructions to only rescue one, I don't know what I'd do. How they speak to me!

I Don't Know Which One Owes Me More For The Free Publicity

OK, if you were watching tonight's episode of 24 (which, !), at approximately 9:47 p.m. eastern standard time, you bore witness to the glory that is Taco Bell's newest promo for the Chicken Ceasar Grilled Stuft burrito. Why does Frema care about Taco Bell? you might ask. Well, Frema doesn't care about Taco Bell. Frema would rather eat the skin off her fingernails (and sometimes does) than eat Taco Bell. However, she DOES have a vested interested in the gold-painted Greek who says, "Why, thank you!" at the end of the commercial, because that Greek? Is none other than Jason Chambers--former object of unrequited luurve, current BFF.

Well, a BFF that I haven't seen in almost two years, but whatever.

As you can tell from his Web site, Jason is an actor. In fact, you've probably seen him in action. Maybe you caught him choking down cheese-covered grasshoppers on Fear Factor. No? How about regurgitating Jerry Seinfeld's "women are like parked cars" analogy to FOX executives during a screening interview for Joe Millionaire? He's also been A Guy At The Bar Reading A Paper on Guiding Light, Recurring Bartender on As The World Turns, and Featured Lead Punk in Bob Harvey, a movie Jason swears actually exists. We once pulled an all-nighter taping his video audition for the part of Leo on All My Children (my mad acting skillz qualified me to read the part of Dixie off-camera). He's also guest-starred on a little talk show I like to call JERRY FREAKIN' SPRINGER.

Apparently, so have I.

Jason and I met in Chicago in the spring of 1994 during Maria High School's production of Fiddler on the Roof. I was a Russian dancer who could do leg circles like nobody's business; he could balance a bottle on his head during Tevye's rendition of "L'Chaim." My sophomore year, he was the Bottom to my Peter Quince in A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was after that play we started hanging out. His first visit to my house had him making spaghetti and dinner rolls for my entire family, which charmed the pants off my mother, and he was the only guy who wasn't intimidated by my father, whose personality bore striking resemblances to Kevin Arnold's dad's on The Wonder Years. He was also the one male in my life pre-Luke allowed to spend the night, which meant we could play rounds of Tiger Woods Golf 'til we passed out on the floor.

My second year in college, Jason made his first TV appearance as a guest on Jerry Springer as a stud muffin engaging in a torrid sexual affair with the girlfriend of his childhood pal "Ben," some guy he'd just met the day before. This stint gave him an in with the Jermeister's publicity department and empowered him with tickets to at least five shows a month. One fall day he coerced me into skipping a day of class to attend a taping with him and his latest girlfriend (who eventually became the mother of his now six-year-old son, but that's another story), I coerced This Girl, and suddenly we were in the audience for "Shocking Secret Lovers." My favorite storyline involved a 350-pound woman named Tiny who walked on stage wearing nothing but a matching bra-and-panties set from J.C. Penney and turned out to be Dwayne the Lame's mistress because Dwayne's actual girlfriend didn't know how to mate socks. Dwayne wanted a woman "who could give him the world."

My opportunity for fifteen minutes of fame presented itself during the questions and comments portion of the show and is the only instance in my life I blame entirely on mob mentality. With all the hootin' and hollerin' I'd done for Jerry and Steve and the dignity of baby's mommas everywhere, I was an impressionable vessel bursting with a burning desire to tear down the self-esteem of others. So, it shouldn't surprise you that when Jerry approached me with the microphone, I all but grabbed it from him to deliver a cleverly worded put-down to Dwayne:

"You said you wanted a woman who could give you the world? Well, ya sure got your hands full now!"

Spent and satisfied, I was able to contain myself until the end of filming, at which time I attacked Jerry with a 33mm camera and forged an unshakable bond between my undergraduate alma mater and questionable daytime television. Good times.

Hmmm. Where was I going with all of this? Oh, yeah.

Jason Chambers is my friend. Watch for his Taco Bell commercial. He's very gold--almost as gold as the Saint Joe long-sleeve I wore on JERRY FREAKIN' SPRINGER.

Jillian Barberie On Skating With Celebrities

Jillian Barberie, still donning her baby-blue performance costume and virgin-white skates, throwing back shots of vodka with John Zimmerman at the local Hooters:

"I have smokin' abs AND do weather forecasts for the same station that locked in Lost Boys hottie--er, 24 icon Kiefer Sutherland. Kristy Swanson couldn't get a role in the TV version of her own damn movie. Let her have the trophy. She can use it like a pillow when she cries herself to sleep."

All snark aside, I couldn't help wincing when JB botched her attempt for a Michelle Kwan-like axel. But to her credit? Those abs really ARE smokin'.

Not So Much With The Cutting of the Cord

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

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

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

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

All My Videotapes

Before I begin, I have to acknowledge a couple of things:

1) Yesterday I found the business card of the DJ in partnership with her dead husband, and listed under Acts was "Little People." This has cinched my "Don't Call Us, We'll Call You" gut reaction, though a sliver of me is curious as to the events that would transpire at my wedding reception if under their wing. A belly-dancing dwarf would make a nice addition to the wedding album, don't you think?

2) Two important people in my life recently jumpstarted their own journey into the land of the World Wide Web, as documented on Lost a Sock and The Magic of Books. What most stands out to me about these women is that they've both contemplated this move for months but put it off because, as mothers of young children, they felt they didn't have the time. However, so powerful were their creative urges that they had no choice but to surrender to the seduction of the Internet.

Which kind of brings me to me, someone considered to be pretty busy herself, what with a job, fiancé, wedding in the works, teenage girl to mentor, and possible career change on the horizon (another post, but soon, I promise). My personal free time is limited to only a few hours a week and must be used wisely. Therefore, I have executed another bold decision:

The discontinuation of my All My Children recording.

...

OK, so maybe this doesn't inspire the kind of heart-stopping uproar my cable-scrapping did, but this is a huge milestone in the Frema-Useless Clutter household. Back when I had cable, I had SoapNet. I loved SoapNet. I could spend some time recovering from work before watching my favorite daytime characters in action at seven o'clock every night. Miss a show? No worries! SoapNet understands that life gets in the way of television; that's why they re-run the entire week's worth of episodes on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon, giving you three chances to enjoy the comings and goings of the residents in Pine Valley. While I waited for little hand to strike seven, I passed the time by watching 90210, Melrose Place, and Days of Our Lives. Afterwards, if I was trying especially hard to avoid my required reading for school, I became re-aquainted with General Hospital.

What started as a piqued interest in a baby switch soon grew into an obsession. There were stacks of VHS tapes featuring weeks worth of episodes that had to be viewed before commiting to current storylines. Once I spent the entire weekend on the couch, ooohing and aaahing over staged love scenes and giving my thumb an intimate remote-control workout. I was bragging to coworkers that I hadn't missed an episode of AMC in almost a year. Scary stuff.

And then I moved to Indianapolis and realized I couldn't afford cable. Poof! went SoapNet. Poof! went the dedication to shows I had to sneak to watch as a kid. Poof! went AMC until recently because I was too lazy to program the VCR. And now it has Poofed! again.

Will I miss it? Hell yes. I like Pine Valley. I like watching people fall in love and out of love and poison their neighbors and kidnap their own baby because her first ex-husband said he died in childbirth but really was given to his barren sister on One Life to Live. It's easy to forget wedding dress worries and the realization that you're in the wrong field when you're nursing a bowl of Breyer's on the couch with the likes of Erica Kane, a woman far too sophisticated to be trapped in an abandoned wearhouse minutes before she's scheduled to interview Geraldo Rivera on her new talk show.

But the tapes, they've started piling up once again, and it hit me that spending three hours catching up on shows that aired around my birthday is not the best use of my time. For Luke, for my wedding, for my own sanity, it's time to cut the cord.

For now.

'Tis the Season

At one point or another, several of the sites I read have mentioned a lack of excitement for Christmas 2005. Decorating trees, sending out cards, shopping for presents.... It's a lot of work, and not always a lot of fun. However, this year, I find myself enjoying the season more than in years past. Luke and I decorated our little tree right after Thanksgiving. There's been Christmas music and egg nog and mugs of hot chocolate, and for once, a season of gifts paid in full with cash, not because we're rolling in the money but because we were able to achieve a happy medium between extravagent and just plain crappy. We watched A Charlie Brown Christmas. We've been to the zoo to witness the facility aglow with lights, and we've been next door to check out the train exhibit at the gardens. For the most part, I feel that we've thoroughly taken advantage of what the holiday season has to offer. Things feel good. The two of us are good. I'm in a good place.

However, for all of my spirit and cheer, there are some holiday musts I have yet to check off. For example, for the last two years I've watched A Very Brady Christmas while wrapping my presents, because I usually wrap presents alone and nobody will watch the movie with me, so it's an easy way to kill two birds with one stone. This year, Luke and I did this together, and he wanted to watch Pirates of the Carribean. I'm sure many would argue his was the better choice, but really, at what other time is it appropriate to get excited about seeing the Brady clan sing their way through Mike's unfortunate accident at the construction site on 34th Street? It's also fun to watch how the family still treats Alice like a servant, even though the year is 1987 and she's old enough to collect Social Security and Medicaid. Sure, they say she's not their housekeeper anymore, but when she goes to pick up the "kids" at the airport, who carries their luggage? Alice. Who gets hugs and kisses? Not Alice, that's for damn sure!

Maybe it's best I continue to keep this viewing experience private.

Other traditions I've neglected this year:

- My annual It's a Wonderful Life viewing, complete with my own rendition of "Buffalo gal, won't you come out tonight, won't you come out tonight, won't you come out tonight...." (Does anybody know the name to that song?) Up until I was about twelve, this movie was on every cable station and ran every hour and half until Christmas Day. Then NBC bought the rights and became so stingy that now it's only on twice a year on undisclosed days and times.

...OK, maybe that's it. I suppose there are worse things in life then putting off your favorite holiday movies, and because I own both, it's not too late to fill up on the self-imposed required dosage. All in all, I'm counting myself lucky.

And you should, too, for whatever reason. Merry Christmas to you and yours.

All About the Benjamins and Monica from Friends

A week away from Thanksgiving, and I'm proud to say I've already started Christmas shopping. Back in October, I sat down at the table and make a carefully budgeted list of who to shop for, how much to spend per person, and on which pay periods I would allow myself to make the purchases; oddly enough, these strict limitations have put me more at-ease with the whole gift-giving process than simply buying to my heart's content like I did last year, when I was carelessly tossing out comments like "To hell with budgeting" and "How can you put a price on family?" and proceeded to fund hundreds of dollars of holiday cheer courtesy of Mr. Visa, back when I could make such decisions with the knowledge there'd be a three-thousand-dollar tuition refund check waiting in the wings next semester. Now I'm having nightmares about the student loans I'll start paying next month and scouting out which interstate junctions to frequent with my little tin cup and cardboard box. Now I'm thinking, "I can TOTALLY put a price on family."

In the short time we've been living together, Luke and I have managed our money pretty well. We've followed Suze's advice and made it a point to pay our bills together each month, and I even sent in the paperwork for a rebate from my contact lens provider, who shall not be named here because I hate rebates and lose respect for any manufacturer that issues them. If you REALLY wanted to give me a break, Contact Lens Provider, you wouldn't make me pay for the damn lenses in full and then demand I mail in not only my original sales receipt but also the UPC codes from each lens box, just in case I'm a thief with the deplorable habit of stealing NON-CASH PIECES OF PAPER THAT ARE NOT DOLLAR BILLS from my fellow man. Then, once I've proved my worth as a customer and a human being, I have to wait six to eight weeks before you'll reluctantly hand over forty freakin' bucks. For cripe's sake, get over yourselves.

Anyway. During our Christmas shopping on Tuesday, somehow the second season of Scrubs and the tenth (final!) season of Friends found their way onto our conveyor belt, two purchases that were not Christmas purchases at all but in fact superficial material additions to our apartment, because they were each on sale and even though I thought the last season of Friends was sort of *eh* I was suddenly dying to complete my collection that. very. minute because the cover was such a breathtaking shade of magenta and Courteney Cox's hair looked really pretty. Plus, Luke loves Scrubs and I hadn't seen the second season and really, people, we don't even have cable, aren't we allowed ANY earthly pleasures?

Obviously, there's room for improvement.

I think it will be easier to save money when there's a lot less of it going around. Once the loan checks start going out, suddenly a smart celebrity hairstyle won't be sufficient grounds to blow thirty dollars, especially when we could use that dough to upgrade to a better brand of toilet paper or perhaps stock up on Ramen noodle soup.

Note to self: Begin construction of cardboard box. Also, purchase tin cup.

Playing Hooky

Well, not really. I did go to work yesterday and managed to stay until lunchtime, but with my projects at a standstill and the lovely weather beckoning and the fact that my boyfriend was at home with nothing to do, I could stand it no longer. I was off.

There is something slightly scandulous about having fun on a Friday afternoon, knowing you should be at work and remembering all those you left behind, forced to go about business as usual until 5:00. Just the fact that you're away from the confines of your cubicle makes the day spectacular, even if you do nothing but organize your sock drawer.

Don't worry, I didn't really organize my sock drawer. Instead, Luke and I went to this orchard in Indianapolis, which turned out to be nothing more than a barn that sold expired eighties candy (Blow pop, anyone?) and homemade mustard and oh, yeah, some apples, too. So off we went again, this time to downtown Indianapolis, where we walked around and got ice cream and visited the Soldiers and Sailors Monument. We finished our city adventure by heading over to Broadripple for the second time this week and talking a stroll down the Monon Trail, which is where we took the above picture and, in my opinion, one of the greatest things about this place. Broadripple reminds me a little bit of the north side of Chicago, with its quaint little shops and tons of restaurants and loads of upscale twentysomethings decorating the streets. In addition to the slew of townhouses that you know the owners are paying out of their ears for, there are also joggers, bikers, dog walkers, parents with baby strollers, and a variety of other residents looking to get their blood pumping. I always admire the joggers in their sporty shorts and tee shirts, wearing gym shoes that probably cost more than my grocery bill, chatting with their companion about the daily grind. When I was in high school, I always pictured myself being one of those joggers; I'd have an apartment in Chicago off the lake shore and live in a neighborhood where it was common to have your groceries delivered and have dinner parties with "colleagues" from work.

I may not have my Chicago dream, but life is still pretty good. Luke and I have spent the majority of the week experiencing the first season of Scrubs on DVD, as a way to pass the time until the fifth season starts in January. The last month has been a weird one for me in regards to TV, as I used be attached to an IV that fed me all my favorite shows intravenously. (If you don't believe me, read this.) Now, the loss of cable has also caused me to lose most of my television appetite, so that I usually end up just popping in a Friends disc and letting it play all the way through. I haven't even bothered taping All My Children. Soaps just aren't as much fun without SoapNet. I can't decide if someone should congratulate me or initiate an intervention.

Losing Cable, My Mind, And Other Necessities

The cable. It is done.

What started out as an innocent phone call to Comcast last Thursday about possibly terminating cable service in the next week or so turned into the bastard pulling the plug while I was on the phone. While I was watching the last ten minutes of All My Children. The horror! Imagine being a smoker, casually talking about how you'd like to quit, and out of nowhere somebody SHAMELESSLY rips the lit cigarette from your fingers and CRUSHES IT INTO THE GROUND.

While trying to cope with this new sense of loss, I traveled to Chicago this weekend to visit with family and friends--OK, I came in to recolor my hair but thought I would stick around to visit with family and friends--and found out my sister is continuing to get dumped on with all kinds of "assvice" (coined by Amalah) about the wedding. (Which, by the way, is this Friday, which, OH MY GOD.) If one more person says one more thing to make my sister cry, I will choke them to death with my cable cord. God knows I don't need it for cable.

I also had a mini-breakdown, if "mini" means sobbing for three hours about wedding shenanigans, averaging 300 miles per weekend on your car, and missing the boyfriend who has yet to join you in Indianapolis. You know, the usual. I am trying to stay positive, but it's been hard. I've actually considered whether or not this whole "great job in Indy" thing will work out. Life would be much easier if I had somebody other than Harry Potter to comfort me in my zip code, but even he's preoccupied, what with this whole Half-Blood Prince business.

On that note, have a happy day, everyone!

Join the Campaign to Save Frema's Cable

Many thanks to all who showed compassion over my bold decision to eliminate cable. I thought I would receive at least one "Cable's a waste of money, anyway, just say good riddance and quit whining about it" rant, but no. My friend Gina was especially eager to talk this out with me. "Hold on, now," she said, genuinely concerned. "There's got to be another way." She suggested I get a second job to cover expenses, and I almost laughed. The idea never even crossed my mind, because a) who gets a second job to pay for extra channels on their TV? and b) I did not just earn my master's degree to work behind a cash register at Borders. If I had a family to support and needed extra money for food and soap that would be another story BUT I DON'T. So no. No second job for me. The three-month digital trial doesn't end until mid-August, so until then I'll continue to deepen the @$$ print on my couch and try to avoid thinking about my upcoming loss. (For Adam: I only signed up for the digital trial because it was fifteen bucks cheaper than the basic plan. Also, at fifty dollars, basic is only ten cheaper than digital. Do you see my dilemma? Do you?)

I remember the first day my family got cable; it was a cold, rainy afternoon in 1987, and the technician was there for what felt like ALL FREAKIN' DAY. But, when he was done? Magic! Suddenly I could watch Dumbo's Circus and The Mickey Mouse Club on the Disney Channel. That's all I needed to know about cable to know it was wonderful. It's how I was introduced to Dynasty. Jon Stewart. Bad movies with Meredith Baxter-Birney and this one flick starring Linda Hamilton and Richard Thomas as a married couple with a son who has AIDS and ending with Linda Hamilton giving him permission to "go towards the light." I was ten years old and never sobbed so much in my entire life.

Sigh. Enough about cable already, because honestly, it's not so important that two entries need to cover it. (I think.) Instead, we'll talk about how sad I was yesterday, when I went to the mall in search of bachelorette-party necessities for my sister's shindig this Saturday. I purchased some pretties for her at Victoria's Secret but not one stinkin' thing for me. Not even underwear, currently on a three-for-thirty-dollars only! sale. Emotionally unable to leave the premises, I found myself in stores once deemed too classy for my blood, fingering the material of several dresses, blouses, and skirts at Ann Taylor and Banana Republic, inwardly weeping over the fact that I have not added to my wardrobe since May and will not have the funds to justify a spree until (hopefully?) fall. I think about this, and my no-cable resolve strengthens. It's more fun to wear what you want than watch What Not to Wear.

Get Your Pee On

Here you go, folks! My first national sample, available right here, revels in the glory that is therapeutic drug monitoring, blood and urine specimen collection, and insurance billing! With a byline! Unfortunately, I had to forfeit my super-cool alias, but look! A comma with letters after my last name! Print your copy today! Also, !.

In other, non-fluid-related news, I was making out my own bills last night and realized some changes need to be made. My boss was generous with my starting salary, so that I can afford the cost of living in Indianapolis and dine on foods other than Ramen noodles and Spaghetti-Os. (Except I don't cook, so I totally live on Ramen noodles and Spaghetti-Os.) However, the little things are starting to add up. The cell phone bill I was hoping to eliminate but can't since I travel so much on the weekends; the landline bill I could have avoided if my phone had better reception; savings, 401(k) and money-market deductions; electricity; rent that is almost three times the amount of my $220 apartment back in Rensselaer (ah, those were the days!). And soon, the addition of student loan debt. If I ever want to shop again, I have to make some changes. There is only one bill that can afford to go.

That bill? Is the (gasp!) cable bill.

I hear that some people forgo (gasp!) cable by choice and go on to lead normal, productive lives, without the pure joy that is SoapNet, The Learning Channel, and USA. They are not interested in All My Children nightly recaps or marathons of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. They are not familiar with Monk. And yet, they carry on. They use the extra 60 bucks for more Important things like feeding homeless children in Africa and drinking beer.

I do not want to become "some people." I don't want to live life never watching another episode of What Not to Wear or a TBS-edited Sex and the City. They don't have SVU Labor-Day marathons on NBC. And is CNBC a cable station? Will I ever watch The Suze Orman Show again?

But the Adult part of me knows it must be done. The Adult part knows that cutting (gasp!) cable is the only way to get me off the damn couch. I will devour books in the lovely reading corner I've staged in my bedroom. Talk to God. Have money for DSL service since I'll soon receive a PC courtesy of my boss, who is eager to empower me to "bring work home." In one fell swoop I'll have established a Roth IRA, encouraged a pay raise and saved my very soul.

That is, until Luke gets to Indy and our financial incomes become one. But no pressure, sweetie. Honey. Love of my life. No pressure at all.

See How Not Depressed I Am?

In a couple of hours, I will be off to my new homeland, and I don't feel as awful as I did last Sunday, when Luke and I had to say good-bye. Look at this picture and absorb the radiance I exude.

There's something about weekends that make a farewell especially sad. With a Monday, there is the promise of a familiar routine, whether it be work or school or what have you. I myself am looking forward to watching Thursday and Friday's All My Children, which feature Erica Kane's tenth(!) wedding ceremony. I'm also going to a book fair, and if that's not enough excitement, Maura lent me A Door in the Floor, and I have Luke's copy of the original Star Wars trilogy. It took several watchings of Episode IV before I could make it through without falling asleep; the next one was easier, but I don't think I ever saw Return of the Jedi. After seeing the last installment yesterday, I am more interested in rediscovering the newer movies' original roots. We'll see how I do.

Today is the first day my replacement starts work. I'm not sure how I thought I would feel about that, but so far it's not too weird. It's been easier to disconnect myself from the job than I thought. I miss the people, but not the position. There were times last week when I'd wake up, look at the clock, and think, "I could be in a directors' meeting right now," before rolling over and going back to sleep. No more worrying about production for the summer issue of the alumni magazine. No more weekly news updates. Definitely different, but definitely nice.

I suppose there is no real purpose to this post, the above paragraph being nothing but a half-hearted attempt to verbalize some of the emotion I've experienced over the last couple of weeks. Ever since I moved, I have been searching my soul for deep and meaningful prose in order to write a deep and meaningful story for my writers' group's second publication, especially since the editor graciously postponed the deadline for me. The draft is due this Friday, and I still have nothing. I can write about Target and car accidents and movies, but when it comes to finding words to describe what Rensselaer has meant to me, no cigar. Maybe I can turn in a list?

A Different Kind of Season Finale

While watching yesterday's Sex and the City on TBS, I realized that the final two episodes will air next week, just four days before my big move. Carrie, Charlotte (the new favorite name for my firstborn girl), Samantha, and Miranda will join me in saying farewell to one life and hello to another. Two days prior to Sex's syndicated finale, I will watch 150 people transform from college students to college graduates; Luke will witness his niece's welcoming into religious life. More closed doors, more open windows.

Somehow, all of these changes led me to think about growing up in Chicago. I have always thanked God for allowing me to be part of a city so fast-paced, so electric with diversity, so free. I love riding above the city streets on the El. Love the mom-and-pop hot dog joint across the street from my family's apartment. Love the musicians who play for change while I'm waiting for the subway. But as much as I love those aspects of the city, there are others I have no experience of. The Sears Tower. I was in it once, when I was fifteen and didn't have enough money to ride to the top. No matter, I thought then. I can always go back. Yet here it is, ten years later, and I've still not done so. It's not too late for me to go, of course, but when I do, it will be with Hoosier eyes, an Indianapolis apartment, and a new appreciation for a landmark I was too busy to pay attention to before.

This babble isn't much more coherent than my ramblings from the other day, but I wonder if people don't treat everyday life the way I have treated the Sears Tower. Why is it so easy to take for granted the people and places in your pocket of the universe? What is it about distance that makes us want to cling tighter to what we have previously overlooked? I am guilty of these crimes every day: when I don't return a friend's phone call because I'm tired and want to watch TV; when my boyfriend craves a dinner that has nothing to do with spinach dip and I complain, even though he lets me have it every time we eat out. It's amazing to think about the many moments we have in one day to BE amazing and how often we do nothing.

Hamster poop. Again. Sigh.

Murder She Watched

Tonight Luke and I were hangin' out at the Wal-Mart when I stumbled across the complete first season of this on DVD. Ah, memories. Before there was Monk, there was a sixty-plus-old Nancy Drew fighting crime and fueling her writing with it. When I was a kid and had very little of a life during the summer, my grandma and I spent many a night watching Angela Lansbury in action via reruns on USA. When that wasn't enough, it was Miss Marple. (We also played The Legend of Zelda, held marathon Yahtzee sessions, and devoured Dominicks-brand gummy worms. Who doesn't love Yahtzee, right?) I was so in love with mystery-solving that I seriously considered becoming an FBI agent in high school (I suppose that was also partly due to Jodi Foster's stellar performance in The Silence of the Lambs). The fascination ended when I learned getting in required taking the GRE and picking up a foreign language. Take THAT, the Man!

Because the collection was pushing 40 dollars, I left the store Angela-free. However, I did walk away with Cathy Dennis's debut album for only seven bucks. Because? When a CD has "C'Mon and Get My Love" and "Touch Me (All Night Long)" on it, what else are you supposed to do? Now I can finally chuck the tape.

Shame on Maury Povich

Here it is, Christmas Eve, and I'm in a wonderful mood. My bathroom is completely done, I'm just about finished wrapping my presents, and A Very Brady Christmas has just reached its usual sugary-satisfying conclusion. While the tape's rewinding, I decide to flip through the channels, see if anything festive is on to celebrate this blessed holiday. I turn to WGN and The Maury Povich Show. Today's topic? "My Fear of Mice and Mustard is Ruining My Life!" - helping individuals overcome irrational phobias. One woman has been afraid of mustard since she was seven years old; even seeing pictures of it slathered on a hot dog sends her into hysterics. So what does generous Maury do to help ease her fears? Brings out a big ole plate o' mustard that sends her screaming into the next room. "I can still smell it!" she screams, sans dignity, as Maury goes to fetch her. Another woman had an unnerving experience when a goldfish touched her leg as a child, and she's not been the same since. What does Maury do? Proceeds to bring in a large bowl of energetic little fishies. It is not a pretty sight on set. Other fears include peaches and frogs.

So caring. So understanding. A true showcase of all the best the world has to offer, on both sides of the microphone.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Resolutions of a Couch Potato

Out of all the possible ideas for a non-fiction book I may someday write, right now this one seems the most plausible. When it comes to the boob tube, these last few months have been the worst. Because of my born-again love for the soap opera, I have at least one show a day on my "Must-See" list. I have not missed an episode of All My Children since this summer - quite a feat, considering work and two grad classes and a boyfriend and sometimes a life outside all of those things. Since it's on right before AMC, I'll occasionally watch Days of Our Lives, a show I used to love; sometimes, just for the hell of it, I'll even flip to General Hospital. Every time Luke comes over, the TV's on; just today he stopped by for dinner before a meeting while I was absorbing the second half of Melrose Place. Besides "I love you," "Do we have to watch this?" is the most popular sentence I get. And I don't blame him. Thinking about it today, I realized that I have become a full-fledged couch potato. No wonder I so often feel blue. No wonder I get the munchies all the time. No wonder!

Part of the reason I've become so enraptured with these shows is due to my childhood. I vividly remember being 12 years old and watching commercials for the premiere of Melrose Place, pegged as the 90210 for twenty-somethings. I also vividly remember my mother and father yelling at me to "turn that sex crap off!" Now, I'm that twenty-something, with her very own cable bill, and I can finally learn why Alison ran out on her first wedding to Billy! What happened to Kimberly! If Syndey ever left the show! without having to throw nervous glances in my mother's direction, my hand grasping the remote for dear life, my lips ready to protest that I was actually into Mr. Destiny one channel up.

It's a thin argument, I know, and the reasoning doesn't work for shows like Joey, The Apprentice, Scrubs, and What Not to Wear. Watching imaginary people live their own lives will not help me pay off my credit card debt; finish the third installment of the Narnia Chronicles; find my true calling; discover the best possible me. (Except in the case of the latter, in which all the contestants are real and the fashion advice they receive at the expense of their dignity is offered to me for free.) So today, after Luke left for his meeting, I turned off the TV. I swept the floor. Washed the dishes. Called a friend. Thought about exercising to a 60-minute Richard Simmons video but decided to blog instead. Hey, it's about baby steps, right?

College is Fun!

Right now I'm feelin' pretty cool in Ryan's dorm room at Columbia College. We had lunch in the University Center cafeteria, and I took care of some work e-mails while she fixed herself up for class. The rooms she shares with her roommate is awesome; they each have their own computer, their own desk, and they share a private bathroom (also huge) with two other girls. It makes me think about when I was an undergrad and skipped class to play Nintendo and watch Kevin Smith movies. Those were the days....

It's been a rough week. I had to drive to Chicago on Monday night to hear Julia Alvarez speak at the Chicago Public Library, which was wonderful, but I had to drive back to Rensselaer in time for work on Tuesday morning, only to leave again at 3:00 for class last night. I've been pretty tired, but there's only three weeks of class left, so I think I can keep it together. Once done, I plan on celebrating with a weekend of sweat pants, spinach dip, Soap Net, and Sex and the City. (Love those ladies!) My mom calls it "that nasty show," but seeing as she watched the premiere of He's a Lady and is waiting patiently for the second season of The Swan, she has no room to talk about what constitutes as trashy programming. "But those ugly girls needed it!" she said. "It changed their lives!"

Welcome to the new millenium.

Laughter is the Funniest Medicine

Tonight I was flipping through the channels when I noticed that Rescue Me was on FX. This is a relatively new show starring Denis Leary that deals with the ins and out of life in a New York firehouse. I didn't discover this program on my own; on Tuesday nights after class is over, I walk into my parents' kitchen in Chicago and see them at the table, glued to the television, laughing themselves silly. That is, unless my dad's at his own firehouse; then it's my mother, snickering alone.

I was thinking about this tonight and remembered that, even as a child, I've always loved hearing my parents laugh. I was never a huge fan of I Love Lucy, but my mom was addicted to it, which was reason enough to park it on the couch and submit myself to Lucyisms she couldn't get enough of. As for my father, he enjoyed impersonating Michael Jackson, telling jokes about the King of Pop's faded skin color and disappearing nose and faking embarassment about being a former president of his local Brady Bunch Fan Club.

When I was little, laughing reminded me that my parents weren't just parents. They were people who had likes and dislikes, bad days and funny days, with funny bones to match. We still get hysterical reminiscing about old Brady Bunch episodes, cracking jokes about the infamous house of cards and the charm bracelet that almost ruined it for Carol's girls.

Good times.

I'll Be There For You, Friends Spin-Off

With a new school year comes the start of a new fall television season, and while I'm well aware that I should be spending less time in front of the tube, internally, I am charged with supporting the legacy that is Friends. So, this past Thursday, I watched the first episode of Joey. It was actually pretty funny, so my Friends spot has been successfully filled. Then, for good measure, I watched The Apprentice for the first time. Badly scripted at times, but overall, fabulous.

Here's my version of the TV Guide:

Monday:
All My Children

Tuesday:
All My Children
Scrubs
24 (once it starts in October)
American Idol (I think I've got til January)
Sex in the City (reruns on TBS)

Wednesday:
All My Children
Sex in the City
* They're just repeats of Tuesday's episodes, but sometimes for fun I watch them twice

Thursday:
All My Children
Joey
The Apprentice

Friday:
All My Children
What Not to Wear

It's not like I have a ton of free time on my hands - Tuesdays and Wednesdays are now spent in Chicago for class, so my VCR is working overtime. And when I AM home, valuable studying time is wasted catching up on episodes of shows I should have watched in their first run. But Carrie just broke up with Mr. Big for the second time! How can I stop watching now? Also, you just don't realize how hard it is to keep up with a daily soap opera. Thank goodness I have SoapNet: "The New Way to Watch Soaps." They're going to start airing Melrose Place tomorrow night.

Once grad school's done, I'll finally be able to concentrate on the really important things in life.

Allow Me To Go Geek For A Minute...

...because I am sick to death of hearing comments about how Daniel Radcliffe, the actor who plays Harry Potter, is too old for the role. If they would take a few minutes to do the research, they would find out that Radcliffe was 11 when the filming of the first movie began - the same age as Harry in the first book. They would also know that he was 14 during the filming of the fourth movie, the same age that Harry is in the book.

They knock him for showing clear signs of puberty in the movie. He's 13! Voices change! Hair grows in places we don't talk about! What do they expect?! Radcliffe is experiencing the same changes we see Harry grapple with in the books. His portrayal does not take away from Harry's character - if anything, it enhances it. Furthermore, I would be outraged if they ditched the actor for a younger-looking Harry. Our favorite wizard does grow up, people! If you don't believe me, READ THE BOOKS!

And... I'm done.

In other news, I am watching (and thoroughly enjoying) "Sex and the City" on TBS. One of the characters just said "blow job." Our little basic cable station is growing up.

P.S. I never realized how sexy Sarah Jessica Parker is. What a great head of hair. If only she'd ditch the cigarettes....