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

You might also like to know that I once wore part of my uniform in a self-directed parody of "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time"

Two weeks ago I went to my ten-year high school reunion. In the days leading up to what I believed would be a life-changing event, I tried to find time to write this really insightful piece about how much I loved high school and how those four years contributed to the person I am today and how grateful I was to attend an all-girls private school and how I never minded the uniforms because I didn't know how to dress myself and how much I appreciated being exposed to different cultural and religious backgrounds and how college was a slap in the face because more than half of the (white bread) student body was going on Mommy and Daddy's dime and how one of my friends drove around campus in a BMV she got as a graduation present while I peddled on a ten-speed bicycle that was stolen two months into my freshman year.

But then life got in the way, and also a new episode of Lost, so instead I decided to wait until the reunion had passed, allowing me to reflect on the relationships I formed as a teenager and which ones held up and which ones I outgrew and how at 18 my life goals included becoming a campus minister and driving a "sporty, zippy thing" (thank you, senior memory book) and maybe having children, "but I'm not making it a goal," and how never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined just how wonderful my life would be, not to mention how very proud I would be of my new family.

But then I actually WENT to the reunion, where only seven members of my class even bothered to show up, and it took the wind right out of my sails. I went on to cover a couple of more important topics, but still I came back to my reunion, determined to capture the essence of lil' Frema's character, to the point that I was afraid of posting anything else because my reunion, my reunion, my ten-year high school REUNION, I must do it justice, even if nobody cares about it but me.

And now? Now we are two weeks out, and the Frema-Useless Clutter household is currently engaged in the Great Aunt Flo Watch of 2008. Waxing poetic about the time I used to crank call toll-free counseling hotlines while waiting for the train will just have to wait.

Seriously, high school was special to me, and I will talk more about it someday. Until then, here is a picture of me standing at the bottom of a staircase next to blue and gold balloons. Pretend I said something witty, and then compliment my hair.

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.

I still say the carrot-stealing bastard got what he deserved

This baby is taking her time.

I know, I know, I'm not even past my due date yet, but I can feel it. The Braxton Hicks contractions that seemed to be coming so frequently two weeks ago seem to have disappeared almost completely, and I can practically hear my cervix taunting me with all the non-dilating it's probably doing. My 40-week appointment is scheduled for Tuesday at 9:45, and in my heart, I know that Luke and I will be there. Blah.

How 'bout we answer some questions today, eh?

Professor Art Nerd is dying to know:

Who is your favorite artist, or artistic period, or work of art? What do you like about it? (I'm not judging, honest, it's just a question I always ask)

Oh, Lauren, I'm sure my response is going to diappoint you, because while I have a huge appreciation of art, my actual art knowledge is scant. I can tell you I love the Saturday Evening Post covers created by Norman Rockwell, which will be gracing my calendar for 2008, and there's a matted photograph of autumn leaves in my living room that I purchased at a local craft show a few years ago when I lived in Rensselaer and worked at Saint Joe. Other than that? I'm useless. I love the Post covers because of how well the images reflect all the coming-of-age situations that seem to happen in a typical American's life, and fall is my favorite season, so the leaves photo reminds of me crunching through parks in my hiking shoes with Luke, something we used to do all the time. That's one of the things I can't wait to do again in my non-pregnant state.

What is the book you most look forward to reading to Freka?

Now HERE'S a question I can get behind, mostly because I was a reading fool as a kid, and one of the biggest things that excites me about having a daughter is being able to share my favorite childhood and young adult books with her. Baby-sitters Club. Nancy Drew (both the original hardbacks and the paperback Nancy Drew Files). Sweet Valley High. Anything by Judy Blume and Paul Zindel. It's not that boys can't read these books, but do they? No, not usually. And even though I tried, I could never get into the Hardy Boys; they were only tolerable when teaming up with Nancy, Bess, and George in those random mystery thrillers that came out every few months.

Anyway, to answer the actual question, the book I'm most excited about reading to Freka right now is the comprehensive collection from Beatrix Potter. When I was a kid, one of my aunts gifted us the entire series of stories, and my sister Samantha and I had a blast going through the little books. My favorite at the time was The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit, mainly because he got his naughty little cotton tail shot off at the end.

Brittany asks:

Have you ever had something stolen from you?

Hell, yes, I have. The neon-green scooter I bought with money I received for making my First Communion back when I was nine years old, and I'm still pissed about it.

That scooter was a big deal. I already had a bike; Samantha and I had received matching pink bikes from my Nana for Christmas the year before, each with their own names etched into the handlebar padding (mine was Pink Taffy). But still, I wanted a scooter. Don't ask me why.

A week or two after my First Communion celebration, my father took me to Toys R Us, and I picked out said neon-green scooter. He put it together for me as soon as I got home, and I fell in love. Between that and the bike, my feet almost forgot what it felt like to make physical contact with the sidewalk. (We were NEVER allowed to ride in the street, and I'm still amazed when I see kids that do. My mother would've killed me.)

The poor thing didn't last through the summer.

My parents might say part of it was my fault for occasionally neglecting to store the scooter in the basement like I was supposed to every night before going to bed. Our apartment had fencing around the yard, and a gate, but it was that criss-cross wiring stuff that anyone could easily climb over. Apparently, the temptation of the scooter just sitting there next to our staircase was too great for one of the local sticky-fingers, and one morning, it was just gone. I never saw it again.

Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure they stole my bike, too. Couldn't you just cry a river for poor 'lil Frema?

I was a good kid, I swear

For a while there, it looked like today's was going to be another bullshit entry--Luke and I woke this morning to find our wireless modem had no signal, and after a phone call to AT&T's tech support line, we learned it had indeed met its maker. At first we thought we'd have to wait a few days for a replacement and made plans to crash Luke's work (which is fewer than ten minutes away) and publish obligatory placeholder entries for NaBloPoMo, but since the modem had outlived the initial one-year warranty, we were free to hit to Best Buy and spend ninety dollars on a new one instead. Which we did, which is why I'm able to type at you from the work computer in my living room sated with Oreo pudding and Sara Lee cheesecake instead of an empty office building with no windows and probably no snacks.

Anyway, today was busier than yesterday--there was church to attend, Mexican food to feast on, errands to run, computers to reconfigure, and a little napping on the couch to do in between reading pages from The Big Book of Birth, a book I've really come to enjoy. It was tempting to post another quickie update, but you guys have been very patient and deserve better than the crap I've been slinging lately. It still might be crap, but at least not for a lack of trying.

...And on with the Q&A. Wilddreemer wants to know:

What is one thing you did as a child you hope your child doesn't do?

Take one of my shitty diapers and wipe the contents on the walls. Scoop handfuls of applesauce from the jar and eat it with my bare hands. Wet my pants during fourth grade math. "Accidentally" poke my sister with a nail file. Prank toll-free mental support hotlines under the guise that I was a thirty-something corporate professional whose husband just had been caught in an affair with his administrative assistant. Kiss boyfriends in deserted alleys to avoid getting caught by my parents. Scribble in library books. But the worst thing I ever done--I mixed a pot of fake puke at home, and then I went to this movie theater, hid the puke in my jacket, climbed up to the balcony and then, I made a noise like this: hua-hua-hua-huaaaaaaa--and then I dumped it over the side, all over the people in the audience. And then, all the people started getting sick and throwing up all over each other. I never felt so bad in my entire life.

Wait, that last one was Chunk. My bad.

What is the one thing you are looking forward to doing most after finally having the baby, ie. drinking coffee, touching your toes, shaving your legs?

I've never been fond of coffee, I don't care much for my toes, and with careful (albeit uncomfortable) manuvering, I've been able to maintain normal leg-shaving activity, so those are out. So what I do miss? Sleeping on my back. Grooming my lady parts; hell, being able to see my lady parts without assistance from a mirror. Eating cold lunchmeat without fear of poisoning my unborn child. "Enjoying" my husband. Wearing clothes from New York and Company instead of Motherhood Maternity. I'm so excited about banishing my maternity wardrobe to a tupperware bin in our storage unit until it's time to do this all over again.

As much I as look forward to those things, though, I've surprised myself with the realization that, once this is over, I'll actually miss being pregnant. The first trimester sucked major ass--just thinking about all that morning sickness makes me nauseous--and with the exception of our ultrasound and some moderate fetal activity, the second one wasn't much to write home about, either. But the third trimester.... This is where I feel like I've really come to know my baby, experiencing her sharp jabs and gentle, wave-like rolls, rubbing my hands over the protuding shoulder or elbow or whatever the hell happens to be poking me at the moment. This is where Luke and I can talk to her and she can recognize our voices. This is where I know she's safe all the time, where nobody can get to her without my permission.

This is my first real glimpse at motherhood, and I cannot wait for the rest. 

Nothing tragic about this!

People, I have an announcement to make.

Lil' Frema is finally going to have her day in the sun.

Yesterday I received an e-mail from Sarah Brown, creator of Cringe Book, (finally!) informing me that one of my submissions had been accepted for publication. The cringe-filled masterpiece is currently slated for a March 2008 release date.

My winning literary donation?

Randy would be so proud. Or totally creeped out. Or maybe he'd just feel sorry for the little girl inside of me whose rejected heart never completely healed.

That last one is the most likely scenario, seeing as last month somebody found my blog by searching for "Randy Wooten" in Google. Whoops.

Anyway, while the contributors won't see a dime of the advance money, Sarah did say she could snag me a copy of the book, and if the book tour stops through my city, she'd love for me to participate in the reading, so that's pretty cool. It figures, though, that my first published work would be written by my childhood counterpart. After all, she was the true brains behind Tragic Love Friday. What will part three be like without her "e" after "stomach" and her intuitive medical expertise?

(Speaking of TLF, are any of you still chomping at the bit about doing a part three after the New Year? Do you have ideas for potential storylines? I actually have something in mind for Jenna, who I just realized went through the entire sequel without getting any nooky at all. That will SOOO change for part three.)

A Blush-Inducing Public Service Announcement

The memory of losing my virginity is one that will never lose color. I was eighteen years old and on the verge of jetting off to college, and Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, and I had been dating for three years--not straight through, but steady enough that each break-up led to a passionate reunion, and every reunion foreshadowed an angry shouting match complete with name calling, door slamming, and hot tears running down one or both of our faces. You know, all the elements of a deliciously amateur teenage romance.

In the summer of 1998, we'd been together consistently since prom (another post in the making), and from that night, I remember everything. The positioning of his lava lamp; our spot on the bed; the CD set to repeat on his stereo. I was convinced that melting into each other, in body and soul would seal our commitment to each other and provide Nick with the life-changing revelation that after sharing such an intimate experience with me, he'd never be interested in anyone else.

In the midst of clumsily trying to find our way around the bedroom, we both had sense enough to use a condom, and continued to do so for the first two months of our sexual relationship, but by the time we finally (unknowingly) severed all emotional ties two years later, the only layer of protection in place was my spotty use of the Pill. What can I say? We were both virgins when we started, and I never once thought Nick had been unfaithful. The only thing I cared about was not having a baby.

One month into my relationship with Mike, who was lucky enough to date Trophy Frema for ten months, I still believed that to be true. However, thanks to all the literature passed around in high school health class, I knew the most responsible course of action when taking on a new partner was to undergo testing for sexually transmitted diseases. At twenty-six years old, almost twenty-seven, Mike had been with twelve women, and it strengthened my resolve all the more.

That's another day I'll never forget, driving the two hours with him to a congested Illinois suburb to receive services at a free clinic sporting stark, white walls and rows of plastic chairs littered with outdated issues of the Chicago Sun-Times. We waited another hour and a half to be seen, and during that time we sat silently because, really, is any sort of small talk appropriate when you're waiting to find out if any previous sexcapades ruined your fertility or planted warts on your privates?

Once our names were called, each of us was whisked away to separate examining rooms, and I solemnly spread my legs as a doctor who couldn't pronounce my name performed a pap smear conducted a culture under harsh florescent lights. When it was over, the nurse who assisted him gave me a brown paper bag filled with female condoms, assuring me that "your guy will thank you for these, honey, I promise." After I donned my clothes, I found Mike already waiting for me in the lobby. "How did it go?" I asked.

He was pretty quiet until we were almost to the stairway, where he stopped, placed his hands on my shoulders, and said, "I love you, but I didn't go through with it." Something about them wanting to stick a Q-Tip through his you know and him vehemently denying access. We argued about it all the way to the car, but ultimately he won, because he said he wore a condom with his last girlfriend, and he'd been tested a few times before, and he was positive he didn't have gonorrhea, and that was that. And even though I knew he'd been with four women in the last twelve months because the forms had a spot for listing your number of sexual partners and he commented on 2000 being a pretty good year, I didn't push the issue. Adding to the madness was the fact that I was still on birth control, but we never used a condom. Not even the female ones endorsed by my overly enthusiastic free-clinic nurse. I was in love, and I trusted him. For almost a year I trusted him, until we broke up, and Luke and I started dating, and soon we were asking questions about the other's sexual history. We brought up the idea of STD testing but never took it any further.

Until this year.

While reading through my Kerflop-approved copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health, I discovered a whole chapter dedicated to the correlation between STDs and infertility, and by the end I couldn't believe how reckless I'd been to kabosh testing after Mike and I parted ways. Suddenly all of my former hesitations--Where will I find another free clinic? What if the doctor calls me a slut? What if Luke thinks I don't trust him?--paled in comparison to the possibility of passing something harmful along to our future baby.

So today, after conducting my second ob/gyn interview in two weeks, I explained my concerns to the doctor, and she didn't grimace in disgust or tsk tsk at my careless behavior. Instead, she arranged for me to meet with the phlebotomist and have my blood drawn to test for HIV, hepatitis, and syphilis. I'll see her again in six weeks for a culture, where she'll gather samples to test for gonorrhea and chlamydia.

Do I think I have a sexually transmitted disease? No. Do I think Nick or Mike ever cheated on me? No. Do I think Luke contracted anything from his previous partner? No. Am I experiencing any out-of-the-ordinary symptoms? No.

But do I know for sure?

No.

And my budding family deserves better.

Edited to add: Upon further consideration, I don't think the exam I received at the free clinic was a pap smear, since they aren't able to check for STDs that way and the doctor knew that was my sole reason for coming in. Culture, the term my new ob/gyn used, is the correct term.

We're sending help immediately, Mrs. Fletcher

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

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

The proper way to implement religious metaphors:

And a very merry day to you, too!

How to work popular advertising into deep and meaningful verse:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Page 2:

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

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

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

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

Tragic Love Friday with a Side of Cringe

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

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

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

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

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

-------

CHAPTER ELEVEN - JENNA (CONTINUED)

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

RING!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I opened the door slowly and slipped in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tragic Love Friday

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

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

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CHAPTER FIVE - JENNA

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

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

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

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

"What are you talking about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How 'Bout Some Cheese With Your Lunch?

To date I have received eight cheesy CDs. I suppose it's safe to offer my own humble playlist to the world.

"Giving You The Best That I Got," Anita Baker

My love for Ms. Baker defies all logic and was conceived before my first visit from Aunt Flo but after my discovery of Fred Savage. I only know about four of her songs, but man, are they some passionate songs. My favorite one is "Just Because," but I never really nailed the lyrics. This one is much easier to understand and seemed to set the perfect mood for ultimate cheesy goodness.

"Always," Atlantic Starr

Who doesn't love this song? So hopeful, so positive, so optimistic about life and love. This was another song with a confusing line; instead of singing, "When you come around, you bring brighter days," I sang, "You bring back the days." It made total sense at the time.

At Luke's and my wedding reception, the D.J. played this song and preluded it by saying it would be the only slow song of the night. Apparently they do this to provide at least one full dance floor for the photographers.

"Biggest Part Of Me," Ambrosia

When I was fifteen, one of the contemporary pop stations aired a show called "Love Notes" from eight to midnight seven days a week; I succumbed to the song's power after hearing it three times a night every other day during the entire summer of Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went Three Weeks Without Calling, the summer of my first French kiss (which at the time was called wrapping; is this familiar to anyone else, or was the term confined to the south side of Chicago?) and my first "I love you," my first experience of a boy looking into my eyes and telling me I was beautiful. Resistance would've been futile.

"Sometimes," Britney Spears

This song is really sweet and reminds me of a time when Britney was more into choreographed dances highlighting hand-over-heart gestures than flashing innocent passersby with Paris Hilton outside California A-list night clubs. Did you know that I once dressed up as Britney Spears on Christmas Eve? It's true. My parents had purchased a karaoke machine and I knotted a bathrobe at my midriff and planted two pigtails on the top of my head to sing my own rendition of "Hit Me Baby, One More Time."

Anyway, I really like this song.

"Penny Lover," Lionel Richie

It's impossible to play this ditty without singing to it. From the doo doos to the whoas, every note is delicious. The lines often responsible for bringing my vocal chords to life are "Now my love is somewhere lost in your kiss / When I'm all alone it's you that I miss / Girl, a love like yours is hard to resist /Whoa Whoa Whoooooa."

You want to sing along, too, now, don't you?

"I Knew I Loved You," Savage Garden

On the night of the bachelor auction where I purchased Luke like deli meat at the grocery store, this was the first song we ever danced to. I remember writing the lyrics out and mailing them to him with a letter before I returned to Saint Joe to start my senior year. Savage Garden lyrics! Ack! But this song can still make me cry--especially when Darren Hayes starts screeching at the end.

"The First Time," Surface

The only reason I know about this song is because of VH-1. Back when they hosted Top Twenty Countdowns with celebrity hosts. I think the video featured an interpretive dance. Another tearjearker. (No thanks to the dance.)

"God Must Have Spent A Little More Time On You," 'N Sync

Yes, I've bawled over this one, too. Have you no heart at all?

"Far Away," Nickelback

I go back and forth over my decision to include this on my compilation. It's actually a great love song with little to no cheese factor and thus has no business on a CD inspired by the likes of Lionel Richie. However, they played this over a Zach and Kendall love scene on All My Children, and Zach is really hot with his shirt off. The fact that it reminds me of a soap opera hunk elevates it to at least slightly cheesy, right?

"Lucky One," Amy Grant

So happy! "Lucky One" makes me want to don a breezy white cotton dress and skip rocks on the beach. If I were any good at skipping rocks.

"Soul Provider," Michael Bolton

Believe it or not, this wasn't my first Michael Bolton pick. The CD originally featured "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You," but that put me over my space limit by like, eight seconds, and by that time it was too late to do any major revisions, so I switched the two out. I like it, but I'll forever be reminded of what could've been.

"Cuts Both Ways," Gloria Estefan

Again, not my first choice. "Here We Are" was another song sacrificed due to space constraints.

"Endless Love," Luther Vandross and Mariah Carey

When I first heard this back in 1994, I had no idea it was a remake. Upon hearing the original, I decided Luther and Mariah still did it better.

"No Place That Far," Sara Evans

Half the songs on this disc have the power to make me cry. This video zeroes in on two old people on the brink of extinction holding hands in a forest and celebrating their love. Remember that when you hear this song and just try to hold back the tears, Internet. Just TRY.

"I Just Can't Stop Loving You," Michael Jackson and Some Other Woman

The eighties was a classic time for duets, and everyone knows duets are an essential element to numerous cheesy love songs. For some reason, the female performer is not credited for her musical prowess.

"Saving All My Love For You," Whitney Houston

I'm going to ignore the fact that Whitney's trying to seduce a married man with promises of sex because this is an AWESOME ballad to belt out in the shower. Just ask my parents, as they often heard my performances while I washed up for school.

"Now And Forever," Carole King

This one really tugs at the heart strings, which is why I included it, not because I think it's cheesy. I first heard it in the opening sequence of A League of Their Own.

"You're In Love," Wilson Phillips

I can recall the first time I saw a Wilson Phillips video. I was ten, it was summer, and the chart topper of the moment was "Hold On." I loved this group so much. I even have a recording of me and my older cousin singing this very song. She fastened masking tape over the top slots of one of my singles so we could use it. I thought that was so cool.

I almost included "Impulsive," but this one seemed to better represent the spirit of the cheese.

"Separate Lives," Phil Collins and Marilyn Martin

"You have no right to ask me how I feel / You have no right to speak to me so kind"

After the first of many break-ups with Nick, I would listen to this song on my walkman and imagine him bumping into me on the street, his hand reaching to caress my face, his eyes silently apologizing for not being able to give me what I needed even though he wanted me more than anything else in the world. There really is something about your first love that takes your breath away and leaves you completely vulnerable, completely willing to compromise your own values just to be part of that chemistry a little while longer. This song reminds me of the attitude I wanted all of my ex-boyfriends to have, an attitude of I was wrong, but I love you and I'm going to fight for you, even if the words aren't actually there.

I have mixed feelings about this CD. I think it's a good representation of me, but there are so many other songs that deserved to be on there, too. But that's what's so great about a swap. Whatever your CD lacks is bound to manifest itself into the collections of other group members, so that together we make one complete whole. Or something.

Honorable mentions include but are not limited to:

"Midnight Train To Georgia," Gladys Knight and The Pips
"Near You Always," Jewel
"Too Many Walls," Cathy Dennis
"Color Of Love," Billy Ocean
"Save The Best For Last," Vanessa Williams
"Saving Forever For You," Shanice
"Can't Wait Another Minute," Hi-Five
"Breathe Again," Toni Braxton

Still working on the master play list. Still avoiding the gym like the plague. Am quite nervous about Weight Loss Wednesday.

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other

A few days ago, Britt of Weekday Wisdom blogged about some embarrassing moments she experienced in middle school, and it got me to thinking about an incident in my past I'm not exactly shouting from the rooftops myself, an incident that truly encapsulates the severity of my pre-teen awkardness. And I thought you'd like to hear it. Consider it my Thanksgiving present to you.

The year was 1989, the backdrop fourth grade, and for all but one of the twenty-nine students in Ms. Socha's classroom, the subject was math; for Frema, however, it related to how long she could refrain from spilling the contents of her bladder all over her hardwood chair. Ms. Socha must've had her back turned to the students for a good five minutes while she wrote out various mathematical formulas like fractions and multiplication tables and division exercises and other important number things, while I raised my left hand like an enemy ship waving a white flag after initiating an attack over unfriendly waters: fiercely, with passion, filled with hope for a better tomorrow. But I didn't care about tomorrow; all I wanted was thirty seconds to reconcile with the unfriendly waters raging in my urinary tract.

If this predicament had fallen upon a more confident child, the course of action would've been easy. Say the woman's name already! Students do it all the time! For some reason, though, the thought of asking my teacher for permission to use the potty in front of my peers was more horrifying than wetting my pants.

Which is exactly why I wet my pants.

It started out innocently enough. I'll just go a little bit, I thought, just enough to relieve the pain until Ms. Socha's done at the board, but you know how it goes. Similar to devouring a container of Pringles, once you pop, you can't stop. Two minutes later, my teacher had turned to face the class, a yellow puddle had formed beneath my desk, and I had darted off to the community restroom JUST ACROSS THE HALL (thus making my tale even more tragic), where I cried and peed to my heart's content. Luckily math was the last subject of the day, and since we were so close to dismissal already, I hung out in one of the stalls while the bathroom monitor contacted my mother about bringing a fresh change of clothes for the walk home.

The following morning, I was terrified to go to school; fourth graders aren't known for their compassionate dispositions, the boys being an especially awful lot; it wasn't uncommon for them to taunt their female counterparts by pulling on their hair or mercilessly chanting "Skid Row beat up New Kids!" during recess. It had taken hours to fall asleep the night before, imagining the horrible tricks they might have up their sleeves for me.

Seeing as I approached the playground with this mindset, you can imagine my surprise when a group of friends circled around me hastily, anxious to receive an update on what they called my dire medical condition; apparently everyone had been told I'd gotten sick in class and thrown up in my seat. How a bunch of kids mistook urine for vomit I'll never know. Maybe it was Ms. Socha's doing. Maybe it was God's. Either way, somebody saved my gluteus maximus from months of teasing and humiliation, and I will never forget it.

Tell me, what was your most embarrassing moment as a kid?

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.

Frema's Life in Pictures: Part One of ?

Luke normally sends me a link to his blog whenever he's added a new post, and upon seeing the title for this entry, my first thought was that he stole my idea to shamelessly display our family photographs online. But he didn't, so then I felt dumb, and also remembered that I didn't invent posting photographs on the Internet.

Anyway, without further adieu, I bring you Frema: The Early Years.

I was born on January 9, 1980. My mother was barely nineteen when she gave birth to me. At that age I was chasing shots of ten-dollar vodka with Hershey's syrup and being seduced with adult films like Hindfeld by small-town boys eager to show me their glow-in-the-dark pictures. What do you mean, there's no glow-in-the-dark picture? If there's no observing of the glow-in-the-dark picture, what on Earth do you want us to do?

Oh.

This is my first school picture, which puts me in kindergarten, possibly the only grade where children can pull off wearing cherries on their dress collar without bearing some sort of "dork" label. On my first day, my mother said I was inconsolable because we showed up for the morning session and my group was slated for the afternoon.

Notice how sleek and straight and shiny my hair is here? How the light hits the brown and gives it the illusion of exotic jet-blackness? Soak it up, my pretties. Soak it up.

The first thing you'll notice is the hair, because most of it's gone. This is partly due to lice and partly due to my scissor-happy grandma. The elementary school I attended had a terrible lice problem; at one point, my parents were receiving notices from administration every other day about how "a recent case" had been reported and what lice was and how to look for it and what to do when you found it. In the beginning, my mother was very diligent and spent hours checking every strand on our heads for signs of them before subjecting us and the house to a thorough purification with products like this and scalding hot water. However, it didn't take long before the mere sight of a typed letter was enough to send her stuffing our Wuzzles into garbage bags (where the bugs would die a slow and painful death via suffocation) and lathering our scalps with twelve-dollar shampoo that BURNED. My hair was the worst because my shade of brown was almost identical to the color of their shells, and it was very thick, so thick it took an entire bottle to de-lice me. My mom finally decided enough was enough and sent me to my dad's mother for a hair cut. Cut it she did. And I wept.

(You know, the only book I remember even mentioning lice was Starring Sally J. Freeman as Herself. Judy Blume deserves mad props, because if anybody in my class or Samantha's class had it, they never let on, and we were so embarassed, but someone had to have it or else why'd we keep getting those damn letters? It's not too late, people. Break the silence!)

The second thing long-time readers might notice is the necklace, because I hate necklaces so much I can barely tolerate seeing them on other people, let alone myself, but my mother thought my outfit needed "a little bit of color." We fought for fifteen minutes, and she won, and I wept yet again. The humanity! The pained smile! Just further proof of my defeat.

The day before Easter, 1989, coloring eggs and decorating my cousin Kenny's forehead with awesome star stickers. The Necklace Torture had escalated to unthinkable heights, as I was forced to wear a gold cross my great-grandmother had chosen especially for me in honor of my First Communion. The woman was seventy-five and only knew about twenty words of English, so she couldn't be expected to remember that the very thought of precious metal sent shivers of horror down my spine. However, Parental Management decided my wearing it was the polite thing to do, so I wore the necklace.

I hated wearing that necklace. The chain always tangled in the shower and pulled out chunks of the little hair I had left when I slept. There were no tears when the clasp broke three months later.

I think this picture was taken on the day my parents closed on the purchase of this apartment building; we lived on the second floor and my mom's mom and my auntie Donna took the first. Now, though, my gram has since passed away and my auntie Donna started her own family so now the remaining members have found ways to monopolize the entire space. There are pool rooms and ping-pong table rooms and personal offices and separate bedrooms for each kid. MTV should feature it on an episode of Cribs.

My dad's the one with baby Geo. My mom's lovin' her Reebok high-tops, I'm sporting Simpleton glasses and a questionable hot pink/beige color scheme, and Samantha's rocking the casbah in her neon green shorts and purple headbead. All while Ryan tackles daring experiments in skirt length and Auntie Donna guards my pre-pubescent, negative size-A breasts from the exploitive nature of the camera. All of us trendsetters WAY before our time.

Same day. I'm only including this so you can fully appreciate the Simpletonness of my spectacles. Vision problems didn't show up until third grade, so this was my first pair of glasses. My dad thought I was mature enough to pick my own frames. And really, after seeing the results, don't you agree?

It gets worse:

For some reason my eleven-year-old mind must have equated frame size with frame coolness; there's no other explanation as to why I would intentionally seek out lenses that swallowed both my cheekbones. My mother held back the urge to ask "WTF?" when she saw my latest fashion accessory but did request that I remove them for Picture Day. Whoops. Not helping matters is the red bow clip that seems to be hanging on only by grace of the Lord Himself.

This black-and-white dress (complete with trendy plastic belt!) is the same one I wore to my auntie Diane's wedding earlier that September, on a day that started out with me deciding there was no harm in yanking off the lid of a can of Purina when the can opener failed to make a clean cut. Turns out there was harm. And lots of blood. A five-hour trip to the emergency room and stitches for my left index finger and thumb. And yet I still made it to the wedding, because the last reception I went to had these really cool drinks called Kiddie Cocktails, and no way was I missing my chance to have some more of that, because even though it tasted just like 7 Up it came with a decorative cherry and little red mixing straw, and holy crap did I feel Adult ordering my drink from the bar like everyone else.

No Early Years photo essay would be complete without at least one picture of Donna Lyn, the youngest of us five, born to my mother at the age of thirty-two. This was about a week after her first and last C-section, and she let me skip school on the account of officially Becoming a Woman that very morning, and the cramps, woman, my God, the CRAMPS! Actually, it was less about the cramping and more about the attention I wanted to shower on my latest sister, and my mom didn't mind the extra help because in her midst was a brand-spankin' newborn and a four-year-old boy waiting patiently for his invitation to join the world's Most Fearsome Fighting Team. It's likely that the root of my Baby Fever is traceable to this very moment. See how natural Donna looks in my arms? Why I didn't become a teenage mother I'll never know.

I'm only one year older than I was in the last picture, but already my hair has taken a turn for the worse: thick, frizzy bangs and a layer that crowned around the top of my earlobes, a layer I thought I could cleverly disguise by pushing it back with a headband. But I also thought pink glasses were cool, so is anyone surprised my middle-school nickname was Shredder?

I didn't think so.

More Than You Ever Cared to Know About Me