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

Let Freedom Ring

There is a buzz in Indiana today as Hoosiers flock to the polls; apparently the idea of actually influencing the selection of a party candidate has us all atwitter, because according to the local paper, turnout is more indicative of a general election than a little ole primary.

I hit my polling station on the way to work, and as I parked my car, I realized that for the first time in my entire life, I was truly excited to vote. In fact, it wasn't until very recently that politics meant anything to me at all.

Growing up, the whole function of government seemed a mystery not unlike the Bermuda Triangle. Sure, I took the Constitution test in eighth grade (and passed, lest you deem me a complete moron), and it was interesting enough, but when it came time to apply those principles to the world around me, it was too overwhelming. Hell, I could barely get a handle on basic algebra--there was no way I felt smart enough to talk about the merits of those running for office. My parents are loyal Republicans, and I have memories of watching the news with them at dinnertime, my father complaining about Mayor Daley's latest crime against the Chicago Fire Department, my mother nodding her head in agreement, and I remember feeling slighted on their behalf, too young to do anything but pretend I understood. When I was eight years old, I distinctly remember asking my mom why she didn't like Michael Dukakis and her telling me he wanted to kill babies. Kill babies! I was horrified. Lil' Frema had visions of men in uniforms lined up against a concrete wall, cradling newborns in their arms, each waiting to rid the planet of their vast uselessness.

(And here I must tell you writing that last paragraph was really uncomfortable for me, and in no way do I maintain a cavalier attitude towards abortion, but I'm assuming you all can appreciate my attempt to liven up a hazy childhood memory with the humor that accompanies a child's literal interpretation of a statement way beyond her level of understanding. You got that, right? We're still friends? Good.)

That political naiveté stayed with me into early adulthood. The first time I was eligible to vote was during the 2000 presidential election, but I was attending school in Indiana, and my permanent residence was Illinois, and I didn't know enough about the issues (or care enough, if we're being honest) to request an absentee ballot at the time. I did vote in 2004, at which time I knew enough about politics to label myself a Democrat, but I was only slightly put off by the results, not emotionally invested in John Kerry by any means, and certainly not heartbroken over the outcome.

But now I am different. Now I am motivated by our current state of affairs to want better for my family--specifically, for Kara. Now I follow the news to learn more about the goings-on in my city and surf the Web to become more educated on which candidates best meet my criteria for local and national leadership. Luke and I are currently rooting for Barack Obama, so much so that we seriously considered attending one of his rallies last night, but having a four-month-old baby who wants to be fed and changed and entertained on her terms, not ours, was reason enough to stay home (read: go to Applebee's, where we didn't have to wait in line for two hours and beg for admittance). But we listened to several of his radio interviews, and we watched last month's debate, and we talk constantly about how inspired we are by his vision and his ability to stay gracious under fire.

Also, his winning smile. So dreamy!

 

I like Barack and I cannot lie.

But this post isn't about who I voted for or why (so please don't flame me for my opinion, I have a "Delete" button and I'm not afraid to use it). It's about my new appreciation for the way leaders are chosen in this country and how grateful I am to have a voice in the process. This morning, I almost teared up reflecting on how lucky we Americans are to be able to elect our commander-in-chief (however imperfect the process may be) and support our favorite without fear of repercussion.

And Kara is lucky, too, because finally, she has a mother who cares.

Jesus loves me this I know, for my baby slept during the entire composition of this entry

Holy crap, has it really been seven days since I posted here? I'd like to apologize for the lack of updates, but I always hate it when bloggers do that, like, do you think I've got nothing better to do than refresh your site? But then again, before Kara, I really didn't have anything better to do than refresh your site, and what the hell was going on in your life that you couldn't take five seconds out of your precious day to let me know you're still alive? You can appreciate the dilemma, no?

Anyway, things are going much better. In my last entry, I talked about how Kara had suddenly altered her schedule to accommodate less sleeping and more crying, to the point that her mother was crying because oh my God, if you aren't hungry and aren't wet and don't like your bouncy seat or transportable swing or the rocking chair or just bouncing around with Momma throughout the apartment, that's it, kid. There's nothing more I can do.

Now, though? I can take her restlessness in stride without taking it personally, and I've even figured out a few more things we can do together, like looking at blocks dressed in primary colors and reading picture books and paying more attention to tummy time. Don't get me wrong, half the time she fusses through those things, too, but there are moments in which I can see her actually paying attention, reaching for one of her blocks or following the duckie rattle with her eyes. She turned four weeks old yesterday, and I already feel like she's a completely different person from the one Luke and I brought home from the hospital. She's so much more expressive now, experimenting with various smirks and (gassy) smiles and working her hands together while she takes everything in. She also sleeps more predictably through the night, albeit in patches, but it's still enough that between ten and six I can hoard about five hours of sleep, which is more than enough for me to get through the day. This may sound silly, but I almost feel like the newborn stage is over, that she's already taking the appropriate steps to become her own little person and shift into some sort of routine. Time really is flying by.

Things on the pumping front are...almost nonexistent. My quality time with the Ameda is down to just once or twice a day, and I'm only producing embarrassingly tiny amounts of milk each time. I have a feeling that by the end of the week, Thelma and Louise will be all dried up and we'll be solely dependent on the makers of Similac and other formulas for Kara's nutrition. Oh, well. I'm proud that she received the benefits of breastmilk for four whole weeks and that I gave the whole boob thing my very best shot. Maybe my best wasn't as good as some of yours, but we all do what we can.

This past weekend was crazy for us, as we celebrated Kara's baptism at the Episcopal church we've been attending intermittently for the last year and my family was finally able to make it to Indianapolis and love on the baby. There was much chaos as Luke and I frantically tried to clean our apartment and get our daughter ready for her longest trip away from home. Sundy morning, we left the complex armed with individually packaged amounts of formula, two bottles of water, six diapers, two back-up outfits, a pacifier, and prayers to God that Kara would make it through the ceremony and luncheon without waking up the dead. And she did! She was a perfect angel, sleeping through almost the whole service and all of the pizza party we had afterwards. Auntie Samantha and Uncle Dan, her godparents, bought her a beautiful christening dress, and as Luke and I changed her into it minutes before Mass, I couldn't help but tear up because she looked so lovely and grown up and I was so proud of her for not pooping in her pretty new clothes. Also, she's not even a full month yet and already I'm losing my baby and thank you, God for blessing us with such a wonderful gift waaaaaah hiccup sob.

But enough from me. It's picture time! Hopefully they'll hold you all over until I'm able to post here again. (At least you've got my Parents blog to tide you over, though, right? In case you haven't been keeping up, I posted my birth story there. All four parts of it. You're quite welcome.)

(Also, thank you for the birthday wishes. My January 9th introduction to the ripe old age of 28 was marked with presents from Luke, wailing from the baby, and an episode of Deal or No Deal. I swear, NBC must've aired it just for me.)

I know I'm her mother, but honestly, this child is the most photogenic baby on the planet. For real.

Kara with three of the four members of the Lost A Sock family. No, Molly, you may not take her home.

Grandma and Grandpa Ma'Ayteh checking out their first grandbaby.

Auntie Samantha, Uncle Dan with Kara in tow, Momma, and Daddy. Now would be a good time to tell you that my sister is pregnant with her own bundle of joy, who's due in August. How awesome is that?! Everyone's got the baby fevah!

Kara getting smooshed by her fabulous aunties.

"I don't care what the law says, love is not limited by gender!" (Or: Kara with Uncle Geo and Uncle Dan.)

Look! Kara and Grandma Dunscombe match! Also, if I were just two inches taller, I totally could've captured the smile she flashed at Daddy D.

The guest of honor with her grandmas and grandpas. How lucky she is that all four are around to spoil her.

Kara giving that creepy girl from The Grudge a run for her money. Atta girl, sweetheart.

It's a wonderful life

All is well.

Since my last entry, an incredible sense of calm and well being has covered Luke and me like a blanket, which has made these last couple of days the best ones since Kara's birth. I'll tell you about it soon enough, but for now, all I want to do is revel in how blessed we are and how thankful I am for everything God has given us.

Most of the members of my family have been too sick to make the trip to Indy, so it was extra special that my sister Ryan drove in from Chicago to spend Christmas with us. Newly married and desperately missing her army husband, who's currently in Germany awaiting February deployment to Iraq, a little baby fix was just what she needed to get through the holiday.

As for my own spouse, I can't tell you how mesmerizing it is to watch him with our daughter. He's so gentle with Kara, so enamored with her, and I honestly don't know what I've done to deserve such unconditional love and support. This last week has been the most exhilerating and terrifying one of my life, and he's been right by my side the entire time, holding me when I cry and telling me what a good job I'm doing when he's not washing bottles, refilling my water glass, and reminding me to take my pain meds. I couldn't ask for a better life partner or a more loving father for my baby.

I look at these two people and wonder how I ever lived without them.

Merry Christmas.

The title of my next post will be original, I swear.

I don't think Samantha ever made it, either

At long last, it is here. The last day of NaBloPoMo.

I have to say, this year I disappointed myself. The first time around, I did a good job of writing about a variety of different things: sharing stories from my childhood, creating Tragic Love Friday, initiating the cheesy love song swap, blah blah blah. This year saw no such variety from me--it was pretty much all baby, all the time.

Then again, I'm about to have a baby. And that's what I think about. All the time. Surely you understand.

Today was one of my final days at the office, and even though I spent most of it cleaning out files and meeting with coworkers who'll be taking over my core duties while I'm on maternity leave, this whole experience still doesn't seem quite real. It reminds me of the years I spent in Girl Scouts when I was a kid, and every year our troupe visited a local pumpkin patch for a day of fright and fun. I'd never been to a pumpkin patch before, and the month leading up to the event I was always so excited I could wet myself.

(And sometimes I did.)

(Just kidding.)

Anyway, every year something happened that prevented me from going on the trip, and it was always my own fault. One time it was because I'd mouthed off to my mother the day before; the year after that, my sister and I were caught fighting in church THE MORNING OF. By the time I got my act together, I wasn't in Girl Scouts anymore. My pumpkin-patch ship had sailed.

Where am I going with all of this?

It's like the birth of this baby is some wonderful event being dangled in front of me like cheese to a mouse, an event so wonderful that it's too wonderful to actually come to fruition. Like I'm going to do something stupid--say, trip on a crack in the sidewalk or drop a coffee cup on my belly--and Freka will never be born. It's hard to comprehend that I will go into labor, that she will come out, that I will hold her in my arms and become a mother for the first time.

Her clothes are washed. Her room is ready. She has Christmas presents for her stocking and even one for under the tree. We've got enough newborn and size one diapers to last us the whole winter (or at least the first two weeks). What Luke and I don't have is a firm grasp on the notion that this baby, our baby, is actually coming.

But when she does? It'll be so much better than a romp through a pumpkin patch.

I wanna rock with you, baby

Seeing as this baby is just about three weeks away from her scheduled arrival, I've been starting to panic a bit over all the things Luke and I still have yet to do. My biggest priority of late: reupholstering the rocking chair my mother gave me years ago, the same rocking chair she used to lull me (and eventually my four siblings) to sleep. I can also remember being thirteen and sitting in this chair when my youngest sister, Donna, was born, pushing my feet against the carpet and moving in time with her breaths for hours.

To say this chair has special meaning to me is a gross understatement.

Another thing that can't be underestimated? The horridness of the fabric.

Here's the front, in all its mismatched-patterned glory:

The brown plaid is what initially covered the chair almost twenty-eight years ago. The questionable green-pink-blue concoction is thanks to my mom, who swears this once complimented the rest of our living room furniture. I wish I could believe her.

Here's the back:

I think we can all agree, it's time for a change.

For months, I've planned on doing this. I've had visions of reupholstering this precious childhood heirloom with a rich, creamy, neutral fabric, allowing the chair to match the decor of any room it might find itself in, which right now happens to be the baby's room. I knew it could be done--after all, my mother had the same itch herself once (probably in the mid-eighties, judging by her color choices). Her solution? Nail the fabric to the frame for the front and back and sew up the cushion. I figured I could do at least that much and didn't give it another thought until fall, when I realized this project wasn't going to complete itself.

The nails didn't seem like such a good idea then.

But staples! We could staple the fabric and thus avoid bludgeoning our fingers. Problem solved (read: problem shelved for another couple of months).

Which brings us to the present time.

Every weekend for the past three weeks, I've expressed to Luke my desire to PLEASE LET'S GET THIS CHAIR DONE, OH MY GOD, and every weekend it slips off the radar as we wash dishes, fold clothes, and make yet another mad dash to Babies R Us. Finally, this morning, I told him enough already. This baby, she could come any time she wants, and it would be more helpful to finish this off before I'm breathing through contractions on the way to the hospital.

This afternoon Luke removed the second layer of fabric from the front of the chair, after which he realized that staples might not be the smartest solution, either, as they might be just as hard to hide as the nails were. Carpenters we are not, people.

We first googled "upholstery shops Indianapolis" with the intention of purchasing better materials with which to attach new fabric. Then I was calling businesses and requesting quotes and suddenly we were driving through downtown to meet with the only shop owner with Saturday operating hours. It's all a blur now, but the bottom line is that handing the problem off to a professional will ensure us a quality job, not to mention completion before Freka's due date, so that's what we're going to do. If I were even half as crafty and resourceful as a certain domestic goddess I know, I'd vow to save the money and find a way to do this ourselves. But you know what? I'm not that crafty. I'm not that resourceful. I'm almost thirty-seven weeks pregnant, is what I am, and holy cow, do I not want to deal with this damn chair anymore.

Now I can finally dedicate my time to finishing a project more up my alley. Like wills! The fun, it never ends around here.

Day four of NaBloPoMo...

...and I'm already questioning my commitment. Luke woke me up from a delicious cat nap to make sure I had enough time to post today's entry. I almost said "To hell with it" and went back to sleep, but I didn't because I'm...dedicated? Just plain stupid? Only time will tell.

I know my half-hearted attitude towards blogging these days comes from the numerous to-dos already competing for my time. Today was another action-packed day, filled with more family visiting, more apartment cleaning, more Christmas shopping, and even more maternity clothes shopping, seeing as most of the items I received in my last Gap order are already too snug, and also seeing as it's unacceptable to attend professional work functions in a shirt that constantly threatens to expose the mass of purple stretch marks hiding underneath.

(As I'm typing this, Luke is giving me a wonderful massage with one of those hand-held contraptions you can get at Bed Bath & Beyond for like, ten bucks. So good, and so worth it.)

Anyway, for those of you wondering, Tori's concert on Friday was wonderful, and I'm so glad I decided to go, even though I felt like a senior citizen in my black pants and sneakers compared to the college-aged grungies in ripped tights and brightly dyed hair and the savvier gals who donned heels, jeans, and jackets, jackets that wouldn't stand a chance against my plentiful waistline. I only left twice to pee--once during the opening act, and once during her second encore performance, after listening long enough to make sure the song wasn't one I would kick myself for missing. Freka liked it, too; for at least half of the show, she couldn't stay still.

Speaking of Freka (ha! Like there's anything else I talk about these days), tomorrow I'll be thirty-five weeks, and I'm genuinely amazed at how quickly this last stretch is slipping through my fingers. Instead of constantly devising new ways to relieve my back pain, my thoughts are now centered around delivery and postpartum: preparing my birth plan, coming up with questions to ask potential pediatricians, whether or not I'll labor in my own things or the hospital's poor excuse for a gown, and how in the world I'll manage breastfeeding around my family during the first month when I'll have to whip out a boob every two hours. My mother formula-fed all five of us, and though she's supportive of my desire to nurse, she's already said something along the lines of "You're not going to do that in front of your father, are you?" As if feeding my child were on par with pole dancing in an x-rated night club, even though I've seen more breast at work parading under the guise of business casual than I have from nursing mothers in all those parenting magazines I skim at the doctor's office.

I picked up two nursing camis and one nursing bra from Target this afternoon, so at least I've got some clothing that'll keep the quote-unquote indecent exposure down to a minimum, and I'm not against using a blanket around those who are truly uncomfortable with watching a woman breastfeed, but I hate being made to feel like I'm doing something that needs to be covered up in the first place.

I also think about how long I'm going to make it in my current ginormous state before I either abandon work for early FMLA leave or demand the doctor induce me.

Yes, I admit it. I am big. Huge. The belly, it is gargantuan.

I know this because Luke and I attended a labor support class at our hospital last week, and despite all six of us having due dates ranging within one week of each other, I was the only mom-to-be who looked like the simple act of breaking wind would be enough to bring her baby into the world.

If only it were that simple.

Forget the epidural; why doesn't anybody warn you about the IV?

It's been a long few days.

Those of you who follow my Parents blog already know about last Thursday's ER scare; those of you who don't? Well, you really should follow my Parents blog.

Just kidding. (Except not really.)

Here's the story: Almost two weeks ago, I showed signs of my third pregnancy-related yeast infection. I began treatment and took my last dose this past Wednesday; the following morning, I awoke to mild irritation in my vaginal area. Initially attributing it to an ill-timed poke with the Monistat applicator, I drove to Rensselaer as usual for class because my friend Jackie--fellow BlogHer attendee and seasoned PR executive--was scheduled to give a presentation about her experience with blogs in the marketing world. I didn't want to waste her time or cheat my students, and anyway, I figured the discomfort would fade away as the day wore on.

Only it didn't. Two hours before class, I was crying to Luke about the pain, my God, THE PAIN, in my special place and now my stomach, too, wondering how the hell I was going to make it from six to eight-thirty without running to the bathroom, pulling my pants down, and trying my damndest to relieve myself, as by that time, my symptoms were comparable to the worst urinary tract infection imaginable.

As it turns out, I didn't make it. Hell, if you ask my students, I barely made it the first thirty minutes. Five minutes before class began, I called Luke to tell him I needed to get to the hospital. I knew I couldn't drive back to Indy in my condition, so the plan was for him and his brother to meet me in Purdue country, enabling my husband to take my spot behind the wheel without leaving behind a second car. I figured Jackie could make her presentation and I could end class shortly after to get started on the forty-five-minute trip to Lafayette.

Educating young minds without sacrificing my need for immediate medical attention. Everybody wins!

Jackie eventually transported me to the local ER.*

I didn't know what to feel. On one hand, Freka's activity level hadn't changed at all, and I wasn't leaking any fluid, so a phone call to my doctor reassured me I probably wasn't in labor. On the other, I was also experiencing irregular contractions and a physical strain so intense I could barely walk. All I could think about was parking my ass on a toilet and willing it out of my body.

The ER nurses loved hearing that. "Don't push, don't push!" one of them barked when I explained my urge to pee. "We don't want to deliver a baby right now!"

Me, neither, lady.

Thankfully, I wasn't in labor. I was, however, badly dehydrated, and apparently lack of fluid was to blame for the contractions and that horrible pain. I received my very first IV feed, and it hurt like a sonofabitch. A non-stress test confirmed the baby's heart beat was strong, and three and a half hours later, Luke and I left the hospital with the results of my urinalysis and strict instructions for me to get more rest and drink lots of water.

The fun part? A follow-up appointment with my ob/gyn the next day showed that our little Freka is sitting way lower than normal for this stage in the game; also, my cervix has already begun to soften. Even though there's still seven weeks to go until my December 10th due date, it's not totally off-base to think my Christmas baby might be here by Thanksgiving.

At least she's head down.

Things are OK now; I had another "episode" on Saturday night, but I'm thinking the six hours Luke and I spent running through the aisles of Babies R Us and Super Target in a frantic attempt to stock up on the last of our baby essentials had something to do with it. Once again, copious amounts of water saved the day.

...And consider yourself officially caught up on all matters related to my uterus. Don't you feel special?

In other news, my sister's post-wedding wedding shower is set for November 18th, but in light of recent events, there's no way I can in good conscience commit to a trip to Chicago. Ryan was extremely understanding, and she promised to visit with Jason while he's on leave, but still, knowing I have to miss one of the few marital milestones I could've actually participated in for her doesn't have me jumping up and down for joy. (Their elopement, by the way, was rescheduled for this weekend due to outrageously priced air fare, so she still has another few days of living life as a single woman.)

Tune in again on Wednesday to see all the progress I've made on my prenatal to-do list. You'll be amazed, I promise.

* Words can't express how grateful I am for all Jackie did that night--taking over my class, driving me to the hospital, staying by my side until Luke arrived.... I couldn't have managed on my own, and she made it possible that I didn't have to. Jackie, thanks so much for being such a good friend. It means more than you know.

The one time I'm grateful she doesn't read my blog.

Once again, much thanks to everyone who provided suggestions for Ryan and Jason's wedding presents. In order to preserve what little sanity I have left, Luke and I decided to save the tangible items for their November reception/shower and go with a monetary gift to celebrate their actual elopement. I also ran to Victoria's Secret last night to pick out some pretty things for her to wear on her wedding night (smart thinking, Liz!). On the way to the mall, it hit me, really hit me, that I won't be there to watch my little sister get married. When I see her this Saturday, she'll be a single woman. The next time? She'll sport a new last name. She'll have taken vows to love and cherish another human being for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as they both shall live. And I WON'T BE THERE.

Dammit, I'm crying again. Luckily, rolled-up tank tops make excellent hankerchiefs.

It's probably safe to say that emotions will be running high at my baby shower this weekend. Expect lots of pictures (and possibly more tears) for Monday.

So as not to leave you on a completely depressing note, I want to get a feel for how many of you plan on participating in this year's National Blog Posting Month. I fully intend to hop on the bandwagon just like I did last year, especially since I was so freaking productive. Cheesy love song swap inspired by Lionel Richie! The birth of Tragic Love Friday! Yes, November 2006 was quite the month for Frema.

With everything going on in my life these days, I haven't been paying attention to this blog as much as I'd like, and since I have no idea how often I'll post once Freka arrives, think of NaBloPoMo as my early Christmas gift to the Internet.

Who's with me? 

I want fried chicken. (This entry isn't about that, though.)

Also, I'm still in awe that 58 of you commented on a post dedicated to cloth diapering.

Thank you all so much for the many, MANY recommendations you left in response to my call-out for cloth info. It sounds like the best plan is to buy a diaper here and there and see which ones Freka likes best. Luke and I don't mind using disposables while we're testing the waters, especially since we never planned on an all-or-nothing type deal to begin with. I have no intentions of touting shit-stained diapers when traveling outside city limits.

I have to admit, though, using anything other than an All-In-One scares the bejeezus out of me, even though several of you are die-hard advocates of the more...involved products. The idea of trying to assemble various diaper parts and do I have to order them all separately or are they included in each individual order and what the hell is a PUL is enough to scare me into Huggies's open arms for the rest of my childbearing years. I can only pray detailed instructions and step-by-step diagrams are included in every package.

I'm nervous about working out the kinks but definitely excited about keeping money in the bank. Somebody mentioned that the added expense of increased laundering might cancel out the cost savings associated with buying cloth, but I can't imagine doing one more load every couple of days will run me $336 a month--the approximate amount it would take to keep Freka in Pampers each month.

Hmm. Thanks, Jana, for pointing out my faulty logic. I took the numbers of diapers I anticipate changing every day (12), multiplied that by seven, and then multiplied that by four, which gave me 336--a correct number if we're talking about how many diapers Luke and I will change each month, but not the monthly cost.

On BabiesRUs.com, they carry boxes of 96-count Pampers for $22.95. Three boxes would leave us about 48 diapers short for the month, but the cost for those would be $68.97, so let's assume I'd spend a hundred dollars a month (with tax) on disposables. Not the huge monthly savings I anticipated, but still, a hundred bucks is a hundred bucks, and my cost for diapers overall should be considerably less with cloth. Kerflop shares a breakdown at her Very Baby Web site, one she probably didn't attempt to outline at 1:30 in the morning.

(Now back to our regularly scheduled entry.)

As far as the environment goes, whether or not it makes a significant difference to our landfill problem, it certainly can't hurt. So we'll give it a try and see how it goes.

Now on to more important things, like the fact that my sister Ryan is getting married in two weeks so she can move to Germany in December to be with her high school sweetheart slash ambitious Army husband.

My mother called last week to say that Jason had contacted my father from his base in Texas to ask for Ryan's hand in marriage (I know, I know, outdated and patriarchial and insulting to women, blah blah blah, but it means a lot to my parents that all of their future son-in-laws do this, and in the end nobody's worse for the wear). Anyway, permission was granted, Ryan flew down to Texas for the weekend, and by 11:30 Sunday night she had spilled the marital beans. She also told me Jason's being transferred to Germany in two months and they needed to be married by then so she could go with him. Tonight, she said they've made plans to elope next weekend so she can get a head start on the mountain of paperwork required for her Big Move. Jason is slated to come home for a short visit mid-November, at which time there'll be some sort of celebratory gathering for the newlyweds. By Christmas, they'll both be gone. It's not even guaranteed that Ryan can meet her firstborn niece before she has to leave.

So, to sum up: Baby sister is getting MARRIED, OH MY GOD, moving to an overseas country far away from friends and family, and by the way, my new brother-in-law might get deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan next year.

It has also not escaped my attention that in mid-November I'll be thirty-six weeks pregnant and Chicago is a good four-hour drive from Indianapolis, what with all the construction taking place on both the tollroads and expressways. And that's just one way.

This is a lot of information for a highly strung, easily overwhelmed incubator to absorb in a forty-eight-hour timespan, but so far, I'm doing OK. If you're up to being helpful, though, I wouldn't mind suggestions regarding appropriate wedding presents for a bride and groom who have no practical use for coffee pots, toasters, or oven mitts. These gifts should also be readily available at most retail chains, seeing as Freka's shower this Saturday will also commemorate Ryan's last days as a single woman. I can't let her say "I do" without having at least a little something from me.

Ten out of twelve ain't bad

After checking my campus mailbox yesterday, I was a little sad to see I'd lost two students during last week's add/drop period. The class must've varied too far from their expectations, which I completely understand, but still, wah.

It's so different being on the other side of the academic fence; as an undergraduate, I never gave a thought to the personal feelings of my professors. They always came to class prepared to share some big-picture insights about the world around us, and for the most part, I trusted their direction. How odd to think they must've started out the way I am now, navigating through material I have yet to master, trying to create an atmosphere conducive to thoughtful participation, worrying about filling class time. Which I did, by the way, and let me tell you, the time between 6:00 and 8:30 literally flew by. I only glanced at the clock on my cell phone a few times, and at one point I actually questioned whether or not we'd make it through my entire lesson.

Of course, I'm still discovering the many ways in which I can improve my teaching style. This week, I prepared for class the way I might've in graduate school: read, read, read and take lots of notes, with some extra attention paid to forming possible discussion questions for each chapter. However, being a diligent note-taker does not an expert make, so sometimes I'd repeat a concept or definition several times until I found the wording that seemed to make the most sense to my students, and even then I sometimes realized that my understanding of an idea wasn't as rock-solid as I thought.

This week was probably a bigger challenge than most will or should be, seeing as we primarily focused on technical resources available to bloggers, and my acquired knowledge in that area is self-taught and fair at best. There was an awkward moment when a student asked to see an example of a TrackBack and I didn't have one to show him. Normally I'd just pull up a Web site that featured what we were talking about, but you so rarely see this function used in the blogosphere--at least on the blogs I read--that finding one on the spot wasn't an option. Next came the brilliant idea that oh! I'll just log in to my TypePad account and create an entry with a TrackBack right now! Only that didn't work out, either, because apparently I'm an idiot. I'll definitely become better acquainted with TypePad's stellar customer knowledge base before next Thursday, because by George, I WILL make the TrackBack my bitch.

Despite my rookie mistakes, I consider last night a success. Teaching this class is a wonderful way to keep my mind occupied as my stomach continues to grow at an alarming rate, and it's hard to believe that by the time we wrap things up, Luke and I will be one month away from meeting our baby.

Here is The Belly at 25 weeks. No, I'm not carrying twins, thank you so much for asking and making me feel like a big fat cow.

But wait! I have more graphic goodness to share.

This little guy is Roxy, one of two kittens recently adopted by my family. Our beautiful German shepherd, Styx, was put to sleep back in January (on my birthday, which I so appreciated), and since then my mother's been lonely for animal companionship; when they learned my grandfather's cat had recently given birth, my sister Ryan convinced my father to bring two of them home for her, which surprised us all, because for YEARS my mom's talked about how much she hates cats and they can't be trusted and let me tell you about the time when Samantha was a newborn and I found one sitting on her face.

Viewed in that light, I suppose her "distaste" was somewhat warranted.

As it turns out, my mother quite enjoys felines when they're not threatening to suffocate one of her children. The one above is her favorite, I think. She named him Church. As in, the resurrected cat from Pet Sematary. Because that's not disturbing at all.

P.S. Is nobody interested in summing up part two of TLF? The soundtrack you'd receive in turn would be totally awesome, I promise.

Sweet Home Chicago

At the time I sit down to publish this, there's still one minute left of Weight Loss Wednesday, but right now I don't care about Weight Loss Wednesday. If you think that's due to Frema gaining two pounds in one week, you're only partly right.

Luke's and my weekend extravaganza kicked off with the long-awaited Jerry Seinfeld show in downtown Indianapolis. Prior to our living together, I had no interest in Jerry Seinfeld, in his stand-up or his trivial, nothing little show, but the minute Luke's bags dropped at the front of my door step, all preconceived notions flew out the window and soon I was pissing my pants with the best of them over Jerry's housecleaning prostitute and "not that there's anything wrong with that" bit. On Friday night we hurried home from work, scarfed down a couple of bacon sandwiches (bacon sandwiches for me, at least, as in, no lettuce, and tomato on the side), and scurried out the door a good forty minutes before the seven o'clock start time. And if all we had to do was pull into the Murat Theatre parking lot, claim a space, and make our way to the ticket booth, I would've had plenty of time to relieve myself before finding our seats. However, coming from a city as ginormous as Chicago, I never in my wildest dreams imagined we'd actually have to deal with something as "big city" as parking issues and therefore allotted zero extra time to address the crowds.

The Murat lot was, of course, full, so our only option was to seek comfort in the arms of another, less sophisticated one, one with lower standards and no ability to accept credit card payments. This meant wasting ten minutes of pee time circling the block, rejoicing over the spotting of a bank and simultaneously cursing the fact that IT DID NOT HAVE AN ATM, WHAT THE HELL CENTURY ARE WE LIVING IN, PEOPLE, before victory was ours.

Once the car was secured in a no-tow zone, we flew up eight flights of stairs, during which I realized I paid seventy-seven dollars a ticket to squeeze my legs together, attempting to hold back the yellow flood, in the middle of the damn balcony. But we made it on time, seconds before the opening act, and twenty minutes later Jerry skidaddled onto the stage, and I actually shed a tear, so happy was I to see him. Urinate, schmurinate. What's another eighty minutes of holding it in for Jerry freaking Seinfeld?

The next morning, we saddled up for three glorious days in Chi-town. Luke was on assignment at a national housewares exhibit, and his room just happened to be at the W Lakeshore, one of BlogHer's own hotels of choice, and also the place where Molly and I and Isabel and Hollow Squirrel will be partying like it's 1999 this July. I felt it was my duty as a blogger to take two days off from work and test the waters.

I've just laid the framework for the perfect segue into hotel pictures, but first I have to tell you about this.

For the first time since my dad purchased his rad Harley motorcycle last summer, he took me for a ride around town. We zipped along on Archer Avenue, past our local Jewel, past the McDonald's that issued my first paycheck, past the abandoned lot behind the train station where my first boyfriend and I would make out like rabbits. There are condos there now. It's all very sad.

(I didn't tell my dad that, though. It was traumatizing enough for him to catch the two of us sucking face in the very alley you see above. I'm glad we're able to share such treasured memories surrounding my coming of age.)

OK, the hotel. This was without a doubt the most la-dee-da overnighter I've ever stayed in. The toiletries were provided by the spa housed below the main level, the convenience basket featured a ten-dollar pair of flip-flops, and there was a window (with shutters!) built into the wall of our bathroom. I scratched my head on that one for a good twenty-four hours, until I realized you could number two and still catch the results of that last DNA test on Judge Hatchett. Genius!

If the architects were smart enough to marry bowel movements and the boob tube, why could they not understand the importance of being able to cop a squat on the royal throne while your spouse is lathering up?

After Luke's Monday shift at McCormick Place, we moseyed on over to Navy Pier and took turns using our new digital camera. These shots were my feeble attempt at capturing the atmosphere.

I wonder how many first dates are staged here, how many first kisses? Over the summer they hold a fireworks display over Lake Michigan twice a week. It doesn't get more romantic than that.

The Pier is home to the nationally renowned Shakespeare Theatre, so one might think Luke is auditioning for an upcoming play here, but he's actually miming my intense dismay over the fact that Pretzelmaker is gone, my friends. GONE. The salted Parmesan cheese pretzel with garlic and I never even got to say good-bye. Sniff.

It also took my husband some time to absorb the shock. "Why, God, why?"

To be sure, it was a fantastic weekend, filled with family, friends, hair cuts (praise Jesus), my father's homemade barbequed ribs, and two issues of Marie Claire (which I absolutely love. Glamour's cookie-cutter opines pale in comparison. Thanks, Matt and Patty!). The memories I carried with me to work today just about made up for neglecting to factor in the time change when programming the VCR for 24. Dammit.

Life-Is-Good Wednesday

Seven days in and already I love March. The sun is out longer, there's less ice to scrape off the windshield of my car, and current temperatures are leveling out in respectable double digits.

When it comes to Weight Loss Wednesday, though, I much prefer negative numbers.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 135.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.8

OK, so I didn't lose the pound and a half I vowed to in last week's update, but I'm still impressed because, point-two pounds? Please. That's the (eight) handful(s) of M&Ms I scarfed down over the weekend. It's the fudge pop I had while watching The Departed last night. If I'd kept away from both, I'd be at 135 even. At least.

When it comes to eating, weekends at home are the epitome of temptation. Flipping through the pages of Marie Claire is more interesting with a package of Fig Newtons, and it's incredibly difficult to watch television without feasting on some sort of delectable treat, but I'm getting better. The biggest change in my habits this past week has been my recent befriending of the water bottle, which gives me something to grab on to when I don't know what to do with my hands and keeps the urinary tract sufficiently flushed as I strive to reduce the frequency of my UTIs. We go everywhere together, though his countless attempts to score during our trips to the bathroom have been unsuccessful. He's a fresh one, that bottle.

 

My new, sexually-aggressive BFF. I think I'll call him Wilson.

I'm ready for spring. I'm ready to hit the trails of our state parks and get moving after four months of sitting like a blob on the couch. Our annual pass has been purchased, the gym shoes moved to a more prominent position in the closet. It's time.

Since Weight Loss Wednesday and Ash Wednesday fell on the same day, this time of the week always seems most appropriate for filling you in on my Lenten commitments. Still AMC-free, though I did read yesterday's update in the paper and was surprised to learn Zach and Kendall have come face-to-face with Alexander Cambias, Senior, aka Zach's presumed-dead father, aka Pine Valley serial killer, and my first reaction was to rush to my desktop and pull up the soap's message board to get the full scoop. I didn't, but boy, did I want to. I'm still not sure what I'll do come Easter. I love my show, but I enjoy my newfound free time. Luke certainly doesn't miss it. We'll see.

The Bible reading continues to be one of the best parts of my day. It's a peaceful way to wind down before lights-out, and I'm constantly (re)inspired by Jesus's words and teachings. Challenging myself to put them into practice is another story, but at least I'm thinking about people and things in a way that I wasn't before, even going so far as to seriously contemplate repairing one of the family bridges that was burned a couple of years ago (even though the other person totally started it) (apparently the eight-year-old in me is not competely on board yet). Which raises a question: when you decide to forgive someone, do you have to let them know? I mean, I'm sure she isn't spending her waking hours gazing out the kitchen window, secretly wishing to be part of my life again. I don't even know if she's aware of how much she hurt me. Maybe it's enough to internally put those feelings in the past and plaster on a happy face the next time I see her, which might very well be years away.

On the other hand, I could've behaved more gracefully, and Jesus does talk about "making peace with your brother before offering your sacrifice."

What are your experiences with forgiveness? Have you ever had to forgive someone for your own peace of mind? Has anyone ever forgiven you when you didn't expect it? Or, when you didn't think there was anything to forgive?

This isn't how I imagined ending this post, but now I'm curious. Bring it on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Page 2:

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

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

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

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

Office Space: No Longer Just A Category Heading

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

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

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

Here it is, my humble corporate abode:

 

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

Let's break this down a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've Got A Food Attitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Be Careful What You Wish For

I start out the day with one goal: write a post honoring America's celebration of blood, guts, goblins, and the unknown. After reading Isabel's haunted house story, I'm inspired to share stories about the strange goings-on that've taken place in my own family's apartment building, specifically on the first floor, after its occupant, my grandmother, passed away in 2000. Only the thing is, those goings-on didn't happen to me but to my siblings, so I leave cryptic messages on Ryan's and Samantha's voice mails after work, soliciting their personal experiences for shameless exploitation and cheap thrills for all the Internet to see. I'm able to make contact with my brother Geo, who doesn't have any stories about Nana but is kind enough to remind me that a woman died in one of the first-floor bedrooms and a man killed himself in our garage via carbon monoxide poisoning. "You can blog about that," he says.

By this time it's seven o'clock, and two of our friends have arrived for a private showing of The Exorcism of Emily Rose, a find I was quite proud of, a find that confirmed my suspicions that the desire to