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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Football and Churches and Ducks, Oh My!

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

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

We also went to church.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

The Money Pit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As long as I work.

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

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

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

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

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

On the '06

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year.

Tragic Love Friday

Today marks the beginning of a four-day weekend for me, a day I'd like to spend catching up on two weeks' worth of All My Children episodes but will probably use to run boring errands like finally updating my driver's license to reflect my married last name and visiting the dentist to take bite-wing x-rays of a tooth most likely infected with a cavity. Luke and I were there just last month for cleanings, during which I scheduled a post implant to replace the molar I had pulled two years ago. I would've had the bite wing taken then if my period hadn't been a week and a half late, causing me to think I was pregnant, but of course it came the next day and I was a little sad but mostly pissed about having to make the thirty-minute drive to the doctor's office before my January 12th appointment. The things I do to avoid radiation exposure to my future children.

But what about Kayla's and Jenna's little rug rats? That's the real question of the hour.

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CHAPTER FIVE - JENNA

I walked out of St. Joseph's Hospital feeling like I could fly. My doctor, Dr. Foremann, had given me an excellent report. "Your little girl's doing great. The next time I see you, young lady, will be in the delivery room." [Because women who are seven months pregnant could never benefit from a doctor's watchful eye. Frema, M.D. strikes again!]

I had really hoped David could be there, but he had to work. Poor David. He seemed so stressed out. I decided to stop at McDonald's and let him know the good news about Mary Katherine.

When I got there, business was slow. David was slipping on his jacket. His face paled as I walked over to him and gave him a kiss. "Jenna, what are you doing here?" he asked. "I just got back from my appointment. The baby's doing great," I said, smiling. David just stared at me. "We have to talk."

"Sure. About what?" He didn't answer, only led me outside to where his car was parked. "First let me tell you that I never wanted to hurt you," he began.

"What are you talking about?"

"It all started last month. One night I was with Mike, and we had a few beers. You and I had a little arguement that day, and somehow..." he bowed his head. "I went to Kayla's house. We talked about my mom, you, the baby. She listened to me. Old feelings were brought up. Jenna ... we made love." 

I felt dizzy. David noticed and tried to put an arm around me, but I pushed him away. "Don't touch me!" I yelled. "You bastard! Don't ever touch me again!"

"Jenna, I'm so sorry. I feel terrible." He took a deep breath. "Today Kayla called me at work and said she was pregnant with my child." [Oh, that would've been a fun scene to write! How could I have let that gem slip by?]

That did it. My fist went smashing into David's jaw. He stumbled a few steps backward, but managed to stay on his feet.

I was crying. My eyes blinded by tears, I ran to my car. David was right behind me. "Jenna, wait! Let me explain!" [I think you covered just about everything but positioning, buddy. She gets it.] I started the engine and rolled down my window. Throwing a glass car ornament at him [do these even exist?], I screamed, "Take your explanation and shove it where the sun won't shine!"

I managed to get home without killing anyone. I ran into my house and picked up the phone, punching in Kayla's number. She answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Kayla, you slut! This is Jenna. [Ya think?] I'm just calling to let you know that if you want the asshole who slept with you, take him. He's all yours." I slammed the receiver down.

"Calm down," I told myself. "Don't do anything that would hurt Mary Katherine."

That was the only reason I didn't go kill David. The stress of killing him could hurt the baby.

I needed to talk to someone, or else I'd go crazy. So I hopped back into my car and drove straight to Michael's house. As soon as he opened the door, I collapsed into his arms. "Jenna! My God!" [If this were a TV script, this would be a perfect place to fade to commercial, don't you think?] He scooped me up and carried me to the couch. [How muscular must Michael be to sweep a pregnant woman off her feet? Pretty muscular, ladies!] "Are you OK? What's wrong?"

"It's David. He's..." My voice cracked with emotion. "He's gotten Kayla pregnant." I couldn't say anymore.

My best friend was silent as I sobbed in his arms, his hands running through my hair. [I'm surprised they're not on her boobs. News flash, Michael: Groping isn't part of the traditional BFF package!]

After a while, I was OK. I told Michael everything. When I was finished, he looked like he would spit nails. "Jenna, he's a jerk, an idiot and a fool. He doesn't deserve you or that beautiful baby you're going to give birth to."

"What am I going to do?" I wailed.

"You're going to forget about him. He's not worth the effort."

"But he loves the baby. He wants to be in her life."

"So he takes her to the park once in a while. Listen to me," Mike said, cupping my chin in his hands. "I will help you get through this. I'll ALWAYS be here for you. You can depend on me for anything." [Except to support the role your baby daddy hopes to play in your daughter's life.]

"I know." I smiled through my tears. "Tell me: what did I do to deserve such a wonderful friend?"

He hugged me. [Geez, he can't keep his hands off her for even a second!] "Dollface, it's the other way around."

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When my girlfriends at school got to this point in the notebooks, they always sighed over Michael's outlandish yet noble display of affection. It even seemed sweet to me at the time, and I wrote the damn thing, but you all know better, don't you?

I have a few thoughts about the story's progression so far. Despite David's superhuman baby-making abilities, I feel for the poor guy, who really has worked hard to do the right thing. Sure, he fucked up a little, but he's also admitted his shortcomings and taken responsibility for his own actions. Most adults in his situation wouldn't have stepped up the way he has for Jenna and the baby, and there's no reason to think he wouldn't support Kayla and her child as well.

My opinions are probably clouded by the fact that I often hoped Nick, who received the best of my heart during my teenage years, would act in a similar manner if I ever "fell with child." I never would have tried to get pregnant on purpose, but I secretly wondered if such a life-altering change of events would inspire him to take stock of his life and realize the wonderful future we could have had if he put forth the effort, because as dysfunctional as our relationship was, we did have amazing chemistry and we really cared about each other. I realize now how naive I was, how lucky I was to be spared the pain of learning my lesson the hard way; Nick didn't have the ability to be the father figure I romanticized about for my babies or the partner I longed to have for myself. But back then I thought about it all the time. What a dreamer I was.

Also, if I were Kayla, and the love of my life came to me one night and wanted to hold me and kiss me and make love to me, I would've had my clothes off faster than you can say "Your mom." For real, peeps.

The Reason For The Season

During this morning's commute to work, the local pop radio station played an interview taped yesterday between the morning show's program director and one Robert Marley who, along with his brother Kevin, is staging a campaign to "save Christmas." His beef? That while retail stores all across the country take advantage of December holidays to peddle their wares, many of them are refusing to acknowlege that people purchase those products to commemorate a religious event, whether it be Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa. "Merry Christmas," "Happy Hanukkah," and "Happy Kwanzaa" have been replaced with a generic "Happy Holidays," substituting a religious sentiment with a secular one to promote an increased level of commercialism. He reports some employers have even threatened their staff with termination if such greetings are uttered in their stores.

Robert Marley believes our country is under the attack of a secular progressive movement, a movement that is slowly eliminating any traces of religion--particularly Christianity--from our everyday lives. No prayer in school; no "Merry Christmas" displays in stores that nonetheless deck their halls with red and green decor, pine trees, and images of a jolly fat man whose original roots can be traced back to a Catholic saint. They don't support Christmas, but they have no problems using Christmas paraphernalia to make a profit. These thoughts and more are posted on his Web site.

However, the program director also posed some tasty food for thought as he argued for the plight of the retailer, pointing out it's not Corporate America's job to promote any religious denomination. In his eyes, attacking a secular money-making powerhouse for not promoting religious ideals is the same as yelling at a dog for not pissing in the litterbox. (Or something a little more eloquent.) He also said those religious groups have allowed their holidays to be taken over by mass consumerism, and if Robert Marley wants to fight for anything, it should be removing the gift-giving component associated with these events altogether.

Though I agree that businesses often exploit religious beliefs for financial gain, I find myself aligning more closely with the program director's stance. Maxing out credit cards and waiting outside Super Target at three o'clock in the morning to get a copy of The Notebook for five dollars doesn't and shouldn't encapsulate what the holiday season is all about, and whether or not an employee says "Merry Christmas" as you exit the premesis with a plasma TV in tow is the least of our worries. The world, our country, our cities and towns have homeless people. Hungry people. Abused and neglected people. Developmentally and educationally challenged people. (And many of them are children.) The idea of adopting a project to save a seasonal salutation when there are clearly a number of more significant issues to take on in Jesus's name is laughable. It's as if Marley believes those words are the only means of expression Christians have at their disposal. He's forgetting that when it comes to religion and morality, actions speak louder than words. They will know we are Christians by our love (by our love!), not the greeting we choose to use one month out of the year.

What do you think?

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.

Eating the Joneses' Dust

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sexy closet space. More drool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Wearing My Spaghetti Sauce With Pride

When I first told the Internet of my plans to revamp my online image, it was mainly due to Blogger's inability to consistently upload my photos. However, the idea of shying away from an domain with "blogspot" featured in the URL was planted almost two years ago, as I became more familiar with the blogosphere and discovered sites like Amalah and Dooce, sites whose authors stepped outside the boundaries of the written word in order to really own their designs. The seduction of personalized banners and categories and "About" pages have me primed to tear my clothes off while registering for a Typepad account.

I first started blogging in the winter of 2003 to fulfill a requirement for an autobiography class at DePaul, where I was in the midst of completing a master's degree in writing. I didn't really know what a blog was, but sharing stories and making a fool of myself on the Internet were two ideas I could totally get behind. When the class ended, a month passed before I created "Through the Looking Glass..." at this domain, composing entries of the Dear Diary, today I ate a ham sandwich variety because even though I didn't know what to write about, I knew I didn't want to stop writing. After a few months I changed it to "What're you lookin' at?" because Luke took this really fun picture of me at my sister's graduation party, so fun that I didn't feel comfortable attaching it to my profile until my title was equally spunky. Last July, after carrying on a fifteen-minute conversation with my boss wearing a glob of spaghetti sauce on my forehead, I was convinced that the name change was actually a warning from God Himself. Such a prankster, that God.

It was also around that time I began taking this genre more seriously as a means to improve my writing and attempted to produce more cohesive content. I gained a few readers in addition to the usual group of family and friends and relished in the extra teaspoon of attention. The first time I scored double digits in the comments section, I thought maybe it wasn't totally out of the question to hope I could do this for money, just like my blog idols.

Now here it is, a year later, and my blogging is sporadic, at best. I have yet to achieve Doocedom, or even Amalahdom, whose readership encompasses thousands of individuals around the world every day. The average number of comments I get varies between ten and twenty, and I'm still here at Blogger, because really, what business do I have soliciting advertisers to peddle their wares on this site when I can't justify paying a hosting service for a couple of hundred words a week for an audience of eighty-five people?

A few weeks ago, Silly Hily wrote about these same sorts of feelings, about coming to terms with the fact that she may never achieve Amalah status, and it resonated in the part of me that yearns to follow the footsteps of the Online And Famous, the part of me who has found it so easy to envy the bloggers who've made a real name for themselves, whose writing has inspired paying gigs with companies like ClubMom and Alpha Mom and BlogHer, which will uproot from California and move east for 2007, in my old stomping grounds nonetheless. When you read popular blogs maintained by popular individuals who name drop and vaguely draw attention to inside jokes and Internet drama over who's being trashed and post about the pitfalls of being a public figure and so on and so forth, it's hard at times not to feel like you're in seventh grade again, and I don't know about you, but I was a nerd in seventh grade. I was crying in bathrooms and sticking an index finger down my throat in seventh grade. Reliving those days isn't on my list of things to do.

When you get right down to it, even though most established bloggers handle their success quite graciously, and even though the possibilities for online writing are available to everyone if you just work hard enough, sometimes the pool seems very, very small.

(Very Mom wrote a fantastic post about all of this, by the way, and I love her for it, even though she describes her two-thousand-plus daily hits as "measly." I'd relinquish parental rights to my firstborn child for measly.)

(Also, jealous much?)

In the first paragraph, I linked to the entry where I first began discussing the use of "Fremanitis" as a possible theme for a non-Blogger site, and in the comments, Number Twelve expressed her love for my Frema alias and suggested I use the name as a branding device, just like so many of the well-established bloggers do. She said, "I think you've had food on your face for long enough."

After careful consideration, I disagree. Part of the reason I love "What're you lookin' at?" so much is the attitude it conveys, one of curiosity and defensiveness, skepticism and embarrassment. One that, under the surface, seems to say, "I want to know what you're lookin' at because I wish you were looking at me." I can think of no better way to encapsulate my awkward, B-list, Internet self.

Plus, the Swiss woodworking industry's already called dibs on Frema.com.

So I'm saying to hell with all of it. I'll pursue a Typepad account in the next month or two for no other reason than I want to, and my current title will stay, and I will continue my illicit affair with the "Refresh" button in Window Explorer, and squeal when my comments tracker goes up, because I like sharing stupid pictures of myself with people I don't know. Maybe I'll experiment with ads and maybe I won't. I'll do my best to attend BlogHer next year, and I'll ooh and aah over Internet celebrities just like when Bruce Willis passed my pretzel cart at Navy Pier in 1997, but more importantly, I'll strive to learn as much as I can about this bizarre form of writing that's revolutionizing the publishing industry. And I'll be sure to share that knowledge with all of you, because my sole complaint about the entries following the event we read about for weeks in various corners of the Web is, after all that hype, how little discussion there was about the conference's theme: How are your blogs changing your world? There were countless "I consumed alcohol with these people" links swapped back and forth, but I noticed only a couple of bloggers sharing any personal insights whatsoever. For a medium so ripe for the picking in terms of thoughtful discussion, I was very disappointed.

Then again, I'm also crushed that Scrubs and 24 won't air season premieres until January. Every rose has its thorn.

Who Could Ask For Anything More?

Because of my recent raise at work, Luke's and my life has become relatively more comfortable. An extra hundred smackers every two weeks is nothing to sneeze over, and we decided to celebrate with dinner at the Outback on June 30. And Cheeseburger in Paradise on the ninth. And Bahama Breeze on the fourteenth. And Bub's Burgers the next afternoon. And Steak 'n Shake on Sunday night. Plus spontaneous trips to Barnes and Noble and Sephora (more on that next time). And as of yesterday, a Two-Adult Household YMCA membership. When balancing our checkbook last night, I was shocked to realize how much money we'd spent on pretty much nothing (except for the Y, and the Sephora purchase really was a necessity, but I'll get to that another day. One topic at a time, people!)

It was about a year and a half ago that I became more aware of money and the fact that frequent shopping sprees at New York and Company weren't going to pay off my car loan or release me from the thirty-year shackles Sallie Mae has cuffed to my ankles. Luke and I were talking about the future more often, and it suddenly hit me that houses and babies and family vacations all came with a price tag, and I was finally at the stage in my life where I needed to start making the proper financial accommodations. I was working at Saint Joe at the time making under thirty thousand a year, in all honesty a pretty good salary considering rent was under three hundred a month and my loans were content earning interest in the Land of Deferment until I graduated from DePaul. So I continued to live it up, financing a 2005 Chevy Cobalt after last year's (first) car accident and the subsequent totaling of my beloved Cavalier; by the end of my tenure at the college, I still hadn't saved a penny, as there were no match options for retirement-minded employees under twenty-five and I wasn't confident enough to select funds for a Roth IRA.

Moving to Indianapolis proved to be the push I needed to shape up my finances--a little. For one thing, my rent was almost three times higher and the cable bill jumped up a whopping twenty bucks. For the good of my grocery bill, I canceled the latter at the end of the trial run and learned a good lesson about separating needs from wants. I finally opened up a 401(k). Things were a little tight, but by that time Luke and I had agreed to live together in sin and assumed we'd experience only a couple of months of downtime until he secured full-time work in the city. Once he landed his job, we said, life would finally begin.

(That rumble in the sky you just heard was God laughing his @$$ off.)

September is fast approaching, and with it comes Luke's one-year anniversary of quitting his job at the Rensselaer Republican to come and be with me. With it I'm reminded of how much Luke and I have learned about ourselves, our relationship, and our heart's desire. It's a fascinating process, to whittle away the material fluff and figure out what you really need to make it in this world. We didn't talk about it on the Internet, but at the beginning of the year, Luke interviewed for a reporting position with a small weekly paper on the outskirts of Indianapolis. Because we'd learned how to live on my income from the lab and occasional checks from his temping gigs, we knew any job he accepted would make a huge impact on our lives. We'd bank all of his checks to cover a twenty-percent down payment on a house. Replace his '93 Lumina with a car that featured a fully functioning driver's-side door. Baby-make to our heart's content. I was barefoot and pregnant and living in a two-story brownstone before he was even offered the job.

But then he was offered the job, with a starting salary so low you'd think THEY thought he'd mistaken them for McDonald's. Factor in an hour round-trip commute on a car already on its last legs for a position he wasn't crazy about to begin with, and we found ourselves questioning just how badly we needed that money.

Luke thought about taking it. I could see it in his eyes that he was restless, that he hated temping, that he wanted to feel useful, even though I felt like I was the one taking advantage of him and his willingness to cook and launder and run errands in addition to conducting a job search, an involved activity in and of itself. In the end, though, he didn't, and every time we get down about not having a house and not being as ready for kids as we thought we were, I remember that our current situation is not a result of Luke's inability to find a job. Rather, it stems from a passionate belief that we don't have to settle for someone else's estimate of our self worth. It's OK to say thanks but no thanks, to set our standards high and hold out until they're met, because life is about more than driving a nice car and living in the suburbs and being debt-free. It's about being able to sleep at night knowing you made choices that honor your dignity as a human being. We wanted that money to enrich our life, but we didn't need it. We needed a roof over our heads, adequate health insurance, retirement and medical savings accounts (nothing screams "I love you" like "Please take care of Mommy and Daddy because we're old and sick and broke"), and one car that doesn't require major repair; we needed to get married to seal our commitment and take care of each other the way God intended. With a little planning and a lot of grace, we made all of those things happen. When Luke received his Anthem card in the mail last month after going ten months without any coverage at all, I felt like the last pieces of our foundation were finally cemented into place. We have nice clothes and good food and a little bit of savings and the means to get into better physical health. We have our family. Most importantly, we have each other, and I truly am so thankful to share each day of my life with this man I can at long last call my husband. Everything else will come in good time.

Meanwhile, if we choose to honor our dignity every once and a while with a Bloomin' Onion, ain't nothin' wrong with that. What do you think the insurance is for?

Get On With It Already!

Holy crap! Has it really been a week since my last entry? That wasn't my intent. I'd actually begun a riveting post about the wild life and questionable times of my hair almost immediately, but Blogger thwarted my plans for posting three days in a row by once again refusing to upload my images. Then suddenly it was Saturday morning and Luke and I were running important errands like opening a savings account and seeing the new X-Men movie, which totally wasn't worth the hype and I kept referring to Ian McKellan's character as Gandolf. Sunday was Father's Day, so we spent the afternoon in Lafayette visiting Luke's parents (we saw my parents the week before), and yesterday I stayed at work until almost ten o'clock designing the lab's client newsletter, and now so much time has passed that nothing I write can in any way measure up to my absence. So, instead of continuing to tweak this follow-up, which has seriously been subjected to major editing since Friday, I'm just going to wrap it up with promises of something more coherent later.

My last entry was kind of a mess. Not in the literal sense, because for once the words I needed came when I needed them to, but emotionally. And that entry is still true. I do have aspirations for other career paths in the future, but the eventual idea is to stay home, procreate, and raise some kids who share my appreciation for sherbet, Erica Kane, and possibly world peace. That coupled with my pesky Sallie Mae loans have led Luke and I to decide that any future schooling will be paid for in cash, which in this scenario can be defined as charging a semester's worth of tuition and paying off the balance before the next bill's due. Luke's been toying with the idea of grad school a lot lately, sometimes for photography, sometimes for writing. No matter field of study he chooses, I think Luke would benefit from graduate school. If he wants it, I want it for him. And while he's not as dead-set on the whole stay-at-home-mom thing, he wants that for me, just because I want it so badly.

However, you know what else I want? To shut my big pie hole already and learn to live in the now. Why am I always ten steps ahead of myself? For years my dream has been to say "I do" to the only partner who's ever loved me for who I am, and once it happened, I couldn't wait to start whining over how weird it feels to be thisclose to thirty without a baby, and when would you like to start trying, honey? Now? How about now? Or now? How about NOW? Meanwhile, my husband is doing his damndest to find his current place in the world, whether it's school or a job or what have you, and would like to do that without the pressures of an additional mouth to feed. Isn't he lucky to have such a supportive wife?

In reading the comments from last Tuesday's post, it was PaintingChef in her infinite wisdom who reminded me that nothing should be a higher priority than my marriage. That I didn't get married because I was ready to start a family or because Luke would make a great daddy, even though I am and he will. I married him because he brings something to my life that nobody else does, and I want to do the same for him. And as wonderful as children are, their reason for existing shouldn't just be to fill a void but to thrive in the confines of a unit that was strong and healthy and loving to begin with. I owe it to Luke and our relationship to be the best wife I can be, whether or not I ever become a mother. And I owe it to my kids, so they can have in me a role model who realizes each day is a gift and should be lived to the fullest.

As I reflect on all the jobs I've held since high school, retail and professional, there's one theme that binds them all together: at some point, I've always wanted to give up. Either the job's too hard or the hours are too long or the neighborhood skank wants to rumble because she was three McNuggets short of a nine piece. When I'm near my breaking point, I suddenly don't care about gaps on my resume or how I'll make rent next month. I just want out.

Until Friday, I thought I wanted out of my job. I thought my voice wasn't being heard and my talents were being underused. But that was before my annual performance review, during which my boss came to appreciate my point of view and I came to appreciate the ten-percent pay raise that resulted from his enlightened appreciation. It's in meetings like that when you realize it's time to quit with the ragging and thank the Lord Jesus you're not making change in a drive-thru window. This job may not be My Dream, but it's certainly not a nightmare, either. It's a good administrative position in my field that offers flexible hours and an office with a window and a chance for Luke to go after his dreams for a change. It makes our dreams possible. And that's not something I'm willing to give up.

Instead of driving myself crazy with what-ifs and why-mes about religion, employment, and human beings who might one day slide out of my privates, I'm going to sit back and enjoy this down time. I'm going to read novels and learn how to cook and pick up crocheting again and pay more attention to this here blog. More importantly, I'll figure out what exactly in my diet causes me to pass gas during important meetings and how much longer I can get away with it before my coworkers realize it's me.

See? I'm growing already.

Another Anniversary

Today marks one year of cohabitation with my current company, and I'm not sure what to think about it. While the competitive wages, flexible hours, and one-hundred-percent vestment of employer 401(k) matches are to effing DIE for, they're not enough to make me happy about what I do. I'd like to blame this lack of fulfillment on the lab and the fact that my boss still doesn't know how to fully utilize my position, but the heart of the matter is I'm not sure where I belong in "the real world."

At the start of college I thought I'd be an executive powerhouse who took the subway to work and wore white tennis shoes over her tights while strutting my stuff to the office. My mom's older sister was a vice president for a national freight-train company, and she once told me about a disagreement with my uncle regarding whether or not to buy my younger cousin some insanely expensive toy for her birthday, and how she informed him that their daughter would get it no matter what. "I'll just take it from my checking account. He can't tell me what to do with my money," she said, and I was in awe. Any money my mother spent came straight from my father's paycheck. I remember wondering what would happen if my dad was killed on a firehouse run or they ever split up. How would she take care of five kids? Then and there I made a promise to myself that no matter what, I'd always be self-sufficient. No way would I allow my livelihood to be dictated by the financial generosity of my husband.

However, by the end of my first year in PR hell, I was ready to kiss off meetings; strategic plans; fundraising plans; action plans; pretentious corporate love-in plans; deadlines requiring two weeks of overtime and no fewer than eight bottles of Starbucks frappacinos to get through the nine-to-five grind. Let my aunt and other like-minded colleagues make the big bucks by working through dinner and answering e-mails before they released the first morning's pee. I had better things to do, like assume my future hubby would neither die nor leave me in the lurch and trust our combined salaries would be enough to keep us comfortable in middle class.

By that time, though, I was already halfway to completing a master's degree in writing, which, no worries, I'll just make enough moola to pay the loans off. That's the whole point of grad school, right?

But then I fell in loooove with a man who was smart and kind and funny and handsome and everything I was looking for. A man who happened to make less than me, which didn't matter until we started talking seriously about marriage and family and then I realized, holy crap, I don't want to work at all. I want to be a mother and I want to stay home, for reasons I've already stated here. And therein lies the problem.

Seeing as I've already committed the Frema-Useless Clutter household to a five-hundred-dollar monthly Sallie Mae payment for the next twenty-five years, my recent epiphany is a costly one, and I'm scared the education I've loved so much and been so proud of, the education that's not only made me a better writer but a better person, just might screw me out of accepting the only job that will ever really matter.

If I do have to work, I know there are options. I could go back to school and earn a teaching license, an idea I've tossed around since seeing my sister in action with her kindergarteners last year. I've also thought about high school guidance counseling and college admissions. (See a pattern here?) If I do have to work, there are certainly worse things in life than pursuing a career I could actually love.

But at what point does "have to" begin? If the ideal is for Luke to work while I raise our brood, what sense does it make to invest time and money into a career change, especially when we don't want to wait very long before trying for kids? On the other hand, who knows how long it'll take before we're successful? I've seen and heard tales from plenty of wonderful women who've struggled with infertility, and it's too early to tell whether or not we'll have issues of our own. If it takes years for me to have a baby, do I really want to spend that whole time in job limbo?

Which goal do I hang my hat on? What's the best way to balance living in the now and going after your dreams? And at what point do you realize it's time for plan B?

Anyone?

Thirty Days in the Marital Office

During the first weeks following Luke's and my wedding, I felt like a fraud thinking of us as husband and wife; our marriage was too new, too innocent, to be valid. Just like Jello has to sit in the fridge for a few hours before it'll assume its permanent shape, so must our relationship undergo the same process.

While I wait for time to mold our union into something less liquid-y, I think a lot about what it means to be a good wife. As a person, I thought my scorecard was pretty good: close family and friends, good job, nice car, strong belief in God, desire to make babies and improve the state of the universe. As a girlfriend, well, I patted myself on the back for that, too, taking pride in my salary for sustaining our livelihood and my unconventional attitude for letting it happen. I thought bringing home the bacon meant I was an equal contributor to our household. It was as if Ward Cleaver had staked his claim on the new millenium.

Since we've been married, I've been reading a lot of books, including one called Lies at the Altar: The Truth About Great Marriages, written by Oprah's new Dr. Phil, Robin Smith. The book uses a financial checks and balances metaphor to drive home the idea that just like a savings account, a marriage won't survive if you withdraw more than you deposit. It then challenged readers to transcribe one week's worth of their marital credit history.

My deposit? "Stayed up late to view wedding photos." Cuz, you know, I'm the breadwinner and need my beauty sleep. But even that doesn't really count, because a credit is described as something one spouse does for the other without complaint, and there may have been a "But I'm so tiiiiired" whine involved.

My withdrawals? "Didn't cook dinner." "Didn't do laundry." "Asked Luke to run boxes over to Goodwill." "Asked Luke to run to the post office for stamps." "Asked Luke for a foot massage."

Looks like Fifth Third isn't the only one who gets to harp on my @$$ for insufficient funds.

I think about how lucky I am to have Luke in my life and it hurts to breathe. Every morning he gets up to pack up my lunch. He begins his e-mails with "Hi, sweetie," and ends them with "I hope you're having a great day." He'll make a Wal-Mart run at 11:30 on a Thursday night because I forgot to buy contact solution on my way home from work. He never complains that the only dishes I make involve spinach and cheese, and when we go to sleep, he holds me as close as I'll allow, which usually isn't much, as my limbs have a mind of their own and need to be free in the event an urgent head scratch or toe stretch is required. He tells me often how proud he is to be my husband, and then I recall responses to simple requests like rubbing his temples to alleviate a headache and I'm embarassed. I can't rattle off the characteristics that comprise the perfect Eve to Luke's Adam, but I know what he's worth, and I fail to make par. My husband deserves better than eye rolls and sighs that imply my "allowing" him play Nintento DS before bed provides sufficient grounds for sainthood.

It's a good thing we'll be together the rest of our lives. I already have a lot to make up for.

Twice The Drama Of An AMC Episode Minus All The Sex

So, after two glorious posts about wedding hoopla, I decided to drop off the face of the blogging earth. I've been reading your sites and commenting 'til the cows come home, but when it came to composing sentences for this here thing, I've been lost. Part of that's been due to Luke and I still working through "administrative" issues like bill paying, apartment cleaning, lease renewing, insurance subscribing, and name changing. However, it's also because this issue is once again plaguing my brain. And reading these entries--as well as the comments--have been wonderful signs that I'm not the only blogger confused as to how religion will function in my life.

What bothers me even more is WHY I've been so bothered: my "old-school Catholic" grandmother. Some of you might remember her as the one who scared me with Devil stories and sent my sister chastity literature for her 24th birthday. Now, she is also the woman who, according to reports from reliable sources (read: my sister Ryan), spread hurtful rumors that Luke and I were married in a pagan ceremony. As conservative Catholic as she is, though, I think her thoughtless comment has less to do with how we were married and more to do with not being invited to our wedding.

Some brief and possibly useless backstory: She and my parents had a falling out last year because she didn't believe in waiting to receive invitations for two-week visits from Arizona, and despite trying to keep the peace by sending her an invite to Samantha's wedding shower, I was still slammed with a three-page letter that tore my parents to shreds. If she was trying to get a rise out of us or instigate some sort of Family Hysteria, she picked the wrong granddaughter to air her dirty laundry to, because after relaying the letter's contents via phone to my parents, I did some shredding of my own. That's not the kind of heirloom you hope to pass along to your children, and anyway, I had more important things to worry about, like whether or not manicure sets were sassy enough prizes for Bridal Bingo and whose interests I was truly catering to when I selected the spinach dip appetizer.

After I had transformed her self-indulgent testimonial into a pile of confetti, I didn't give it another thought, except to think my grandmother was going out of her way to burn a lot of bridges, and the person really getting shortchanged in this scenario was Samantha, who'd had a great relationship with her until then, and maybe she would benefit from reacquainting herself with The Catechism of the Catholic Church, to search for the passage where it states writing hateful things about your son and daughter-in-law and sharing them with their oldest child via chicken scratch earned you free admission through God's pearly gates.

This year, when it came time to submit a guest list for my own shower, her name was purposefully absent. I had better things to do with my time then subject myself to more of The Crazy, and since she still hadn't contacted Samantha about her wedding, I figured she'd written us all off for good, anyway, so imagine my surprise when, a week before the shower, we heard my grandparents "just happened" to be in town. Curiouser and curiouser, as one Alice in Wonderland might say. But I refused to budge. For cripe's sake, her husband called Ryan on Christmas morning to send warm holiday greetings from her "ex-grandfather." I wasn't about to pretend all that $#@! and more never happened.

Seven days after writing about the big event, I received the following comment from an anonymous poster, probably my godmother, who told my father that if their mother wasn't invited to the wedding she would boycott it altogether, and who also played the starring role in that whole china incident:

Why was there a Grandmother leaving chicago, boarding an air plane in tears? Did it not seem odd that she just happened to be in chicago on this special day?

My answer somehow got lost in the deleting of "Anonymous's" post, kind of like the point of this entry, which was to originally talk about how badly my grandmother's remark hurt my feelings and how I've let her narrow beliefs color the plans Luke and I have for integrating our faith traditions in a way that'll provide a strong religious foundation for our family. However, I think it makes more sense to be honest with myself as to where these issues come from: my grandmother's and even the Catholic Church's viewpoint that worshipping God outside the perameters of Catholicism doesn't count--at least, not as long as you're Catholic--and my occasional, irrational fear they could possibly right. Luckily in those instances I recall the simple mantra our good pastor shared with us in our first premarital counseling session, "God can handle it," and remember that religion was created for God, and not vice versa. It's then that I experience peace.

The Name Game

Only twenty-four hours later and Luke and I have already accomplished several items on our to-do list: we finished booking hotel rooms for the honeymoon, found one of two Bible passages for the ceremony, approved the song list for our mixed CD, and made arrangements for this Friday to obtain our marriage license--which, by the way, a big thanks to the anonymous commenter who mentioned that the Indiana rubella law had been repealed. All of you who assured me my American hair dryer can perform to its full capacity in Canada are pretty spiffy, too.

I'm tired. Even though Luke's been finished with his night gig for just about a week, I can't seem to get into bed any earlier than midnight, which means I get under seven hours of sleep, which means I'm ready to drop by the time I get home, and I vow to hit the sheets by 10:30 to make up for it, but then I get caught up in reading my blogs and visiting the AMC message board and scribbling the different combinations of my name (first name plus maiden name, first name plus married name, first name plus maiden name plus last name with a hypen, first name plus maiden name plus married name with just a space, and so on) as well as the new contenders for the name of our firstborn daughter. (It's a tie between Audrey and Norah, which just goes to show you how in sync we are with popular media.)

Yesterday someone at work learned I was getting married and asked if I was keeping my name. A funny question, seeing as that topic had taken over my entire being up until two days ago. When I was younger, I never imagined NOT taking my husband's name. I certainly didn't know anyone who hadn't, and with a last name like mine, I couldn't wait to meet a nice boy named John Smith and officially lose legal ties to the beast that most people tackle with the same facial expression worn when devouring a greasy steak sandwich. It's the double A that throws them off, another funny once you learn that neither A is actually pronounced like an A but more like a short-U/long-I combination.

When my name changes to this, I will lose two As and gain no As. An A-less last name. After twenty-six years and two college degrees and one nationally distributed pee article I'm ready to don a black veil and weep into my pillow, because dammit, it's my NAME. I stamp it on press releases and include it in bylines for company newsletters. I sign it on credit cards and meticulously spell it out for telemarketers trying to squeeze the last fifty dollars out of my bank account to purchase the newest version of Pro-Activ, which I would totally buy if Luke wasn't making me try every generic off-shoot known to man first. OK, maybe just two, and Klear Action really does work, so run to Super Target and get your box today!

(Come back, Frema! The point! It's over here!)

After a lot of back and forth, I've decided to take Luke's name. And I'm happy about it. I like Luke's last name. More importantly, I love Luke. I love that he and I and any babies we make together will be connected by such a tangible, emotionally charged bond. But I will list both when writing anything for print. For better or worse, that name is a part of me, just like my brown eyes and spinach dip obsession and tendency to pick corn strands out of my teeth with my pinky, and I don't agree with erasing all traces of it simply because I've switched from a Miss to a Missus. If I'm ever lucky enough to publish a memoir, I want my eighth-grade homeroom teacher to know her former student accomplished what she had hoped to do since the age of seven. I want to autograph copies for my parents and witness their pride in seeing the name we all share proudly centered on the book jacket. I want to mail one to my childhood self to show her that she done good.

Or maybe I'm just a self-centered narcissist who enjoys being difficult. Who's to say? Ladies, did any of you struggle over taking a new name?

Also, it's one minute to midnight. The vicious cycle, she continues. Bah.

Life After May 12th

In exactly one month from today, Luke and I will be married. I'll walk down this aisle, clutching onto my father's arm, fearful that a high heel might catch on a broken piece of brick. We'll say "I do" in front of the family and friends we love most after vowing to honor and cherish each other, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live. There will be first dances and banana cake and beef fajitas and a bouquet toss with my actual bouquet. What a wonderful day it will be.

Even more exhilerating, though, is everything to follow. I've been thinking about it a lot more lately, probably because evidence of our new life is tucked into every nook and cranny of this apartment, in the form of flatware and bedding and camping gear and Good Housekeeping cookbooks. As Luke participates in his second job interview in two weeks, so are we also etching out our path.

The first hurdle: apartment hunting. Space that was luxurious for one person has translated into "cozy" for two, especially when one of those persons has nowhere to stash her Sweet Valley High collection and is therefore resigned to housing them in a Tupperware bin partially blocking the doorway, much to the dismay of the other. We know we want to save for a year or two before purchasing a house (we refuse to pay PMI insurance. Refuse!), but we don't want to wait that long for babies, so the space that is cozy for two would likely be unbearable for three, even if the little bugger spends its first two months of life alternating between Mommy and Daddy's dresser drawers for naps.

Last year I signed a thirteen-month lease to take advantage of my complex's "first month free" offer. Upon our return from Niagara Falls, we'll start pouring through apartment guides and Web sites to determine new housing candidates and settle on a winner by June 30.

I can't explain why this simple course of action is so exciting to me. It's not like I've never looked for an apartment before. In the last three years, I've moved three times. I lived in a house for the first time in my life and scored my first roommate (not to be confused with scoring with my roommate). I tackled the personal milestone of living alone, and then again with someone else, someone with whom you're allowed to apply "score" in the proper sense. Nothing about this process will be new, except the paperwork bearing my signature will feature Luke's last name instead of my own, a last name with no double As, no apostrophe, no chance of a mispronounciation like "Maytag."

We'll have other decisions to make, too, once we've re-established DINK status, like when to replace Luke's '91 Chevy Lumina, which can't be trusted outside city limits. Should we even have two cars? Would it be more practical to get by on the Cobalt instead? Speaking of the Cobalt, should we pay it off before starting a house fund? What kind of house do we want in the first place? Will I stay at my current job or pursue my not-so-newfangled notion of becoming a teacher? If I do, how will that affect my desire to stay at home with our kids?

There are no answers to these questions, but for once I'm not scared of them. Instead, I can barely sit still. We'll finally start living the dream we chose for ourselves the minute Luke gave his notice at the Rensselaer Republican last fall. We'll be together in every way that counts, planning for a future with no road blocks, no exit ramps, no tolls. The possibilities are endless.

We couldn't have asked for a more appropriate wedding gift.

Fasten Your Seatbelts, 'Cuz You In For A Wild And Incoherent Ride

I feel like there's a lot for me to talk about: losing myself in memories as I sort through pictures for a wedding slideshow. Digesting the results of my cholesterol test. Painting my toes for the first time since June. But all I can think about are babies.

On January 19, I stopped taking the pill. I stopped because Luke and I want to prepare my body for some baby-making magic. I stopped because this post had me sobbing at my cubicle, horrified at the possibility that in my quest to prevent pregnancy I'd actually terminated one. Never mind that one of us is looking for work and we're not married yet; hell, we don't even know when we want to start trying. I stopped because I couldn't live with myself otherwise.

Seeing as I'm already five steps ahead my biological clock, I figured, why not jump over a few more flights by opening up the whole "stay at home or go to work" can of worms? It's all around me. I see truly wonderful women and how their lives have been transformed by the decision to raise their children full time. I read stories from courageous working mothers who place their children in day care to provide a life they wouldn't be able to otherwise.

So when Dooce wrote this post on Monday in response to a "Good Morning America" guest who declared that children with stay-at-home mothers are no better off than those placed in child care, I felt comforted that I wasn't the only one who couldn't erase this concept from my head. Heather opened up comments for the first time in over a year to encourage feedback, and to date more than fifteen hundred people have shared their experiences about the pros and cons of both. Not one to pass up an opportunity to share Deep and Meaningful Thoughts, I posted a comment that sort of attempted to kind of answer the following questions Heather posed:

• Did your mother stay at home? Did she work? How did you feel about what she did?
• If you could change anything about what she did what would that be?
• What do you hope your daughters grow up to do?

I present to you my Deep and Meaningful reply, which really wasn't Deep or Meaningful but sort of rambled on about baking cookies and selling my soul to Sallie Mae.

During my childhood, my father worked odd sorts of jobs--cab driver, flower guy on the highway--until he became a firefighter for the Chicago Fire Department when I was seven years old. In addition to this, he spent his time away from the firehouse doing construction jobs on the side. And for 95 percent of this, my mother stayed home. Just last fall she took a job with my youngest sister's former elementary school as a bus monitor. She works from about ten to four and loves saying that she has somewhere to go during the day and that she can finally contribute to their finances.

When I was younger, our house (apartment, actually) was the one where all the neighborhood kids wanted to be because my mom was one of the rare few who stayed home. She made cookies, cooked dinner, knew our friends and our schedules. In high school I was a good kid but got pretty wrapped up in my first real boyfriend, and if it wasn't for her constant nagging on where I was, who I was going to be with, were parents going to be around, etc., there's a good chance I'd be the mother of a 10-year-old child by now, fathered by a man who was unemployed and still living in his mother's basement by the time I finished my bachelor's degree.

When I was younger, I always thought my mom stayed home because my dad wanted her to. It wasn't until I was older that I realized she was exactly where she wanted to be. However, since they had me so young (19) and struggled for so long, neither of them had the chance to further their educations, which is why they're both so adamant about all of us kids going to college. I wish BOTH of them could've done that.

My fiancé and I are getting married in May and know we want to start our family soon. I have a master's degree and job that has great pay and benefits, but I want to be a SAHM so badly I could cry. However, I'm not willing to sacrifice everything to do that. I want to have the means to be able to help them pay for college so they're not drowning in debt after graduation. I'm paying over five hundred dollars a month to Sallie Mae because my parents had four other mouths to feed in addition to mine and there was no extra money for stuff like that. I'm not angry about it, but that doesn't mean I want my kids to be in the same position. Also, I want Luke and I to have a retirement account. My parents have always lived paycheck to paycheck, no savings, so they don't have anything but my dad's pension to depend on. They're nervous about that. I don't want that to happen to Luke and me.

Once they actually exist, I hope my children have the means to make the best choices for their families, whatever those choices may be. And I really, REALLY hope they aren't saddled with debt. :)

I know. A half-hour for THAT?

It wasn't until after hitting "Publish" that I realized these paragraphs in no way came close to describing how much I love and respect my parents for their decision to place us first--above new cars, fat savings accounts, trendy clothes, nights out, even above their own free time, so that we could experience the kind of life they thought we deserved. How amazing.

Because I read so many "mommy blogs," I also read a lot of comments from women defending the side of the fence they live on, whether they stay at home or go to work or breastfeed or bottlefeed or cosleep or whatever, because no matter what choice you make, someone is going to damn you. And I'm torn. I believe nobody will love and care for Lucy like I do, but it won't kill her if someone else is in charge of changing her diaper from nine to five five days a week. That she's only little once but will need me more when she's in fifth grade and offered a cigarette, or when she's seventeen and unsure if she wants the guy she's been dating for six months to be her first. I think some families complain they can't afford to live on one income because they're afraid of life without two cars or TiVo, but I also think Lucy should be able to earn her bachelor's degree without having forty thousand dollars of debt to her name. Five or ten? No problem. But not forty.

To anyone still reading, I apologize, because I'm sure after thirteen paragraphs you rightfully expected to glean some interesting philosophical insights. I don't have any interesting philosophical insights. I don't even have kids! What I do have are overwhelming emotions that are very possibly the result of my first chemical-free period in six years and the burning desire to be a mother. But not just any mother. A good mother. A loving mother. Someone like MY mother.

We'll see.

Aww, You Guys...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wedding Forecast: Pensive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because it did.

Resolution With China

The plate you see above has served as the answer to my china-resistant prayers. Turns out that Luke's grandma had earmarked her darling twelve-piece collection to him months ago, before the two of us were even engaged. I called my aunt tonight to give her the wonderful news, and she said that's wonderful, and isn't it nice that we're inheriting a wonderful family heirloom, and she would buy us something else equally wonderful. Everybody wins.

In a perfect world, after the wedding, Luke and I could store this china ourselves. Having room for delicate serving ware would mean that we've moved into our first house, a house boasting of spacious closets and a basement for storage and a backyard. It'd mean we worked extremely hard to save for a twenty-percent down payment and a few nice things to make the place ours. We'd have the proper accommodations for a dog. We'd have room for a baby.

But right now, we live in a one-bedroom apartment. Our only storage facility is adjacent to our balcony and already filled to the brim with tupperware containers stuffed with holiday decorations, photo albums, movies we don't have the appropriate shelving to display, and our modest little barbeque grill. My home office is the space behind the TV, and our kitchen table is about five feet to the right of that. And it's going to stay this way until June 30th, at which time my lease on this place ends and we'll have made a decision on where to live next. It might be a neighborhood in which we contemplate buying property; it might be a trendy hot spot that will help us celebrate our last child-free hurrah.

The only thing we know for sure is it won't be a house. As it is, we're stretching ourselves to afford this wedding, and now I can't believe I spent the last few weeks telling everyone and their mother that our goal was to move right into a house, when really it was my goal, because dammit, I want a sense of permanency and a real home office and a place for this beautiful china and my God, I want room for a baby.

It's when stuck in such self-manifested crises that I most appreciate my husband-to-be, because Luke has calmly brought me back to Earth with the realization that life will not end if we spend another year in an apartment. After taking a minute to absorb that life-altering pearl, I decided it'd be kinda nice to spend the next twelve months just settling in and enjoying our new marital status. I want to get a new pair of shoes from Baker's without feeling guilty that I'm spending our mortgage money. I want to see a movie at the show more than once a season, and I want grab the good contact lens solution at Target. Besides, if we can hoard several thousand dollars in five months for a wedding, imagine if we took double that to save for the house that will symbolize our first step towards making a family.

In other words, I'm chilling the eff out. My brain feels much more awake. And that? Feels refreshingly nice.

Belated Apology

The last three days have been a whirlwind of activity centered around cake testing, tuxedo shopping, invitation choosing, and birthday celebrating. Plus, my good friend Molly gave birth to her second son, Jack, this morning, who just happened to be the New Year's baby for their hospital, so a big hip hip HOORAY! to the Ray family, PLUS, I've caught up on the first of two weeks of All My Children tapes and discovered that Dixie is alive! Could life get any better? I think not.

Our experiences over the weekend bring with them the potential of amazing blog entries, but I'll let Luke handle that. The thing I can't stop obsessing over is the etiquettenesss (is that even a word?) of the whole thing. Dates for singles? Kids or no kids? Perform or forgo bouquet and garter tosses? Make room for or scratch off "The Chicken Dance"? The pressure from all this decision-making is enough to break my body into a thousand tiny pieces.

However, the most interesting directive falls upon the shoulders of your guests: Guests, if you RSVP for the ceremony and reception, please plan to the attend the ceremony and reception. When you agree to take part in somebody's special day, please don't show up at the church and leave the bride and groom with apologies that you won't be at the hall because your boyfriend wants to take a nap and you are too much of an @$$wipe to stand up to him.

That @$$wipe? Would be Trophy Frema. She did it to baby Jack's momma on October 28, 2000--her wedding day.

During the ten months that Mike and I dated, I ran myself ragged trying to please him. I bought him cigarettes even though I despise them and to this day still attempt to wiggle out of my mother's requests to pick up a pack for her at the corner store. I charged extra cell phone minutes on my credit card so he could call his buddy from the aisles of Best Buy to get the name of a Nirvana CD he had to have. And I acted like it was no big deal that he didn't want to go to Molly and Kevin's wedding because it was the same weekend of his annual Halloween party, and I didn't think I was a good enough reason for the party not to go on.

I eventually guilted him into agreeing to be included on the RSVP, while he eventually guilted me into skipping the reception, saying he'd worked a long week and was really tired and just wanted to go home and sleep. So, instead of expressing my excitment at the night's upcoming festivities, I gave Molly a hug and shook Kevin's hand after their beautiful ceremony and left them standing there at the end of the service with nothing but a congratulations and our regrets. Turns out The Powers That Be found a way to punish me for my faux pas, because that same night Mike patted my stomach and casually remarked, "You didn't have this when we first started going out." Karma, she's a bitch.

Today, as I reflect on all the time and effort Luke and I have funneled into this wedding to date, it crystalizes for me just what it means to be included on somebody's guest list. It means you are wanted. It means you are loved. It means your relationship is worth a twenty-dollar meal and the price of an open bar. In other words, you are not expendable.

I also realize how lucky I am that Molly never called me out on the rudeness of my behavior, that she never tried to make me feel bad, that she continued to be my friend. During these next few months, may God bless me with the same grace and understanding this incredible woman exercised with someone who should have known better. For what it's worth, Molly, I know better now.

The Best of 2005, The Worst of 2005

When I was a teenager, every December 31st I compiled a list of highlights from the last twelve months. The list featured top songs, favorite reads, and significant milestones I'd experienced relating to school, love, friendships, and personal goals. This year's tally won't include Ace of Base, Ann M. Martin, or my first French, but no one said life was fair.

School
I graduated college for the second (and possibly last) time of my life. This is still weird for me, as the Intellectual part of myself still has longings for textbooks, classrooms, and blue-book final exams. But I'm the first family member to hold a master's degree, and I can suffix "MA" after my last name. Some people with fewer diplomas listed on their resume wrongly believe this makes me smarter. It doesn't. I'm just more in debt than they are.

I also have mixed feelings about pursuing my writing degree immediately after wrapping up undergrad. When I first began talks with my current boss about taking a job with the lab, he stressed that his interest in me had less to do with my credentials and more about the job experience I'd gained in my position at Saint Joe. Knowing this three and a half years ago would have saved me forty thousand dollars in loans, a couple of hundred bucks in ink cartridges, and precious VHS tape that can never be recovered. I'd have an extra five hundred smackers each month for paying off my car. Financing my wedding. Purchasing my first house. There are hard compromises to make when taking on such a huge financial commitment.

But I also have a sense of accomplishment for managing my time so efficiently (or at least enough to get by). I have something tangible that helps me to hold my own in the presence of older peers who think they can treat me like a little girl on her first day of kindergarten. And did I mention I can add a suffix after my last name? Total coolness.

Love
I moved away from my boyfriend. I moved in with my boyfriend. I became engaged to my boyfriend. Wee for me!

I also learned it's not the end of the world to make decisions loved ones don't agree with. Living In Sin was not on my original list of things to do this year, nor was it an unfulfilled dream held by Mom and Dad on my behalf, but it turned out to be the best decision Luke and I could have made. That doesn't mean I think every couple and/or Mary Beth in Cincinnati and/or even you should do it. But I do think it's OK that it worked out for me.

Friendships
A tricky subject, as the majority of my relationships are maintained long-distance, and I haven't had an "everyday" gal pal for a long time. I miss that. There are certain things you can only do with a girlfriend. Eat ice cream in your sweatpants while watching Father of the Bride. Crochet blankets you'll never finish. Have your dinner covered by the restaurant's bus boys. You know, real bonding moments that weave together your very souls. In that respect, I truly feel a loss.

However, I've had wonderful, wonderful conversations courtesy of SBC, and I've been introduced to a number of fabulous individuals through the Internet. I've laughed and cried for women I may never meet in person, and I've seen new layers of those I've known for years. Amen for the world of personal publishing!

Personal Goals
On the surface, I've done great things. There was the landing a new job with great pay and even greater potential. Publishing an article about pee in a national magazine. Affording Prada (read: Pra.da.!) glasses, for cripe's sake. And yet, I'm still not passionate about what I do. It's the same problem I had at Saint Joe. I loved elements of my job, but I didn't love my job. I envy people like Samantha and Number Twelve, who make their living in fields perfectly suited for them. I sure as hell don't love sitting through weekly production meetings, filling out requisition forms, and hauling my @$$ out the door at ten to eight every morning. I'm also not crazy about being in a work environment for six months without making one real friend. Surely a change is in order. I just don't know what that change should be.

But I'll figure out. After all, I did survive scary car accidents, several bouts of Baby Fever, and countless incidents of sporting food on my person. That has to count for something.

Anyway, may your 2006 be filled with wine, spinach dip, a great support system, and endless good cheer. And possibly even suffixes.

Recovering

Four Christmases. Three nights spent away from home. Two very excited families. One very tired couple.

The festivities began on Friday night, when Luke and I traveled to Chicago to have Christmas with my mother's side of the family and participate in our new tradition of The Ornament Exchange--cheaper than buying actual gifts but just as much fun. We spent the night by Dan and Samantha's and left for Merrillville the next day, where Luke's parents were waiting for us. It was relatively low-key; a little church-going here, a little gift-giving there, and my much-anticipated viewing of It's a Wonderful Life. The next morning, it was time to pack up and head back to Chicago to see my family. Monday we came back home to see Luke's brother's family. By the end of the night, we were both ready to drop.

Which is why I can't believe that yesterday I actually fulfilled my last shift for the museum's Lord of the Rings exhibit. Most of the night was spent pacing the floor by the green-screen interactive station, although I did get to fold tee-shirts with a man who appeared to be the offspring of Peter Jackson and Kevin Smith, if ever such a thing were possible, and was very proud of his open marriage with his wife.

I had a wonderful holiday, but now I'm ready to move on. This weekend we'll be traveling north again for my mother's birthday and also to get some more details finalized for the wedding. We have appointments with photographers, a bakery, and a tuxedo place, and there might be visits with two DJ services. I'm not freaking out yet, but suddenly everything seems very overwhelming. Luke and I are seriously considering coming back to Indy on New Year's Eve and bringing in 2006 together, just the two of us, in an apartment that desparately needs a dust and vaccuum.

Not that I've regretted our frequent trips home. I love seeing our families and knowing that we're not letting our relationships slide simply because we're a few hundred miles away. And I hate when people complain about their social plans, because if you don't want to go, DON'T FREAKIN' GO. The universe will not explode into a billion pieces if you don't attend that birthday party, and though you might like to think so, the day won't be veiled in a blanket of sadness because of your absence. In our case, people would certainly understand if we didn't make every major event on the calendar; they'd miss us, but they'd get over it. Actually, when I lived in Rensselaer, I attended fewer functions than I do now. There's something about living farther away that instills in you a greater love for those you don't see all the time.

Meanwhile, I have to go to the bank this morning, because I've been charged ISF fees on four separate occasions in the last six months. I've never been one to balance my checkbook against my bank statement, but I've always been very good at recording my receipts, and I went for three years without any problems, so now I'm all like, "WTF? I accounted for that check two weeks ago!" At this point, my plan is to open up a brand-new account and start fresh. I wanted to avoid this since my name will be changing relatively soon, thereby wasting about a half-box's worth of checks, but we can't afford these thirty-three-dollar dings any longer.

I'm going to miss my last name.

My writing sounds just as tired as I am.

The Good Life

So. Hi again.

A slew of not-unfortunate-at-all events have happened since Friday night, events I had originally planned to cover in-depth within separate posts: volunteering for the Lord of the Rings exhibit for the third time in two months; breaking my fifteen-year hiatus from Chuck E. Cheese; looking at engagement rings for the first time in my life.

However, all of those topics took a backseat on Monday night, when I had my first mentoring session with "Annie."

Annie lives on the campus of a local rehabilitation facility. She is in the secure unit, where there are bars and locked doors and few windows. When she's not on campus, she lives with a foster family and is one of eight children under her parents' roof. During our initial meeting, her face lit up and she said, "I've been waiting for a mentor for really long time."

On Monday, we spent almost two hours playing Phase 10 and eating Doritoes (her one request). Curious children peeked in the windows of the recreation room, closed off during our session, to see what we were doing. While I shuffled cards, others were screaming obscenities as they were restrained by security; others just cried for their mothers.

Annie complimented my shoes and asked what size I wore in clothes, saying how much she adored hand-me-downs. She caught sight of my hand lotion from Bath and Body Works and wanted to try it out. She asked for my phone number so she could call me in between our visits, which will most likely include more Phase 10, a side of Clue, and the rest of the Doritoes.

When I first considered mentoring, I imagined baking cookies with pretty little girls in pig tails who had two parents and a membership with the local Girl Scout troup and no history of physical abuse. Instead, I was introduced to a girl who needs a friend and role model more than I ever could have imagined; a girl who, in turn, will also prove to be a role model for me.

On that note, here's a list of

What I'm Thankful For

• A boyfriend who lets me slack off on laundering clothes and loading the dishwasher
• That I finally finished the sixth installment of Harry Potter
• Almost seven months of accident-free driving
• Hot chocolate
• Online shopping
• Unlimited long-distance calling
• A boyfriend who acknowledges that spinach dip is a full-course meal in and of itself
• Turning various friends and family onto the blogging bandwagon and watching them display literary talents I never knew they had
• Glow-in-the-dark pajama pants
• All My Children
• Diffusers
• Toilet paper that doesn't flake
• Parents who support me in making decisions they wouldn't have made for me themselves
• A boyfriend who understands that I can't support a wedding date that has three zeros in it
• Designer eyeware
• Making it through two whole months without sporting sauce on my face
• Welcoming my first brother-in-law
• Feeling welcomed by my future parents-in-law
• Learning that some necessities are really wants
• Learning it's OK for the oldest not to do everything first
• My career
• Being old enough to have a career
• Having a career that can financially support the family Luke and I have made in each other
• My brother and sisters
• Ice cream
• That Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey had at least three years of wedded bliss
• My life

Happy Thanksgiving.

These Are Only Half Rhetorical

- How is it that women can embrace motherhood, thrive in the professional world, and hold political office, all at the same time, and waitresses STILL assume the man always gets the check?

- Who would hate their daughter so much they would name her Tiwanna House?

- What do you say to a stranger who, after one drink, confesses she smoked crack in college?

- Why does this zit keep reappearing above my damn lip?

- How depressing must it be for a forty-year-old print rep to be given a time-out by a communications hotshot who still gets excited over which brand of cereal to eat for breakfast?

- If I love All My Children so much, why haven't I taped it in the almost three months I've been without cable?

- What's so wrong with my e-mail address that Dear Abby refuses to share her daily words of wisdom with my inbox?

- Who's your daddy?

A lame attempt at an entry, to be sure, but it's been a long week. Feel free to share your own burning thoughts.

Off to the Races

Last week, I knew Luke being sick would guarantee I'd sport some physical ailment before Monday, and whaddaya know, I left work early on Friday to become a permanent fixture on the couch for a majority of the weekend, except when the two of us ventured outside the apartment on Sunday for two meals and a trip to church--a significant moment for us, as it was the first time we've been to God's house in Indianapolis since I moved here in May. Actually, the subject of religion in general is a big topic, since I'm Catholic and he's Methodist and neither wants to convert but both want to raise our children under some sort of Christian umbrella.

When I was younger, I never even considered this as an issue for relationships; in my pre-teens, when life didn't exist beyond the boundaries of Hoyne Park and the local Jewel, I just assumed everyone was Catholic and of course I would meet a nice Catholic boy and of course we would raise lovely Catholic children who would have godparents and go to CCD and live in fear that taking the last pack of fruit snacks without asking would no doubt secure your seat on a one-way train to Hell. Then, after I actually started dating, I thought every man I'd meet in the future wouldn't be Catholic but in fact, an athiest, because the only type of guy I seemed to attract was one who thought religion was for those too afraid to face their own mortality. Those same guys also wanted to smoke pot and wear flannels with holes in the arms and own every issue of The Punisher; the flannel thing alone should have given me pause, but I was a late bloomer, so really, I was just relieved to find members of the opposite sex who weren't turned off by my holding-on-to-the-eighties bangs and who were willing to make out with me in the alley behind my parents' house. Good times.

Anyway, now I'm an adult and realize that 1) the world is not overrun with Catholics and 2) Luke and I will eventually have to decide whose faith our children will inherit, something that unlike eye color or sexual orientation, we can actually control. A baby step towards that was taken on Sunday, when we went to a Catholic church a few miles from our apartment, knowing that we'd be in Merrillville this weekend and therefore attend a Methodist service with his parents. And so on and so on. This plan of action will hopefully allow us to become more acquainted with the values and rituals associated with the other's faith, which will hopefully help us to make a decision when the time comes, which will probably be when we get engaged, because we'll have to decide who will marry us, and if you're married in the Catholic church, it is understood that any future children will be raised Catholic, and that's that.

Basically, this means that our religions are now in competition with each other, poised at the starting line, each bearing a paper crucifix attached to their tank tops, vying for the title of Who Will Get The Blame For Screwing Up the Lives of Frema and Useless Clutter's Offspring, because in the end, no matter what religion you are, somebody's going to attribute your math handicap slash bra size slash tendency to only eat Tic-Tacs in even numbers to which version of the Bible you read.

It's for that reason that, in the end, we're less concerned with denominational hats and more focused on making sure our precious, darling Amelia doesn't have nightmares about the devil taking the form of a rooster and ripping a hole through the earth's crust to capture little girls who are too fond of fruit snacks for their own damn good (thanks, Grandma).

And they're off.

Progress

I was reading through older entries this morning and found that I had blogged exactly one year ago today. It's a sad little entry, one in which I talk about not fitting in with my graduate-school classmates because I lived so far away from campus. Now, on October 21, 2005, I realized that I'm going through the same thing all over again, only this time I'm striving to forge a relationship with Indianapolis. As much as I love the activity, the possiblities of being in a metropolitan area, I still don't feel quite at home. I still have many of the issues I faced in Rensselaer: I can't see my parents after a long day of work. No after-dinner drinks with lifelong friends, friends who I haven't lived in the same zip code with for eight years. No lazy Saturday breakfasts with my sister, unless I drive for three hours the night before. Though I try to stay connected as best I can with phone calls and visits, it's not the same as being around every day.

Sometimes I wonder what I was thinking when I agreed to move another hour-and-a-half away from the support group I love so much. If I had held out a little longer, I might have landed a job at Brookfield Zoo, a job that totally would have kicked @$$. I wonder what life would have been like for me then. I would have been surrounded by friends and family and felt a little more at ease with only seeing Luke on the weekends. We probably would've waited until marriage to live together. I know that would have pleased my mother.

But moving to this city has served as a catalyst for the progress of Luke's and my relationship in a way that Chicago never could. If I hadn't moved here, he would still be working at the Rensselaer newspaper, and we would still be waiting for that "perfect" moment to start our lives together. This move has allowed both of us to stretch our limits as individuals and unearth our true possibilities as a couple. It's been hard, and there are days when we both feel angry, taken for granted, out of place with ourselves. However, when we're tucked into bed, he opens his arms to me and allows my head to rest on his shoulder, signaling that we've made it through another day. That alone makes Indianapolis good for something.

Temperature Spike

Like a volcano, it lay dormant for months, patiently waiting to attack the vessel that is Frema. But the Baby Fever, it can no longer be contained.

I was doing so well, too. Since I moved to Indianapolis in May, I've paid regular visits to Matt, Patty, and their newest addition, thus curbing my desire to be a full-time mom. However, in the last week, there's been the birth of Noah, three baby-sitting shifts with Anna, and this shocking revelation. For cripe's sake, I thought the man was infertile. How much more is a girl who's already named her children supposed to take?

I know it's coming. Luke and I are doing great, and though we're not officially engaged yet, there's already been discussion about having our wedding next summer. And still, I'm ten steps ahead of myself. How long will Luke and I wait before we start trying? What if we have trouble? How would I feel about never being pregnant? What if I CAN get pregnant but need a C-section? If I decide not to breastfeed, would my love for my baby appear less than unconditional? How many children can we afford on one income? How would I feel placing my kids in day care?

Makes your head hurt, doesn't it?

This last picture was taken yesterday night and is the epitome of what I believe motherhood to be. Yes, I know it's not all sunshine and roses; I grew up the oldest of five children and experienced plenty of number-two diapers, spit-up clumping in my hair, and incidents that tempted me to scotchtape my siblings' lips together, therefore denying them of their right to cry. But, on the good days, I also experienced plenty of this. How lucky I was.

I know that in good time, babies will come, and I need to be patient. But until that day, I fully reserve the right to cry at the sight of them.

[Edited 12/9/06 to add: Some photos removed.]

Coming Home

Big weekend for Project Useless Clutter and Disarray: Luke and I cleaned out his apartment in Rensselaer, a major undertaking that included soaking blinds, wiping window sills, and attempting to unclog the kitchen sink. We spent Friday night in a sleeping bag on the floor, as his bed had been disposed of the week before, and when my cell phone's alarm woke me up at 7:00, after fewer than six hours of sleep, I wasn't sure I could make it through the day. I did, though, for Saturday was Homecoming for my alma mater, and it was the first time in four years that I didn't have to snap pictures or take notes for the alumni magazine. Instead, I volunteered in the registration tent and mingled a bit with people who I don't get to see very often. I also found out one of my classmates is a faithful reader of this blog (hi, Mandy!), and she shared some fun living-together anecdotes with me. I have also received e-mail from someone who was a year ahead of me in school, armed with cohabitation stories of her own. This blog is slowly becoming a safe haven for those who are Living in Sin and couldn't be happier about it. Kind of.

Because so much has happened since I left Rensselaer and Saint Joe in May, I wasn't sure what the weekend would hold. The work relationships I had once enjoyed on a daily basis have now evolved into more casual ties, and I felt a little sad thinking about all the inside jokes and gossip I could no longer be privy to. But it was so great to tell the little $%#@ who approached me in the Beer and Brat Tent to say, "So, you're still here, huh?" and fire back, "Actually, I have a great job in Indianapolis and I'm here on my own terms now, you obnoxious tool."

It's amazing how different I feel, for I truly have reached a point in my life where I am on my own terms, without wanting to apologize to anybody for how I got here. I'm proud of how I got here, because dammit, I have put in my time. The niches in my belt are filled with squeezing in a term paper on my lunch hour, spending weeekends at the office, crying at my desk after meetings (and unfortunately, sometimes in the meeting), and doing my best to follow a work ethic I couldn't fully support. After four years of breaking my back, I was ready for something new.

Right now, Project Cohabitation is still plenty new. After one week, I'm still kind of floating on air, similar to the way you react in the first weeks of romance, where you see everything through rose-colored glasses. It's been hard going to work every day, knowing that when I'm eating lunch in my cubicle, MY BOYFRIEND IS IN MY APARTMENT RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE. With no fear of being grounded for it! My boyfriend, all access, all the time. Monday was wonderful. He woke up with me, we had breakfast, and he sent me out the door with a packed lunch and kiss good-bye. When I came home, dinner was ready and waiting. Was seriously thinking that maybe this whole double income thing was not so necessary after all. Then Tuesday started with me breaking the floater attachment on the toilet and waking up Luke to say, "I think I did something wrong." He wasn't so eager to kiss me then.

We are still learning the ropes in this new life of ours, doing our best to distinguish what can remain "yours" and "mine" while still nuturing the "our." (He refuses to accept joint ownership of my Murder, She Wrote season one box set, while I happily relinquish all rights to his coffeemaker. But with two computers in the house, we both stake claim to the wireless adapter that makes all of our Internet dreams come true.) Still learning to carefully ignore the way the quilt on the mattress scandulously brushes the carpet every morning and instead just be thankful to be in love with a man willing to make the bed. Maybe just one of us is learning that one.

I suppose for every rose-colored moment, a little toilet water must fall.

How Useless Clutter Changed My Life

The Moving Day, it has been set. On Saturday, September 17, Luke and I will officially be living in sin. Exciting! Seriously, though, my stomach is starting to flutter at the idea of being able to see the love of my life every day. And in a city with more than one zip code! We'll go out for coffee and get joint memberships at Cardinal Fitness and snuggle up on the couch after a hard day's work and fall asleep in each other's arms. No more jumping onto I-65 at 5:00 p.m. on Friday to be in Rensselaer by dinnertime. Gone will be the days of an extra bottle of contact solution at his place and extra pairs of his socks at mine.

When I first started spreading the news, I was so bogged down imagining everyone's opinion that I didn't give myself permission to be happy. Now, that's all I can think about. The very first day I met Luke, I knew he was someone special. And as we got to know each other, I learned he had all the qualities I'd been searching for in a man: he loved his parents and had a wonderful relationship with them; he believed in God and the importance of being a good person; he was funny; he didn't judge; he was kind. And I was hooked.

In the more than four years that we've been together, we've had problems. Of course we have. But as each obstacle stared us in the face, we didn't back down and refused to give up. And he has never seen me for anyone other than who I am. The biggest reason my past relationships failed was that those guys never really GOT me. They weren't horrible people; they were just less interested in who I was and more concerned with what my persona had to offer. And I had a few of them. There was Savior Frema, who made numerous attempts to rescue a person who barely gave her the time of day, someone who went MIA for days and even weeks at a time and stole from her workplace and lied about cheating on her and then had the audacity to tell her that her morals were outdated. There was also Trophy Frema, the girlfriend who smiled a lot and always did her hair and hung out with the boys and at 20 years old did the best she could to appear adult to men who saved up for comic books instead of down payments. In both scenarios, she was almost always on edge, always afraid that one day she would slip up and be unmasked as the fraud she really was.

With Luke, I can be me. It's OK to burp and fart and laugh through my nose and cry with my whole heart. He sees me in my favorite lounger capris and still calls me pretty. He thinks it's cute that I still get excited about bunnies and ice cream. When we go out to eat, he always asks if I want to get the spinach dip appetizer, even if he's not in the mood. When my feet are sore from wearing high heels for ten hours, he'll carry me to my car (or at least halfway; light as a feather I am not, people). I have never before experienced a love like this.

But most importantly... he has NEVER stolen Pokemon cards or cash from my place of employment. That alone gives me hope for our future.

You Better WORK!

Dear God, help us all. Because on September 7th? This body will find itself on a Parisian runway. The chances of that body looking like the one on the right? Not so good.

When Indianapolis Ambassadors first sent out a request for models for its fall style show, I didn't give it a second thought. A Carrie Bradshow fashion icon I am not. The promotion indicated the show was in good fun and provided an especially creative way for new members to acclimate themselves to the group. Not scary! Fun! But still. No.

Until this morning, that is, when I received a frantic e-mail from the social activities coordinator saying that five women and three men were still needed for the style show. So, out of guilt for not having attended a single volunteer event yet, and out of responsibility to this blog ("that night will SO make for a killah entry!"), I offered up my services.

For the most part, I don't really suffer from low self-esteem. Even with all its blemishes and rolls, I'm pretty satisfied with my body, as long as it's dressed in pretty clothes that properly disguise what I don't like (stomach and thighs) and accentuate what I do (collarbone?). But it took me a long time to get this way. Growing up, I can remember flipping through The Big Bopper and Teen Beat with my sister Samantha and telling her confidently, "All the singers and actors in here have, like, 600 people working to make them look pretty. Every normal person has stomach rolls and love handles." I truly believed this until I went bathing-suit shopping in college and saw one of my friends sport a bikini. Her stomach was flat as a rock, and as far as I knew, she didn't live on a bread-and-water diet or have a personal trainer stashed in her dorm. I took a harder look at myself, thought, "Maybe a person's gut ISN'T supposed to hang over her jeans." Interesting concept.

It didn't help matters that, in the same year, a guy I was dating patted my belly and said, "I don't remember you having this when we first started going out." The day after "the incident," his mother cooked pancakes for breakfast (yes, he was 28 years old and living with his mother, I GET IT now), and I couldn't handle more than four bites. I was too embarrassed to eat in front of him.

Things got better, though. In 2001 I met Luke (actually bought him, but that's another entry), who has never made me feel inferior or ugly or unlovable in the four years we've been together, just one of the many reasons why I want to him father my children. In 2003 I joined this program and lost 22 pounds. (It really does work!) I also made it a point to visit my ex the following summer, "just to hang out," when my ultimate goal was to hear him say, "God, you look great! Don't you ever eat?" Which he did, so IN YOUR FACE, EX NUMBER TWO.

In the last year, I've slacked off. I will not tell you how many of the Weight Watchers pounds I gained back, and there are moments when I look into a full-length mirror and understand how anorexia is so popular among women. But I am doing my darndest to take better care of my body and also quit placing such high expectations on it. Sometimes you just gotta have that Ben and Jerry's fix and move on with life.

In the meantime, though, I've got a style show to prepare for.

Is It Really So Wrong To...

- Put "Philadelphia Freedom" on repeat during your morning commute?

- Each lunch at 10:30 in the morning, just like in high school?

- Ask lukers to de-lurk?

- Set aside Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince to comb through journals from 1996?

- Wonder if your first real boyfriend ever moved out of his mother's basement?

- Let your gas go below a quarter of a tank?

- Not know how to remove the damn Bic white-out from your clothes?

- Want a baby girl because their names are prettier?

- Hope for a raise at your upcoming three-month review?

- Like Target sweatpant capris better than actual capris?

- Sport sandals on non-pedicured feet?

- Adore "Love Notes" and the essence that is Delilah?

- Ask lurkers to de-lurk?

No, I didn't think so.

I Mean, Smart (But Still Tricky) Jesus

I have always said that it takes three weeks for things to "click" with a new job, whether you're passing out fries at McDonalds or putting out your first issue of a magazine. Well, I didn't post any Deep Thoughts yesterday about my Chicago update, not because I was drowning in depression but because things were finally clicking for me. I found my niche, fell into my rhythm. I found my place.

Maybe things would have been wonderful in Chicago. But you know what? They're going pretty darn well in Indianapolis. I receive constant feedback from my boss about the quality of my work and my value to this company. I have the power to start new projects and the authority to carry them out. I have a genuine interest in science for the first time in my life, and coming from someone who barely understands the H2O compound, that is quite a feat. And it's all happening in a city full of activity (not to mention great shopping malls) waiting for me to make it mine.

Don't get me wrong. I would have loved Chicago. But I would have loved it for different reasons. Chicago reasons. I love Indianapolis for Indianapolis reasons. One set is no better than the other. A choice is always as good as you make it to be.

Some people are afraid of choices. They are so enamored with their possibilities that they end up immobile, too afraid to "limit" themselves to one purpose. That's no way to live life.

I want a strong career. I want to explore other pockets of the world. But I also want to get married and have a baby before I'm thirty. Some say I can't do both. To that I say, maybe you can't. But just watch out for me.

How does this all come back to Jesus, who has managed to find his way into the title of my last two posts? I don't know. But I thank him for the path my life has taken, just the same.

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.

Lydia Beatrice

This is the latest name for my first daughter, who has yet to be conceived. One of my Valentine's Day presents was the centennial anniversary edition of the complete tales of Beatrix Potter, and while I'm not crazy about having the letter X in my child's name, a prettier version is Beatrice, though Luke and I both agree that it's much better as a middle name than a first. (Well, Luke thinks so, and I'm reasonable enough to see he may be right. Plus, I'm not crazy about the possibility of "Bea" as a nickname. But I digress.) Lydia comes from a book I read when I was little, about a rich girl who bestows that name upon a porcelain doll she received from her grandmother, a name I then used for the first porcelain doll I received from MY grandmother. (I swear, once they were all the rage.) She lived a long and happy life until I brought her to college and my sister Samantha accidentally dropped her off my bed. So. Lydia Beatrice. Yeah.

Once she does materialize, how on earth will we pay for her? In between car payments, student loans, a mortgage, utilities, short-term savings, IRAs, 401ks, emergency funds, grocery bills, and if The Powers That Be see fit, a road trip or two?

Maybe I'm freaking out because nobody's responded to my resumes - all two of them. Maybe because I just received my first Cobalt payment that's 60 dollars more than the one for the Cavalier. Maybe because I see Samantha and her fiancé worrying about the exact same things as they plan their own future together, which officially begins next July.

I normally don't get caught up in things like this. I look at how my parents scrimped and saved and had five(!) children in between. They didn't worry about eating out or taking vacations. They didn't care about the year their car was manufactured in or whether or not they could afford name-brand groceries. I remember that, and I think, Of course it can be done. There's always a way.

Sigh.

I think I have properly regained control of my senses. A normal woman might worry that her boyfriend will read an entry like this and take it as some sort of hint. But not mine. He knows I'm a loon. He also knows I'm not getting any younger. Not that anyone's counting.

P.S. If anyone in my circle produces a princess named Lydia Beatrice, there will be blood. I've already lost Elaine.

Shaken, Not Stirred

At the college, there is sad news: our beloved freelance graphic designer, who's been working with us for almost three years, has decided to take a break in order to focus on her full-time duties as a real estate agent. This means that we must look for a new designer. This, of course, means there will be change.

Despite the title of this entry, the transition should be relatively smooth. I met with an alumna tonight who is excited at the idea of working with us and charges a very reasonable rate. And yet, and yet, I'm sad. Sad to lose such a wonderful working relationship with a person I also call a friend. Nervous to work with someone new. And it's jarring to think about going beyond my comfort zone. I have to learn proofreader's marks, for Heaven's sake. Not a huge thing, but a new thing in my universe.

This has reminded me that no one is allowed to be indispensable in this life; at least, not in the work force. Much as you might like to think that you are unique with unique talents and unique ideas, one day you'll be gone. To make rocket ships, have babies, watch Oprah, who knows? and those left behind will deal with the aftermath. Unsettling, to say the least. Thank goodness that, outside of the office, in your own personal life, you're allowed to say, "I can't live without you" to those you love most. Even then, when you lose someone, you are expected - even expect yourself - to go on, but you don't have to pretend you haven't changed from their absence.

Wow, kind of disheartening, huh? Forget everything I said. Kick up your heels. Enjoy a Twinkie and a soda on me.

Argh

Am in a rut. Around me everything is changing. Samantha's getting married; Ryan's getting transferred (from one college to another, eventually); Maura's getting another job; Charlotte on Sex and the City is getting separated. And where am I? Still in Rensselaer. Still at the same job. Still wondering when something fantastically new is going to happen in my life. Waiting for a sign that what I'm doing and where I am is right thing to do and place to be. That I'm not making any mistakes. That this rut is temporary. But, in the meantime, I'm in a rut.

Pbbbbbbbbbb (That's my lips making the sound lips make when they act like a race car.)

P.S. I am not drunk.

P.P.S. I'm not saying that married couples separating is fantastic. But it's certainly fantastically new.

Sad Face...

...to turning down drinks with the guest speaker in my magazine class last night. Terry Sullivan, a contributing writer for GQ, not only gave a shpiel and answered questions for the group but also read the drafts we were workshopping. Guess who one of those drafts belonged to? Frema! He said that my transitions between paragraphs were very graceful and then complimented my use of the word "literally." He was not as kind to everyone else - he told one girl that her article rambled a lot and suggested that she read some Nora Ephron to get down the technique for the casual essay. No "nice effort" or "good try" - just "this stuff is hard to do."

Anyway, before class ended, my professor announced that everyone was invited to join him and Terry for a jolly good time at a local pub. I was a little bummed that I hadn't brought my wallet but not too concerned, until I was stopped by two classmates on my way out. They asked me if I was going along, and when I said that I thought I wouldn't have time, they said, "We're only stopping in for one. We won't be long." This time I felt like crap as I said no again but made it a point to thank them for including me. As I walked away, I felt tears stinging my eyes, and I cried a little more when I got home.

Stupid, huh? It's hard to explain. Graduate school, for the most part, has been a very solitary experience for me. I live too far away to be a part of a study group or have any regular involvement with campus life, so when these two students made such an effort to extend an invitation, it felt awful to have to say no; like maybe I had just missed my chance to be a part of something outside of the university. I'm not saying that having a drink with these guys would've made us lifelong pals, but who knows? Every connection has to start somewhere, right?

The odds of me keeping in touch with anyone after graduation in June are slim, even though there are several people I'd enjoy getting to know better. But it's hard to know the appropriate way to reach out. It's not like grad students are looking for new friends the way they were in high school. They're adults now, with full-fledged careers and spouses and children and friends of their own. And since I do live in Indiana, what's my opening line? "Maybe the next time I'm in the city we could hang out?" "Drive two hours to Rensselaer and we can have coffee?" I barely have time to see my established friends, let alone develop new ones. But who DOESN'T have room for more quality friendships? It's really pretty depressing.

Tomorrow I promise to be happier. It's Friday, after all, and I get to babysit an adorable little girl this weekend. Hooray for babies and days off!

No Schmirnoff Necessary

Well, my quarterly review took place this morning and I survived, like I knew I would. I also held myself together, a rarity for me when receiving constructive criticism. The rest of the day went off without a hitch - I even received FOUR compliments on my outfit of choice (one person did it twice - thanks, Steve!), which only reinforced my perceived value of clothing as well as my desire to do some serious malling. But this weekend, I must discipline myself. I must focus. This constant back-and-forth schedule will only last until Thanksgiving, and I can certainly keep it together for another five weeks, can't I?

Random thoughts:

. . .On the Brown Line in Chicago this week I saw a young woman sporting jeans and saddle shoes. I miss me a good pair of saddle shoes - do they even sell them anymore?

. . .I love blogging more than I ever thought I would. The idea of a new post creates an energy in me I've never experienced when writing fiction. There's something about organizing your thoughts and trying to keep them fresh for the masses that gives me an extra kick. It not only helps me to ground myself, but it keeps me connected with the varying personalities of the world, ranging from close friends to complete strangers. In either case, you are all sorely needed by me.

About those saddle shoes - seriously. Let me know.

It's Just the Way That You Love Me

My mom called tonight with exciting news: my dad bought a brand-new 2004 GMC truck! He just picked it up today, so it'll probably take a while for the novelty to wear off. Or maybe it'll never wear off. The last new vehicle my family owned was in the early 1980's. Mom said he was grinning from ear-to-ear.

These days, people are so concerned with having the "perfect life" before they start a family - sometimes before they even start a life (is that a good example of ironic?). Make sure you finish college before you get engaged. Pay off your credit cards and get the big-money job before you marry. Buy a big house and drive an SUV before you have kids.

When my parents had me at 19, I was the ONLY thing they had. They struggled. My dad joined the Marines right before I was born, and my mom stayed in Chicago with me for almost a year before the three of us moved to Tennessee, then North Carolina. And they always needed money. Once, when I was four and Samantha was barely two, they received a coupon for a free family portrait from the gas company. When Mom went to pick it up, she found several different shots, but only one was free. After picking her favorite, she watched in horror as the receptionist threw the rest away.

As I got older, my family grew. We still struggled, but things got better. My dad went from taxicab driver to Chicago firefighter. My parents went from renters to apartment owners. And after I graduated from a middle school where students carried guns and threw books from the third floor, they worked even harder to keep me in a well-respected, private high school.

Today, two out of my parents' five offspring are college graduates, and a third just became a freshman. But there's still one in private school and another on her way. The only time my parents get new clothes is during the holidays, only it's less about money (though it's still tight) and more about them putting that money into other things. So when my dad got this new truck, it was hard-earned. If they had waited to have "the perfect life" before starting the future, where would they be today? Where would I be?

This entry isn't as concise as I'd hoped to make it, but I'm so proud of my parents for trusting each other, dedicating themselves to each other, and paving their own way. I believe they are the best example that "perfect" has nothing to do with status and everything with love.

And in case you're wondering, yes, the title is a tribute to Paula Abdul.

Published Enemy

Well, I'm back from my writers workshop ,and I must say it was wonderful. I was in the company of published authors, people who turned their ideas into words and their words into a hardback masterpiece. Not only were the featured speakers impressive, I was amazed at the number of attendees who had published their own work. One woman had written an eight-book series about a pre-teen detective; others had clippings from magazines like Time, Writer's Digest, and other national publications. On my last day, I sat in on a "Time Management For Writers" seminar and was encouraged to create a long-term plan for my writing - map out my ultimate goals and then move Heaven and Hell to see them through. That's when I realized I wasn't sure what they were.

If you were to ask me where I want to be in five years, I could do it in less than a minute without batting an eye: I want to have (at the very least) a master's degree. Be married. Have children. Live closer to my family. Continue writing. However, if you were to ask me where I want to be WITH MY WRITING in five years, I'd have to scratch my head and say, "Argh?" Since I knew how to read, I knew I wanted to write. And I did. I knew I wanted others to read what I wrote. And they do, from old stories (Leslie!) to new stories (Chris!) to these very blog entries (you!). But that was as far as I got.

One of the points made over the weekend that I truly appreciated was that "being published" means something different to every writer. Some have their sights set on the Barnes and Noble best sellers table. Others are perfectly content with running copies from a computer and passing out stapled pages to friends and family members. What does it mean to me?

I want my ideas to be heard. I want to write about the most humiliating and earth-shattering moments in my life so that someone can say, "She had the guts to say what I couldn't. I know exactly what she means." I don't have to see my stuff at the B and N for that to happen.

I learned a lot about the self-publishing business over the weekend and have been seriously weighing its advantages. Taking ownership of my writing and deciding how and when it will appear to others is definitely appealing. We'll see what happens. For now, though, I'm going to work on an idea I have for a non-fiction story collection. Dave Sedaris isn't the only writer who can make a person wet her pants and wipe a tear at the same time. At least, that's what I'm counting on.

School Daze

At 9:00 tonight, my parents will drop Samantha off at O'Hare airport so that she can make the big trip to Africa with SJC Habitat For Humanity members. Everyone's a little nervous to see her go, but I admire her so much for going to a place outside of her comfort zone in order to experience something new.

Meanwhile, as Ryan prepares for college life at Columbia and Saint Joe welcomes another freshman class, I can't help but remember what that time was like for me. The memories are fuzzy, not because I can't recall them, but because it feels like they happened to somebody else, not me. I think about my first roommate and clinging to her as we traveled from Chicago to a little town whose name I couldn't even pronounce. I hated the bugs, the lack of public transportation, the absence of a mall. I missed my family and friends. I missed feeling confident in the person I was. Thinking about that makes it even funnier to me that, almost seven years later, I'm still here.

While I certainly wasn't a wild child, there were definitely a few crazy times that I like to think about and laugh about; getting drunk for the first time; receiving out-of-town visitors at 3:00 in the morning; going to parties, throwing up, and then partying some more. Staying up late to play cards and eat Little Debbie snack packs, the mother of all food groups for broke teenagers. I can't say I had a bad time.

Some people say they don't believe in having regrets; because we have free will, we should embrace each choice we've made because it's our own. I don't think that's true. Having free will doesn't mean having full understanding of ourselves and our actions, and I sometimes wish I had branched out a little more in college--made a bigger effort to know more people, go out on a limb, try new things. As I see Ryan saving up money for dorm furniture and picking out her fall classes, it's hitting me harder than ever that I can never go back to that place again. I will never be 18 years old again. Never again will my life revolve around school. Gone are the days where 20 bucks could last me two weeks because all I needed was money for Grandma's pie. No more waiting for 3 a.m. visitors. I'm just too damn tired.

The upside: I'm glad I can't go back. I was too insecure, too dependent on the people around me, people who couldn't even get their own act together. It's only now that I truly feel confident in who I am and who I've become. But if I could capture those days on video, the good times and the bad, I'd happily watch them all.

Vacation: All I Ever Wanted

For the last couple of weeks I've felt trapped in a state of inactivity. It begins the minute I walk in the door after work, drop my keys on the kitchen table, and turn on the air conditioner. After changing my clothes, most of the time I end up sitting on the couch flipping through TLC design shows and reruns of soap operas until a phone call or visitor stirs me into action. Sometimes I read, sometimes I don't. In any case, my motivation level is extremely low.

I'm not sure why this is happening, but then again, I can probably guess. I've been pretty broke lately, paying for my writers workshop, paying off credit cards, paying, paying, always paying for something. Then there's Rensselaer, a place that I really enjoy most of the time and then get angry at when I want to browse through the aisles of Barnes and Noble without making an hour-and-a-half round trip just to get there. Then there's my job, which I like most of the time but right now feel pressure to complete projects my heart can't get into. All of these factors make it even more exciting that I'm supposed to leave this Wednesday for my workshop, to start my first actual vacation of the summer, thanks to the president's emergency priority list; to flee to a place where new ideas will be in the air; to a place that's anything but work. I've also entered one of my short stories into a contest and am anxious to learn the results.

I'm thinking about all of this because on Monday, Samantha told me that my Auntie Debbie is in the hospital again. My aunt has been fighting brain cancer since I was a junior in high school and is getting steadily worse. However, as concerned as I am for my aunt and her family, I started thinking, "If she dies now, there goes my workshop. There goes the break I've been waiting for." For that reason alone I've been too scared to call and ask how she's doing.

I know, I know - it's horrible.

After a statement like that, I don't think a positive ending is possible, so I'll just stop here.

Crushin'

Tonight, feeling somewhat literary as I began proofreading the first four chapters of Chris's novel, I came across a character, Mackenzie, who had an obsession with one of the boys at his school. Later, Mackenzie realized how badly he wanted to befriend him.

How easy it is to harvest an obsession, for whatever reason, especially when you're in high school. You're still so impressionable, still on the prowl for an everyday hero. It was around my junior year that I found one of my own. Her name was Ellen, and I thought she was one of the prettiest girls I'd ever seen. She had this great long brown hair and a sharp sense of humor that couldn't be matched. Ellen was a part of every vital organization my high school had - student council, theatre, Christian Life Community, etc. - and was always surrounded by a crowd of people wherever she went. My eyes followed her movements during lunchtime, sought her out in the classes we shared.... Sometimes just being within earshot of her was enough to warm me up for the rest of the day. I took a picture of the two of us from one of the school plays and stored it in my memory box, the same place that housed love letters and mementos from old boyfriends. I even wrote a poem about her, never telling anyone but my sister who it was about.

Sounds like love, doesn't it? Maybe it was. I certainly admired Ellen for being so confident and witty and self-assured, never caring about what people thought about her but still doing her best to make others feel welcome. We were in a lot of the same activities together, and I thought we were so much alike, both of us spreading ourselves thin, both of us aiming for that star with your name written all over it. I used to pray to God for us to become closer, for her to see in me just a little bit of what I saw in her. I remember one night needing to call her at home about some drama club meeting and I nearly wet myself out of fear. I dialed her number and hung up twice beore actually completing the call. And, honestly, I think part of the reason I chose Saint Joe was so that I could be around Ellen just a little while longer. When I latch on to people, it's always a struggle to let them go.

I don't feel the same way about Ellen anymore, and I used to wonder what the hell was wrong with me for tagging along after some girl like a little lost puppy. But now I realize how simple it was: I just wanted to be understood. Ellen never did - at least, not in the way I wanted her to - but she gave me something to look forward to, something to strive for, and that was enough. After all, that's what the people in your life are for, no matter who they are.

Ch-ch-changes

I am continually amazed at how easily my mood can change, how waking up to a bright sunny day can erase the bad feelings that were gathered just the night before. For example: yesterday I was in a constant state of nervousness - thinking about work, unfinished writing projects and money, and wondering if I'll have the time to watch the Sex and the City videos I rented from Blockbuster before their tomorrow due date. I spent over three hours painting my fingernails for the first time in my life, finally crawling under the covers at almost 2:00 in the morning. This morning, though, I woke up inspired with potential writing genius and the mindset that this, too, shall pass. It doesn't take much for me to get worked up; more people than I care to admit can testify to that. Today may be the first day I've truly understood that:

1. The "big things" in life are always unpredictable, so just roll with the punches

2. Brooding over how much work there is to do just prevents you from actually getting it done

3. Savings accounts were made to be emptied

4. It's perfectly normal to recover from writer's block the morning a piece is due

5. I can buy Sex and the City on DVD (which can be accomplished by doing #3)

6. Nail polish is fun, even when it's a pain in the a**

and, finally,

7. God won't give you more than you can handle.

See ya - I've got a story to write.

Speak Up, Already!

I have often regretted my speech, never my silence. - Xenocrates

This quotation appeared as a tagline on one of my friend's e-mails, and I couldn't disagree with it more. MY biggest regrets all result from keeping my mouth shut.

It's in my nature to please others. The last thing I want to do is to make someone uncomfortable, or angry, or hurt. So instead of getting things off my chest and trying to resolve whatever's bothering me, what do I do? Nothing. Well, my close friends will tell you, not EXACTLY nothing. I may not come right out and say what's wrong, but my body language sure does. I know it does. I get snappy. Crabby. I push people away with sharp words and awkward silence. And all because I'm too afraid to put someone else on edge. Ironic, huh? I'm afraid to tell people what's wrong, so I let my actions do it instead, hoping that my loved ones are mind readers. How screwed up is that?

I'm trying to get better. If someone else is part of the problem, why not share that problem so that we can work towards a solution? Why am I so eager to feel like crap? Even Jesus shared his cross.

On a happier note: I finally received a note from Glamour magazine saying they received my entry for their "Tell Us The Story Of Your Life!" contest. Finalists will be notified at the end of the summer.

Growing Up

Well, it's done. My spring quarter at DePaul is officially over. I have to say, I was a little sad at the end of my Screenwriting class last night. There were a lot of fun people I would've liked to have known better. Maybe our paths will meet up again in future classes, but maybe they won't. So, like I said, I was sad.

Then, on the drive from Chicago back to Rensselaer early this morning, I popped in some of my favorite nineties tunes to keep me awake, which got me thinking about my school years as a child. Instead of my last days, though, I focused on my first.

Every year, going back to school was a big deal. Because my family was a large one, we didn't have a ton of money for brand-name sneakers, jeans, accessories, and the like. I can remember the day before my first day of fifth grade, resorting to my mother's closet to find something hip to wear and feeling sad because I knew she needed new clothes just as badly as me. I ended up donning a hot pink t-shirt and rose-patterned short pants (not fashionable enough to be known as capris) with her best pair of white Keds. As my classmates showed up in Nikes and the latest trend in jeans, I was so embarassed. I shouldn't have been, but I was.

In middle school, it only got worse. Fashions changed almost monthly; my wardrobe did not. At one point in seventh grade, wearing shirts with athletic teams' names on them were all the rage. I couldn't get one until almost three months later, when the hype was long over (Charlotte Hornets - I knew nothing about the team except that I liked their mascot). At that point, I shouldn't have wasted the money, but sometimes having something late is better than never having it at all.

Sometimes I feel sad (apparently my word of the day) about moving into the future and away from my past. But it's those kind of memories that turn my sadness into relief. I was always so eager for approval, so wanting to be liked by others. I suppose there's still some of that in me today. But now I know when to say "Screw you, to hell what you think," and that makes me happy, too.