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

In case you couldn't tell, I got a haircut, too

You don't mind an entry chock full of pictures, do you? Good. Because I am very tired and these images are the only reason I was motivated to post tonight.

Last week, Luke, Kara, and I spent four days up north visiting family, prompted by the fact that my new brother-in-law, Jason, was on a two-week leave from duty in Iraq, and not only did I have to miss his and Ryan's wedding (remember my Saint Joe scare?), he was deployed before Kara was born, so he still hadn't met his niece. We wasted no time getting them properly introduced.

Uncle Jason was happy to see Kara, though he admitted at one point, "I don't know what to do with her!" Here they are both looking to my mom for further instruction.

For our four nights away from home, we spent the first and last one at Luke's parents house and the middle two with Samantha and Dan. My sister is just over a week away from her due date, which just so happens to fall on the anniversary of her wedding. Little Danny Junior's arrival is eagerly anticipated by all.

(Here would be a great place to include Samantha's picture, except that I didn't take any. Bad big sister!)

Here's Luke reading to Kara one of the mornings we stayed with Samantha and Dan. I'm including it because Kara munching on her bunny's ear--the one that has helped her recover from a rough sleep patch these last couple of months--is way adorable, and it showcases one of her very favorite books: Gossie and Gertie, which is actually part of a Gossie-and-friends-type series. MY favorite is the one about BooBoo because it talks about burps, and what could be cuter then a story about a gosling who burps?

 

On Saturday morning, our little family stole away for a couple of hours and drove to Navy Pier. It was Kara's first time seeing Lake Michigan, and Luke and I had a blast strolling her down the boardwalk and giving her a view of the water. The Pier is one of my favorite Chicago landmarks, so it was probably natural that I felt a ping of sadness over not living closer and being able to see it any old time we wanted. Staying in Indianapolis is the best option for us right now, but part of me holds out for the chance of someday making the move to northwest Indiana, where the grass is green and the commuter trains are pretty.

Later that afternoon I attended a surprise baby shower for Molly (I know she'll be sharing pictures soon) (hint, hint, Molly), and while I was gone Luke and Kara hung out with my mom, who was ecstatic over having so much time with her granddaughter. There are some especially cute pictures over at Parents, where Kara's reading Grandma's face Helen Keller style and Grandma's teaching Kara this "so big!" move that she absolutely loved.

(Notice Kara's travel chair? It's a Chicco Caddy Hook-On Chair we can use at places where a high chair isn't available. It was thirty-five bucks and works like a charm, though Kara did cling to me for dear life the first couple of times she was in there.)

Kara likes the hustle and bustle of Chicago, but she also enjoys the quiet calm we experience when we visit Grandma and Grandpa Dunscombe. Also, Grandpa provides adequate lap space for naps.

The next day, before we headed out of town, we stopped to visit Molly and Jack. They were both excited to see Kara, because Molly has baby girl fever and Jack still gets a kick out of Kara's "Oopsie" video. I think they had a good time with each other, though Jack was not thrilled with Kara's tendency to drool on his toys.

Jack's like, "What are you doing with my bus, woman?" and Kara's like, "Boat?"

I don't know why innocent pictures like this make me want to joke about a future pairing, but they do, except then I get weirded out contemplating my baby daughter's potential love matches. Forgive me, Jack.

Molly and I juggling small children and fetuses (feti?) in utero. Neither of us expected to get knocked up with surprise babies this year, but who does? And anyway, there's nobody I'd rather freak out with.

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Now, the random stuff.

My Hoosier Momma shirt turned out to be too small, so my embarassment over wearing it can wait until next year. Maybe we'll just save it for bedtime.

It looks like the top three venue choices for BlogHer 2009 are Portland, Philadelphia, and St. Louis. I voted for St. Louis because it's closest in proximity to Indianapolis, but I would be way stoked to visit Philly again. I went there with Luke in 2004 to visit his best friend. We visited Old City and Valley Forge and took a ghost tour and all of it was awesome. Luke is actually encouraging me to sign up next year and even suggested that the four of us (!) could go together and turn part of the trip into a mini family vacation. I am so all over that; I really did have a great time last year. My only hang-up is my purpose for attending: my personal blog is often left to collect dust, so ads are definitely not a part of my near future, and sometimes it's difficult to keep up on the one I get paid for. Am I looking for larger readership? More freelance work? Or simply network (Amalah, for the love of God, PLEASE SAY YOU'RE GOING IN '09) and have a good time? Is that good enough?

I suppose it doesn't really matter. Luke's on board with my going, and I bring in enough money from blogging that attending a conference like this would be totally worth it. Count me in.

This week has been great to me, baby-wise. I entered my thirteenth week and experienced an energy surge that didn't come until closer to week eighteen with Kara, and my work unveiled a new maternity leave policy, effective immediately, that pays six weeks at one-hundred-percent salary. Words can't express the impact this will have on my life, but I make the attempt over at Parents.

On the housing front: Luke, Kara, and I will visit three more houses on Indy's south side. Wish us luck.

Lastly, Kara is just nine days away from turning eight months old and making the cutest "mamadadababa" babbles you've ever heard in your life. On Monday morning, Luke will take her in for her first professional photo shoot. I didn't realize how bummed I'd be over not being able to join them, but I'm already leaving early that day for an ob/gyn appointment, and things are too busy for me to take off the whole day. Where did the time go? When did my sweet baby girl go from this:

To this?

Hell if I know, but damn if she isn't the most beautiful person I've ever met.

Your mom has control of Frema's blog!

Howdy all! 

Molly here (ahem, shameless self plug, ahem.)  I'm taking a quick break from NaBloPaintMo over in my world to post for poor Frema, who is not only endlessly dedicated to the love of all NaBloPoMo, but also stuck at home gestating away without power, without Internet.  Thankfully, she is not without cheesecake.

At almost midnight, nearing the end of a month-long blogging spree, what's a girl to do?  Why she calls on her pal for a quick post, that's what. 

Of course, each time she calls, I answer the phone with an excited, "Areyouinlabor?"  Because friends, (I can call you that, yes?) I'm dying for that phone call already.  And I can tell that you are also.

So while Frema's in the dark, let's place a few bets.  What day and time are you calling for Freka's birth?  I'm calling December 6th, 8:19pm. 

The winner gets the baby.

Oh, wait.  She'll never agree to that. 

The winner gets the I Called It, Bitches title.  And THAT is something for your resume. 

An update and a mission, should you choose to accept it

This weekend brought with it a wide range of pregnant emotions; the hormonal extravaganza kicked off on Friday night, when I reached my breaking point and sobbed into Luke's shoulder for a good sixty minutes about how overwhelmed I feel by everything these days. Day jobbing, teaching, freelancing, budgeting, gestating.... Why did I think it would be a smart move to take on so much responsibility during the most physically challenging time of my life? Why didn't I have the foresight to understand that dunking chocolate chip cookies into a generous glass of milk would be more than enough stimulation for my very pregnant brain? Sure, the extra money and professional development sounded like good incentives at the time, but now it takes every ounce of energy I have just to stay on top of things, and I'm wondering if my resume really needed mention of an adjunct teaching position on a subject outside of my field, a gig that demands hours of prep time and out-of-town travel and pays peanuts in return.

If only I were strong like Kayla. She never complained about the messes she'd gotten herself into.

Oh, wait....

Anyway, I had my hissy fit and staunchly refused comfort in the form of ice cream or cheesecake (!), but after getting those thoughts out in the open, the world seemed brighter. Luke saying how proud he was of me for juggling so many things at one time and me admitting that most of the problem was poor time management helped a lot, and by Saturday morning, I was sunshine and smiles again. After taking care of some housework (am I the only one whose mental state can be drastically improved with a clean kitchen?), we paid a visit to the Indianapolis Zoo and spent some time walking through the grounds, enjoying a frozen lemonade, and admiring the animals on display in their artificial habitats. Honestly, how can you hold on to a negative attitude when there are baby giraffes in the world?

We also enjoyed a quite dinner out, budget be damned, and overall just relished in each other's company. It was the best day I've had in a long, long time.

Today I am left to my own devices, as Luke is on assignment for work and won't return home until Tuesday night. There's a whole list of things I hope to accomplish today, things like reading for class and writing a Parents entry and working on a PowerPoint presentation for a blogging workshop I'll be running next Saturday, but so far all I've managed to do is shower, eat some pot roast, and succumb to not one but two naps, one curled up in the rocking chair in the baby's room (I'm drawn to it like Sleeping Beauty to a spindle these days) and the other sprawled out in bed.

What was that about time management again?

And now, the mission.

On Friday afternoon I received a phone call from my friend Gina, who informed me that I would have a very special interest in the issue of OK! magazine "with Larry Birkhead on the cover." Turns out the last page? Features a Q-and-A with my buddy Jason Chambers--you all remember him, right?--who cohosts a relatively new show on the History Channel called "The Human Weapon."

Since Luke and I don't have cable, I have yet to actually see the show. And not living in Chicago anymore means I also missed his one-page write-up in the Sun Times (though it's plastered to my parents' refrigerator for all to see). Missing his debut in a national celebrity publication--no matter how questionable its content--is something I simply cannot allow to happen. I must've visited eight stores yesterday looking for that damn issue, but all they had was the one with Angelina Jolie.

So, dear Internet, I turn to you. Tell me one of you out there not only HAS the issue in question but is also willing to mail it to a random-but-would-be-totally-grateful stranger. Please? I promise to reimburse you for the postage.

What Am I Still Doing Here?

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

Friday

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

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

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

Saturday

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

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

 

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

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

Sunday

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

Monday

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

I also lost a crown while brushing my teeth.

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

Tuesday

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

And The Weekend Comes Full Circle

Friday: The Truth or Dare Jenga box speaks for itself.

Boy, the manufacturer sure called it on those facial expressions!

Saturday: IU versus Purdue (aka The Old Oaken Bucket Game), Lafayette, Indiana.

 

Whew!

You have no idea how happy I am to be writing this post. Luke and I are in Lexington, Kentucky, this weekend, visiting friends, and for the last three days I've been stressing about my ability to post away from home. Not that I don't do that on a regular basis already, but it's usually when we're staying with Luke's parents or my sister; I've never posted at a friend's before, so I was a little afraid to ask, not to mention I imagined horrible scenarios where Tom and Justine's Internet connection would be down or their electricity would go out before I had a chance to publish my required entry for the day and my time would be over before I really had a chance to begin. Luckily, the power is working just fine, and Tom and Justine own three computers, so my fears were ill-founded.

Even though NaBloPoMo just started on Wednesday, I'm already patting myself on the back, because for the first time in my blogging history, I posted every day of the work week. I'm happy with the entries and even happier with the number of comments. Thank you so much for supporting me through this! I'm having a ton of fun so far, and Mrs. Kennedy's vision is gradually starting to take hold; writing is slowly becoming an integral part of my day, and knowing I have to post has forced me to concentrate, allowed the words to come quicker, trumped the inner voice inside my head that discourages me from hitting the "Publish" button because my ideas aren't good enough yet.

This week alone has made the whole month worthwhile.

Sharing The Secrets Of The Online Sisterhood

For the first time since I began working for the lab last June, I've been invited out to lunch with a coworker, our quality assurance director, one of the guys who accompanied me to the chemistry conference I attended in Chicago over the summer. He's a very nice guy, someone with whom I've since held interesting talks about Indy's real estate market, office gossip, and the conundrums of everyday life. This is very exciting, because while there are several coworkers I interact with on a daily basis, none of them have attempted to engage a relationship with me outside the confines of the company break room. I'm not sure where we'll go, or if he'll attempt to pay, or if we'll have the ability to maintain a conversation for sixty minutes, but I'm thankful for the opportunity to try.

As I contemplate the possibility of becoming friends with someone who shares my place of employment, I also wonder about this blog; mainly, whether or not this person can ever be trusted to know about it, and if so, when? It's like I'm a single mother who can't decide if telling a potential suitor about the two children I have parked in front of the TV at the babysitter's house while I'm on the prowl for a bit o' nookie. Will he use this information to advance his own sinister agenda? Inform his QA buddies I'm only in it for the blog content? Send an anonymous e-mail to my boss warning him to keep an eye on the communications girl, who parked her car directly behind the window to his office last week and subsequently discovered his fancy for online solitaire, a fancy she almost exposed on the World Wide Web?

(A fancy she just exposed on the World Wide Web?)

When I worked at the college, this wasn't an issue. I was so new to the blogging world that I saw no reason to hide this link from my buddies in institutional advancement. That was before I learned about the possibility of getting dooced; now, only one person here knows about my alter ego, and that's only because she was a student at Saint Joe who interned for my office.

At point can you consider a coworker a friend? And when should that friend be privy to the fact that you post more than press releases and test announcements on the Internet?

Apparently I'm Recovered Enough To Spend A Hundred Dollars At The Mall

Lately it's so easy for me to feel down about myself: less-than-stellar haircut, fifteen extra pounds in my trunk, ugly circles under my eyes from pushing bedtime to midnight or beyond.... Who knew all those bad feelings could be cured by spending some Benjamins?

(Say hello to my father-in-law, whose charming smile graces the (stage) left side of my new FREE make-up bag.)

Thanks to a little help from my friends, suddenly everything seems much brighter: my hair, which is actually growing out quite nicely, thank you very much; my skin, which is appearing to benefit from my mother's household stash of Proactiv; my weight, which wears much better when it's not being squeezed into clothing that emphasizes my mid-section.

OK, so these purchases don't exactly fit in with my quest to save money, but in my defense, I had an NY&C coupon that gave me thirty bucks off a total of seventy-five or more, resulting in five tops for under fifty dollars; plus, it was Bonus Time at Clinique. Who can resist the lure of delicious free samples for a minimum purchase of twenty-one fifty? Obviously not Frema. So what if I spent forty-five? I was still seven dollars shy of the amount I told Luke I would spend when I informed him this morning of the shopping trip that was sure to take place that afternoon.

(Edited to add: I have one gripe about Van Maur's Clinique counter: when I inquired about make-up removers, the girl tried to sell me a bottle of something that was already included in the Bonus Time package, a detail she failed to confirm until I carefully examined its contents and pointed it out; a detail that totally pisses me off. I'd already signed on for the All About Eyes and the Stay Matte Sheer Pressed Powder. You're getting my commission, woman! For cripe's sake, I'm shelling out twenty-seven Wendy's crispy chicken sandwiches for eye cream! Did you really need to extract another fifteen bucks from my debit card?)

Life is good. I'm feeling much better, I made it back to step class for the first time in two weeks, dishes are done, the checkbook is balanced, and once I hit "Publish," my blog will be updated. All I need is some sleep. I woke up at four o'clock today to deliver Luke to the airport in time for a seven o'clock flight, and since the lab is just another few minutes away, I decided to clock in two hours early. Of course, I left two hours early to make up the time. Such the dedicated worker bee am I.

And for the month of November, I hope to become a more dedicated blogger. When I heard about National Blog Posting Month from Kerflop a few days ago and the accompanying challenge to post once a day every day for the entire month, I hesitated to register. I can barely manage to update once a week; how can I possibly find something interesting to say thirty straight days in a row? Will writer's block resign me to cheesy literary devices like memes and sequels to my 100 things list?

There's only one way to find out.

People, I'm gonna need your help. Are there any topics you'd like me to address? Issues in my personal life you wish I'd explore more intimately? Embarrassing pictures you want to see? Then bring them the hell on, because OH SNAP. THIRTY STRAIGHT DAYS. GOD.

I have to pick up Luke from the airport now, so we can end this day and go to bed already, but before I do, I wanted to share some pictures I took during the Lost A Sock family's trip to Indianapolis this past Sunday. They are among the elite few who have dared to step foot in the Frema-Useless Clutter apartment, and their visit gave me a wonderful excuse to dust my picture frames and bleach my floors. In return, they provided two more reasons for me to speed up the childbirthing process. Thanks for making my ovaries ache, kids.

Doesn't Molly look fabulous? I'm drooling at the mouth over her hotness.

...And the utter coolness of KJ's glasses. My nine-year-old self is so jealous.

We Could Form The Baby-sitters Club Of The New Millenium!

Since last week's epiphany about living each day to the fullest, I've compiled a list of possible activities on which to spend my time:

• Take refreshing walks during which I breathe deeply and send calming messages to ducks via mental telepathy
• Pull out my Sweatin' to the Oldies videos and curse Richard Simmons as I strain my upper body to complete stomach crunches and perfect the sweeping-arm motions choreographed to "Wendy," as in "Everyone knows it's Wendy"
• Scour through various cookbooks to search for meals that are light and healthy and only require eight minutes of prep time
• Pull out the Winnie-the-Pooh crochet bag I've had since my sophomore year in college and attempt to refamiliarize myself with the one stitch I've been able to retain from Lost A Sock's tutorage
• Write comical, lyrical, meaningful prose on this Web site more than twice a week
• Find a volunteer activity that saves little children and/or puppies

So far, I've gotten as far as flipping through my Betty Cooker bible and discarding recipe after recipe on the grounds that they require cutting numerous vegatables into intricate shapes and probably washing a lot of dishes, and washing a lot of dishes does not constitute as a productive way to enrich my daily existence. I've also watched two episodes of AMC, selected photos for Luke's and my wedding album, and devoured three back issues of Glamour, which actually proved to be an enlightening experience, as my new moisturizer was highlighted as a product that successfully combats acne. Apparently I am three weeks ahead of my time.

There's nothing to hold me back; I have a plethora of fun and interesting ways to fill my five or six post-work hours that won't break the bank. So why am I still inclined to sit in front of the coffee table and munch on pretzel sticks while following the really-getting-old storyline of locating Tad and Dixie's accidentally-given-up-for-adoption-because-Dixie-thought-she-was-on-her-deathbed daughter? What will it take to get me motivated?

I think part of it has to do with the fact that I've lived in this city for over a year and still have yet to find a real friend. That's not to say I haven't met some really great people, but there's a fine line between attending someone's dinner party and strolling through the aisles of Target in your track pants in pursuit of the perfect eye base with a gal who knows about and appreciates your love for Claire Danes during her Angela Chase days. Maybe I should take out a personal ad. It could read:

Twenty-something-year-old Chicago native seeks local BFF to share fountain sodas, blow out each other's hair, and gossip about the latest episode of 24. Must have working knowledge of the Nancy Drew Files, Flowers in the Attic series, Tori Amos's first four albums, and at least one bad hair cut; experience in Boyfriends Who Went Without Calling For Three Weeks and the creation of angsty poetry while under the influence of Twizzlers and Orange Crush optional. Should feel comfortable talking about which two Harry Potter characters might get the axe in book seven and also The Meaning of Life.

I'm quite the catch, don't you think? If you reside in the Indianapolis area, you owe it to yourself and all that is good and sacred in this world to CALL NOW. Operators are standing by. Or at least laying on the couch.

Edited to add: Luke was kind enough to look up the "Wendy" lyrics, and it turns out the dame's actual name is Windy. The hell?

Further Proof That Our Friends Are Destined To Procreate One Gender

Lost A Sock has two boys. Number Twelve has three girls. Dan and Michelle and Sean and Randi, Luke's couple friends, have two girls each. And now Brooke and her husband Matt are the proud parents of two strapping young boys! She brought the owner of male organ number two, Michael Allan, into the world on Friday, June 9. A sixty-nine baby, Betty said, "although if her parents had actually done the sixty-nine, he wouldn't have been born in the first place."

Luke and I were in Chicago this weekend and had a chance to meet and greet the new addition. I'm not ashamed to say I smelled Michael's head, and it was delicious. BUT. I didn't cry. A sure sign of progress, wouldn't you say?

More words, preferably those of quality and substance, to come later.

Long Enough To Make Up for This Week's Lack of Posts

A few weeks ago I stumbled onto this site and, on a whim, joined The Great Blogger CD Swap of 2006. I meant to advertise it here, really I did, but all my blabber about heathenism and color correction did zip to keep me focused about what truly matters in life, which, duh, is your Internet audience. Anyway, I mailed CDs to group members Sarah, Dawnie, and Carla yesterday morning, as well as one to Fraulein N because upon reviewing her song list I begged her to send me a copy, provided she was secure enough in her womanhood to receive a disc that features a song from Hanson.

Since I planned on posting my liner notes once the CDs were mailed, I thought I'd go the extra mile and continue with the whole "Life in Pictures" idea I had oh, TWO MONTHS AGO. So yes. Cheesy pictures set to admittedly questionable music. Lucky, lucky you.

Frema's High School Musical: 1994-1998

“Mmmbop,” Hanson

My love for boy bands and Bad Pop has already been documented here, so that needs no explanation. Also, I thought starting the mix off with this track would give an accurate first impression to my group members, all of whom are learning about my world for the first time, as in, I'm so boptastic, you may spontaneously burst into song about planting seeds and flowers and roses (as if roses weren't flowers themselves) in my honor.

Man, I rocked this CD so hard. It was in constant rotation from the summer before senior year all the way through my freshman year at Saint Joe. And I was not ashamed. I would drag my Memorex boom box into the living room and just jam to the grooviness of this song. The vocabulary alone--stellar!

Even MORE stellar is my high school uniform, which comprised a polo, sweater (sleeveless vest or long-sleeved), and the ever-popular plaid skort. This photo was taken at the hospital right next to the school, where many Mystics flocked to pay their candy-striper dues by stuffing charts and refilling ice-water buckets in patients' rooms. It was the first time I ever encountered the smell of death. But it was fun.

I was barely fifteen when this was taken for the school's view book, and it's painfully obvious I have not yet mastered the ability to do good hair, or even decent hair, because my bangs were accepting admission for their own private roller coaster. They were in operation every day until my mother bought me a flat iron, an act that has no doubt secured her a spot in Heaven.

“Bullet With Butterfly Wings,” Smashing Pumpkins

I was an Angsty pre-teen, predispositioned to enjoy the melancholy sounds of Jeffrey Osborne and Rod Stewart, but it was in high school I discovered Slightly Angry Angst, the kind of Angst that birthed poetry stanzas like "Give me a light while I drink this beer / I'm wasting away in my own private hell." Seems appropriate that I enjoyed this song, though the whole world and vampire metaphor was a bit much, even for me.

“Not the Doctor,” Alanis Morissette

When Jagged Little Pill came out, I was fifteen and didn't know what it meant to go down on someone in a theatre. I loved the song, though, and I LOOOOVED this cassette. (Yes, cassette, I didn't get a CD player until I was sixteen, you wanna start somethin'?) I played it when tackling theorums for geometry, when leaving messages on the answering machine of The Boyfriend Who Went Three Weeks Without Calling, with desperate messages to the tune of "Call meeee. Am the soul mate of Mr. Lonelyyy. Am crying RIGHT NOW."

I chose this song because it was one of my favorites; also, I figured everyone and their mother would include "You Oughta Know" on their compilation. Outfoxed you all, I have!

My costume for the role of Peter Quince in Maria's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, also known as My Imitation of Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Be sure to check out that five o'clock shadow. Can you believe I didn't have a boyfriend?

“When You Come Back To Me,” World Party

Soundtracks were huge in the nineties, and the one for Reality Bites may go down in history as one of the best, simply because it features Ethan Hawke singing about a pothead momma and a cokehead dad, after he and Winona Ryder bumped uglies for the first time and he fled the scene, just like Harry did in When Harry Met Sally, only he didn't offer to take Winona to dinner later, he just went to the bar and played loud music and waited for Winona to show up, only Ben Stiller's character showed up, too, and Ethan Hawke had to be a huge tool and sing that song about why can't he get just one kiss.

This song isn't from that scene, though. It's near the beginning of the movie, when Jeanine Garofalo is writing down the names of all her sexual conquests. It seemed Very Adult at the time. Now? Just Very, Very Sad. Not to mention Really Slutty.

“Alone,” Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories

Another instance where I pull a fast one on the masses by refusing to include "Stay," even though I loved it (also on the Reality Bites soundtrack, by the way) and thought Lisa Loeb had a very delicate yet Deep and Soul-Searching voice. This one's from Tails, her first album, which also includes "Stay," and is lots of fun.

“Who Will Save Your Soul,” Jewel

I loved Jewel and her willingness to talk about Love and Humanity and We're All Beautiful and fearlessness in lecturing us not to Hate That Ugly Girl, Because She's Pieces of You. So deep!

"Fade Into You,” Mazzy Star

Confession: I don't know the words to this song. Hell, I don't even know what it's about. I just remember thinking that the sound of this woman's voice was enough to answer all questions about the universe and my place in it. Am thinking they played this on the radio with snippets of dialogue from Natural Born Killers, which I rented once for my mother and me. We got about fifteen minutes in, to the part where they do that "I Love Lucy" parody and Rodney Dangerfield grabs Juliette Lewis's butt, before my mom turned it off and we popped in While You Were Sleeping, which educated us both on the significance of Leaning. That flick is one of my favorites to this day, partly because Bill Pullman is hand.SOME. and partly because it takes place in Chicago during a time when tokens were still in use on the Orange Line. I think the scenes were actually shot on the Brown Line, but whatever.

“Push,” Matchbox Twenty

Remember the controversy surrounding this song, because some people thought Rob Thomas was singing about wanting to knock around a woman? Dumb@$$e$.

Speaking of pushing, I spent the summer before my senior year pushing around a pretzel cart on the boardwalk at Chicago's Navy Pier. (Actually, it was a stationary cart, but the transition, it was flawless, no?) Here I am, properly overexposed to UV rays and mixing sugar for our cinnamon topping. And let me tell you: these pretzels are gooood because they are actually made in the store; none of that buy-'em-in-plastic-wrap-and-stick-'em-on-a-warming-rack business. WE sectioned off the dough; WE made pretty knots; WE burned our forearms getting them into the oven. If you ever visit Chicago and happen to hit the Pier, GET A DAMN PRETZEL and remember the girl who sent you.

Also, not only am I wearing my Kairos cross (more on that in a minute), I am WEARING A PEN ON MY KAIROS CROSS. Jesus died for my sins and I didn't have enough respect to keep Bic ink off his death bed. The fetish for The Precious was clearly out of control.

“Wannabe,” Spice Girls

I liked Hanson, people. Don't tell me you're surprised.

“Talk To Me,” Wild Orchid

I still love this song; these days, I try and figure out which parts were sung by Fergie and which ones were assigned to her Kids, Incorporated partner-in-crime-and-also-sister Rene. Rene must be so pissed now.

“I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues,” Elton John

Did I not warn you I was Angsty and an easy listener?

“As I Lay Me Down,” Sophie B. Hawkins

I first discovered Sophie around the time 90210 was on, because they played "Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover" during the summer Brenda was playing up to Dean Cain with her awful French accent and Dylan was giving "friendly" massages to Kelly at the beach house. Intrigued, it wasn't until this song came out I was completely sold. This is probably my favorite song of all time, as my entire family can testify, and yes, it made the wedding CD, and no, I don't think her back-up singers are really asking if we want a taco.

This picture makes me want to reach for a hankerchief, because God, how many times did Jason attend my high school dances, and how many times was my teenage self too chicken to just ask him the eff out? Instead I pawned him onto every friend I could, as if it were possible to date him by association, and those friends were usually more than happy to oblige, like Adele here on my left, who also worked with me at Pretzelmaker. She took Jason, and I took Jason's friend Eric, who was nice enough but had an oval-shaped head and wore gold rope chain necklaces, and I am of the mindset that no man should ever wear a gold rope chain necklace. (While we're at it, how about no jewelry on men at all? But I digress.) This picture also features my dear sister Samantha, who was on a date with Mike Brady, no lie, and our cousin Kenny on the far left, who was Samantha's friend Liz's date even though he was only thirteen because her original guy backed out at the last minute. Kenny's dad was so proud he brought Kenny to the dance himself, camera in tow, and make 8 x 10 prints of this shot for every single one of us.

“Good Enough,” Sarah McLachlan

Another song I really don't get the meaning of, but the music is haunting and Sarah McLachlan's voice is beautiful and it was how I came to know Sarah in the first place. Fumbling Towards Ecstasy is one of the best albums of that time.

“The Roof,” Mariah Carey

I was a devout MC fan until the release of Charm Bracelet, which means I subjected myself to the monstrosity that is Glitter. Feel free to weep.

This song is on Butterfly, and while there was a video for it, I don't think it received airtime. However, it's one of her sexier songs, and she looked so damn GOOD for this album--trim, in shape, with hair that wasn't flat-ironed to the side of her head. Those were the days.

“China,” Tori Amos

How many of you are familiar with Kairos--you know, the spiritual retreat where you spent four days in pseudo group therapy, listening to talks and songs and receiving absolution for the time you let your boyfriend stick his tongue in your ear? (So kinky!) I first heard Tori Amos during my junior year while on this retreat and was completely taken by her voice and lyrics. However, I was still horribly naive, and when listening to "Silent All These Years," I thought the line "Boy, you best pray that I bleed real soon" was totally a cheap shot at trying to be Deep With Intangible Ideas, because what in the hell could a line like that possibly mean?

And that's when I learned where babies come from.

Here's where I brag and tell you that, in my senior year of high school, I played "Anne with an e" in Anne of Green Gables. Only my production was more like Frema of The Obvious Hair Piece, because my red wig kept slipping to the back of my head, thus revealing my bangs, which had finally exited the nauseating roller coaster only to subject itself to a daily fake-and-bake with a flat iron. Also pictured: Samantha puckering up for the camera, while across from her is her then husband-to-be Dan. They met and fell in looove during the run of this play.

Change the World,” Eric Clapton

One of the best. love songs. ever.

“Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me,” U2

Very cool music; more importantly, it was played during the ending credits for Batman Forever, which provided the setting for my first-ever movie date, with Nick, the one with the aversion of actually having conversations with me more than twice a month. It was a fun date, though. Just holding hands was enough to send The Woman In Me to infatuationalistic heights. (Look at me totally reinventing American vernacular. Am freakin' genius!)

“To The Moon And Back,” Savage Garden

Please don't laugh. I was very young. I won't even tell you how--just months ago--I tried to feel out Luke's willingness to use "I Knew I Loved You" as our wedding song, because we danced to it the night of the auction.

This was taken at my "surprise" going-away-to-college party the month before I left for Saint Joe and features photographic evidence of Nick's floating head, a head we've already established was not so good with the whole phone bit. There's also a second ex in here, Kurt, and living proof of HIS existence is at the bottom of this photo. He was one of Jason's numerous botched attempts at a fix-up, and he eventually went on to hook up with two of my friends, which still amazes me because he really did leave a lot of spit on my face, so I wasn't all about giving a glowing recommendation. (I actually thought he was the bee's knees until I realized he'd attended community college for like, nine semesters and still didn't have an associate's degree, but even then I asked him to prom and he said yes but then took it back and said no, and apparently anger and humiliation were all I needed to find my balls, because I used them to finally ask Jason, who proceeded to balk and stammer and pretend he didn't Get it, so I finally asked Nick, who'd been hanging around since Easter, anyway, months after one of our set-your-watch-by-it break-ups, so now you know who's really to blame for me losing my virginity.)

One last note about the CDs: it wasn't until after I mailed them that I realized I could've been a little more upbeat in my selections; like, maybe Elton John was never meant to share the musical stage with Hanson, and the "chicka Cherry Cola" song from Savage Garden was probably better known. There's also a number of songs I thought about including but didn't, as well as songs I would have included had I more time to contemplate the play list. Therefore, I'll end this post with my honorable mentions:

"Ode to My Family," The Cranberries
"Sunny Came Home," Shawn Colvin
"Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand," Primitive Radio Gods
"Far Behind," Candlebox
"I'll Be There For You," The Rembrandts
"These Are Days," 10,000 Maniacs

I was SO too cool for school.

Brenda's Ability To Do Good Hair: Denied!

By now, everyone who reads this site knows I heart Brenda, my Chicago hairdresser, because apparently stylists in Naptown can only shape and color celebrity styles for the likes of Eighties Madonna and Severus Snape. One of the first things I did when Luke and I got engaged was to make salon appointments for my bridesmaids, flower girl, and me, so there was no chance in hell that Brenda wouldn't NOT do my hair. I was on it like flies on that stick-paper thing my parents leave in the basement because, well, they don't like flies.

Guess what? Brenda's not doing my hair.

It's tragic, actually. On Friday the 13th, she broke two bones in her right hand, her magic hand, the hand that gives me bouncy layers and the side bangs I love so much. She's at work but limited to answering phones and sweeping up hair for the next four to six weeks. It's like having Mariah Carey pre-Charm Bracelet wipe spittle from Hilary Duff's microphone at the Grammys.

I called the salon yesterday and transferred my upcoming Saturday morning appointment to Kasia, a stylist with a great reputation for updos, and the other person scheduled to help Brenda with my wedding party, and there's still at least a slight chance she'll be in tip-top shape come May 12th, so all should be well. But I'd like to take this opportunity to brag about Gina, one of my very awesome bridesmaids, because she is the only reason I discovered this potentially life-changing information. Seeing as I discovered Enve through her seven years ago, she became aware of the situation at her own cut-and-color and immediately contacted me so alternate arrangements could be made. It's in instances like these that a wife-to-be truly needs her bridesmaids. Don't fuss over silly things like bachelorette parties or finding something blue. Just let me know if my hairdresser ends up in the ER.

This weekend will be a busy one, as tomorrow Samantha and my family are throwing Luke and me what is sure to be a beautiful wedding shower, and Sunday we have our first pre-marital counseling session with the pastor who will marry us. One of the subjects will be religion, which I really am feeling much better about these days, as Luke and I continue to talk openly about what kind of church life we want with and for our children. I also broached the subject with my mom last night, something I was pretty nervous about because I never want my parents to think that I'm unhappy with the way they brought me up. I didn't want them to become defensive of their choices, especially since they made some really great choices, and to be totally honest, I was also afraid they'd think I was ruining my chance at Eternal Salvation by even considering converting to a Protestant denomination. For better or worse, whether I get it or not, I will always seek their approval.

The conversation I had with my mother proved (once again) how little credit I give my parents sometimes. She reminded me about the similar faith journey she took around my age that brought her to Catholicism, years after she and my father got married. She said Luke and I are going to do the best thing for our family, and as long as we believe in God, everything will be fine. Well, that and infant baptism, which we do, so it's all good. For the first time in months, I'm at peace.

Note: the SVH contest will run through the weekend, because I'm leaving for Chicago today and don't want to make such a difficult decision in such a short time frame. So if you want a book, it's not too late to beg for one. And I promise not to give Luke any special consideration. Really. It's anybody's game.

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

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

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

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

Apparently, so have I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Virgins for Everyone!

When you're not looking, your friends can do some pretty amazing things. Take my friend, Chris; he recently published his very first novel, a novel several years in the making, before his 28th birthday. In my mind, Chris is the perfect example of A Writer, always beginning something, working on something, perfecting something, because the need to create is woven into the fiber of his being. When I was kid, I dreamed of being that Writer. I wrote stories all the time. Made up stories based on the cover art of my favorite books. Kept a journal. Lots of journals. For years. Now, the only real writing I do is for this blog. Sometimes I wonder if my own desire to publish will ever be as strong as Chris's.

Maybe it's not my time yet. Maybe I'm not motivated enough to bring this dream to fruition. Either way, the one thing I can say proudly is that I write for a living. That may just be enough for me.

I'm a Great Friend

My aspiring-famous-actor friend, Jason, is also a martial arts fighter. Here I am being supportive by posting a link to his latest interview. Even though he forgot my birthday last week. My freakin' BIRTHDAY. See how forgiving I am?

If you think he looks familiar, that's because he is - last February he appeared on Fear Factor and won a car. But I think he had to eat cockroaches to get it.

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!

Single and Loving It

On Friday, my friend Nicole dropped me a line to announce that she and her boyfriend recently got engaged. He did it at Navy Pier on the Ferris Wheel; halfway through the ride, he gets down on one knee and says, "We've made it this far with you as my girlfriend. Go the rest of the way with me as my fiancee." Who could say no to that? Then, while in Indianapolis yesterday, Luke and I found out that Matt and Patty, his brother and sister-in-law, are going to have a baby. Hooray!

Later on, I realized that as happy as I was for all of these people, who truly deserve their wonderful blessings, I was also a little bummed that nothing as life-changing was happening to ME. (Yes, in the end, it's all about me.) I'm in a great place in my life: Good job, cool apartment, great boyfriend, a nearly complete graduate degree, a ton of family and friends that I absolutely love. But still, I was sad. Until I came up with...

Why I'm Glad to be a Non-Pregnant Ms.

1. Taxes and FAFSAs are super-easy to file.
2. I'm shopping at The Limited instead of Babies R Us.
3. Fried food doesn't make me sick.
4. Bathroom breaks are the only reason I'm out of bed at 3:00 a.m.
5. I don't have to worry about fitting into a wedding dress.
6. I don't have to worry about not fitting into my other dresses.
7. It's still inappropriate for people to rub my stomach and coo.
8. It's cheaper.
9. I'm not losing vacation days because little Elaine has the chicken pox.
10. It really is cheaper.