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

You're mine, '09

A few days ago, while reading through my Holiday archives, I realized that 2007 was the first year in the history of this blog that I didn't write a post in honor of the New Year. Don't believe me? See for yourself:

So Long, Farewell, 2004

The Best of 2005, The Worst of 2005

On the '06

My references in the first two posts are fairly obvious, but in hindsight, I'm hoping at least a handful of readers back then caught the Jennifer Lopez one.

This year, there's no trace of pop culture in my title. Instead, the focus is on me. Because in 2009, the focus will be on me.

Well, as much as it can be when you're a wife and a mother to two small children.

 

Here I am at the end of 2005, posing with Luke for the closest thing I have to an engagement picture. It's one of my all-time favorites, so much so that I recently framed it for viewing in our new house. The issues I was facing seemed so monumental at the time--deciding whether or not to Live in Sin, figuring out how to share myself without losing myself, dealing with the whole religion thing--but now they've been resolved for so long that it's hard to remember how stressed I was about them. However, I can still appreciate that for the first time in my adult life, I was making decisions that forced me to...not take a stand, exactly, but to separate from traditions and values I'd experienced in my family and held dear for a long time, even when they no longer fit with the woman I had become. They are decisions I stand by to this day, and there are no regrets, just a feeling of peace.

Also, can I tell you how much I loved my look here? The hair cut, the color, the oversupply of clothing from New York and Company, The Limited, and Bakers? I don't care if it sounds superficial, I loved my style, and I love that it made me feel good about myself.

 

Less hair but more attitude. I was a married woman with the world at her feet!

 

More hair, less attitude. I was a new mother with the world falling at her feet! (At the same time I was falling in love.)

 

Just...more. More, more, more. More hair, more attitude (though not always the right attitude), more weight, more babies.... Just more. (Random aside: Recovering from one pregnancy and immediately starting another meant that I couldn't fit into my wedding rings for the entirety of 2008. Way to go, Frema!) 

(Also random: I look at the gradual decline of my physical appearance and can't help but think "Going...going...gone." Though I challenge any brand-new mother and/or woman who's 33 weeks pregnant on Christmas morning to take a picture worthy of Glamour Shots.)

-------

Looking at these images, I feel a wide range of emotions. On one hand, I'm proud and amazed at how far I've come. I went from being a twenty-something woman with a list full of unachieved goals to being a master's-degree-level graduate, Circle City transplant, Suze Orman devotee, wife, mother, working mother, and finally, a homeowner. My secret pre-30 wish list has actually come to fruition.

On the other hand, I still have a long way to go. I'm still learning how to remain a well-rounded person outside all those titles. And it's hard--really hard. My reading is spotty and mostly confined to books I already know inside and out (see: Flowers in the Attic series), mail-subscription magazines, and Archie comics. Eager to delve into something meatier, I started rereading Atlas Shrugged sometime over the summer, but half-hour lunches meant I couldn't get through more than 15 pages per sitting, and soon I was abandoning it altogether to surf the 'Net and chat on Gmail. And my personal blogging has been sporadic for just about the entire year. I'm sadder about that last one more than words can say.

Some bloggers don't pay much attention to their archives, but I'm in mine all the time, trying to remember a detail that long ago disappeared from memory, laughing over my half-hearted obsession with Weight Loss Wednesday, reveling in Tragic Love Friday, heaving a sigh at all that baby talk. I used to rely on this blog not only as a source of entertainment but also as a way to keep me focused, to remind me of my goals and dreams and how they fit into the core of who I am. And in this last year, it took a backseat as I navigated through my first round with motherhood. Suddenly, I couldn't come home from work and hammer out a post because now there was a baby I was away from all day, a baby I loved more than my own life, and I had to make every minute count. Once she went to bed, I was balancing household chores, domestic projects, freelance work, occasional day-job work, phone calls with loved ones, and oh, yeah, time with my husband.

For a while, I thought I could manage everything by just staying up ridiculously late. As it is, I'm rarely in bed before midnight. But when I really, really push it (like right now, writing this draft at one-thirty in the morning), I totally ruin myself for the next day. I'm less productive at work and less present at home, and all the progress I made in whatever venture the night before pales in comparison to what I'm missing right in the moment.

To be fair, a lot of these balancing problems could have been solved if only I were more efficient in how I managed my day. But one big lesson I've learned this year is that being a parent isn't always as big a motivator as you'd like when it comes to correcting your flaws. Before having Kara, I thought I had it all figured out; I came back from maternity leave and arranged for a 7-3:30 work schedule, agreeing to a half an hour for lunch, so that I could put in a full day and still spend oodles of time with my family. I thought that as long as I kept my nose to the grindstone, I'd be home by four o'clock, help with dinner, and enjoy some downtime with Luke and Kara before it was time to put her to bed. I'd get a few things done after she went to sleep, I'd be in bed by ten-thirty, tops, and get up the next morning with enough energy to do the whole thing again.

I don't know what I was smoking.

In the beginning, it was OK. I stuck to my work schedule no matter what time I turned in, and I tried my hardest to stay focused. But eventually my true colors were begging to shine through, and I was catching up on the All My Children message board, reading blogs, and sometimes just sitting there like a deer in headlights when I should have been posting to the Web site, writing a newsletter, and so on and so on. Which sometimes meant I was staying late just to make up for lost time. At night, I'd sit in front of the computer to write a post for Parents and suffer from a complete and total brain fart, sometimes wasting a full hour before committing anything to the screen. By then Luke would long be asleep, I'd be bone tired, but by George, I had to publish my column. Even when it resulted in me being too tired to get to work on time. These days, my actual schedule is closer to 8-4:30. If I'm particularly on the ball, 7:30-4. And again, that's if I'm not running late, which I have been lately, since things have been so busy.

As terrified as I get sometimes over having two children less than a year and a half apart, I truly believe it's a blessing from God, because He knew if left to my own devices, I'd continue to piss away my time until the next one came along and upped the stakes a bit. If Luke and I decide that two is enough for our family (and there's a good chance we will), then come February 2009, this transitional baby-making phase of our life will be over. Then the focus will shift from adding humans to simply maintaining what we have and finding a way to make everyone happy. And after years of constant change, I can't tell you how excited I am just to simply be. No more job searching. No more house-hunting. No more new-additioning (at least for one calendar year, please, Lord have mercy). Just taking the hand we've been dealt and owning it, embracing it, and improving it every day.

For the big picture, this year I pledge to:

• Reclaim my body
• Remember my priorities--to my family, to my work, and to my own mental well-being
• Own Luke's and my parenting decisions with more confidence and drown out all the background noise/unsolicited opinions/general assvice, even when given with the best of intentions
• Sleep more. Seriously, the ability to accomplish all these other goals will be directly affected by how many zzz's I catch

On a more tangible level, I want to:

• Write a will and establish a living trust like I said I would a year ago
• Fully fund a Roth IRA for Luke
• Pay off our new (used) car (Yes, we finally upgraded Luke's dying Lumina! More on that in another post)
• Start a true emergency fund, to be used in emergencies and not when we come up short on the Visa bill
• Take a family vacation
• Take a kids-free vacation
• Establish and stick to a bedtime routine (Turns out they're not just for babies!)
• Post on my personal blog at least once a week
• Read at least one new book a month
• Incorporate exercise into my everyday life
• Find a church in our new community and attend regularly
• Be more strategic about how we spend my quarterly bonus money

How I'm going to make all of this happen, I'm not yet sure. But the desire is there, and wanting it's half the battle. Right? Oh, wait, it's knowing that's half the battle. My apologies, Joe.

My Own Wonderful Life

Ah, Christmas 2008. How I wish we'd gotten better acquainted.

It's not that I wasn't filled with the spirit. I loved our Christmas tree, loved shopping for Luke and Kara, loved all the Dean's eggnog I consumed (for Baby Brother's sake, of course). But between settling into the new house, getting ready for Kara's party, and physically feeling less than my best, it always seemed like there wasn't enough time to celebrate the way I wanted. Our tree went up in the second week of December, about the same time we started our shopping. We didn't pull out our holiday music until three days before Christmas because our CDs are stashed in a Tupperware bin in our closet and we were too lazy to dig them out. (Not that we were without the appropriate tunes, thanks to DISH Network, which dedicated several satellite radio stations to the cause.) Presents were wrapped on Christmas Eve, and a few naked ones still sit in our room, since I don't know when I'll be seeing my family. My enormous belly kept me from wearing or receiving any cute holiday pjs, and even my annual viewing of A Very Brady Christmas got lost in the shuffle. On the up side, we did manage to see It's a Wonderful Life, a tradition that fell through the cracks last year while Luke and I navigated through our first week of parenthood. It's one of my very favorite movies, and there's nothing I enjoy more than watching George Bailey and Mary Hatch dance their way into the high school swimming pool. That there, people, is what you call ROMANCE.

But it was still a great Christmas. A tree filled with ornaments and surrounded by presents is always a heartwarming scene, but there's something even more magical when that tree has ornaments bearing your daughter's face and gifts with her name on it. Some from Mom and Dad, and some from Santa (which, by the way, was something of an issue, as Luke wasn't raised to be a Santa person and I was. In the end, we decided that the books and handmade toys would come from us, and the stocking stuffers and plastic goodies would be credited to the fat guy in the red suit. Anyone's guess as to how it'll play out next year. What do you St. Nickers do in your house?).

 

I really do love seeing colorful packages under the tree.

 

At one year, Kara's still too little to understand Christmas, but she's certainly been impressed by our Christmas tree, and she was even more taken aback to see all the babies it sprouted overnight.

 

The cloth book and CD made up the contents of Kara's stocking, and she would've been perfectly happy just playing with those for the rest of the day. Luke and I had to "gently persuade" her to give the other presents a chance.

Kara wasn't interested in the wrapping paper at all. We had to open each gift until she was able to comprehend that something was inside, and that that something was for HER. Element of Surprise, see you next year.

 

Sizing up one of her new bath toys.

 

Daddy, I don't care what's inside that cool snowman paper, I simply must become well-versed in my colors right this very minute.

 

Such a Mommy turn-on.

 

OK, a slight interest in the wrapping paper (and a sweet kiss from Daddy).

 

When I was a kid, I loved organizing my stash and taking pictures of it under the tree. How could I not do it for my baby? At first glance, it doesn't seem like much, but then I remember that Kara's barely twelve months old and this STILL ran us a hundred smackers and there are plenty of children who would pray to get even half this. Middle-class Americans, we are a spoiled lot, yes?

Anyway, that was our Christmas. A bit rushed in the prep work but relaxing overall, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. Kara may not remember it, but Luke and I will always cherish this particular year, where we had the short-lived, amazing opportunity to enjoy being a quaint little family of three.

How was your Christmas? Seriously, I want to know.

No tricks, just treats

Tonight was Kara's first Halloween, not to mention Luke's and my first one as homeowners, so while it was a low-key event of indulging in the wonder that is satellite television and jumping to answer the doorbell, it was special, nonetheless. Kara was wearing her pumpkin costume when Luke came to pick me up at work, and she was admired by numerous trick-or-treaters and their moms when I passed out candy, baby on one hip, the goods in another. Since we only moved in on Tuesday, there wasn't time for creative decorating, but I wanted to make sure people knew we were "Halloween friendly" territory, so Luke ran to the store last night to buy some of those orange pumpkin bags you stuff with leaves and a few spooky window clings for the front door. I was so excited to have kids at our door and so grateful they didn't skip our house for lack of not knowing who we were that oftentimes I actually thanked them for stopping by. We handed out two to three pieces of candy to each kid, thus scoring major brownie points in the Cool Neighbors Department (one boy actually gasped), and Kara's adorableness went over quite well with their parents. A win-win for all, to be sure.

My favorite part of the night occurred while Luke was putting Kara to bed and two boys dressed as the Super Mario brothers came to collect their just desserts.

"Trick or treat!" they exclaimed.

"Wow, look! It's Mario and Luigi!" I said while dropping Reese's cups, Laffy Taffys, and Nerds boxes into their grocery bags.

"Luigi," who couldn't have been older than five, looked me straight in the eye and replied, "We're not real, you know."

"Thanks for clearing that up," I said.

My second and third favorite parts happened when a mini-Dorothy accepted her candy then tried to come into the house and one of the local teenagers welcomed us to the neighboorhood. "Did you just move in? I love the way a new house smells," he said. Was he being genuine or just aiming for more candy? Who cares? That's one smart kid.

Kara had a great time "helping" with the trick-or-treaters and generally melted my heart with her cuddly pumpkin self. Who knew ten-month-olds were so damn fun?

 

Look at me! A baby and a pumpkin! Such the multi-tasker, I know.

  

  Pumpkins don't get any respect.

 

Why does my mom think I look like a pea pod in this picture? The world may never know.

 

My fellow Americans, let me explain why I believe children under the age of one should be allowed to eat Kit-Kats, no matter what our silly parents say.

-------

There is certainly plenty to say about our big move and the process of settling into our new home (not to mention I owe you some seriously amazing after pictures that reflect thousands of dollars in paint and flooring), but that's for another day. In the meantime, Happy Halloween and Happy NaBloPoMo for those of you jumping on the bandwagon tomorrow. This is the first year I won't be participating, and I'm crying on the inside about it, but I can barely post once a week these days. Once every day for a month? Why not go ahead and ask me to stop searching for Baby-sitters Club books at the half-priced bookstore? Both are equally possible.

It's a wonderful life

All is well.

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas.

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

Thankful, so thankful

Both for what I have and what's to come.

I think I saw Greg's wife on an episode of Murder, She Wrote when I was wrapping presents last week

Talk about a productive Sunday! Luke and I kicked things off by going to church for the first time since Easter and initiating talks with the pastor about baptising Freka in the Episcopal tradition. Long-time readers will remember that we come from different faith denominations (Luke grew up Methodist and I was raised Catholic), so neither one of us were sure how to go about preparing our baby for life in another religious community. The pastor was very easy to talk to and promised to get in touch with us sometime this week, which is good, because I can't stop obsessing over whether or not we're supposed to designate godparents for our child. Does anybody know how Episcopalians feel about this?

However, we did learn that the church's next scheduled baptism is January 13, so apparently we can get a head start on our invitations. Yikes.

This evening, I finally downloaded Suze Orman's will and trust kit (will share more details when I post my next Project Freka update, presumably this Wednesday), and Luke and I decorated our apartment for Christmas--nothing fancy, just the tree, stockings, and a festive tablecloth, but the place already has a much warmer feel. Holiday CDs have been dusted off, we're already going through half a gallon of eggnog a week, and my VHS copy of A Very Brady Christmas is ready for a spot in our rotation of seasonal movie staples, which currently include It's a Wonderful Life and Elf. Luke is less than eager to witness Mike and Carol spend perfectly good vacation money on plane tickets for the kids, their spouses, and their spawn, not to mention their poor treatment of Alice, who they allow to serve them breakfast in her FREAKING UNIFORM, even though she's no longer pulling in a paycheck.

Valid points, yes, but I still say bah, humbug. He clearly hasn't consumed enough eggnog.

It's beginning to look a lot like...your mom

In an effort to avoid lugging Freka through crowded city malls shortly after her birth, Luke and I have been spending the majority of our free time Christmas shopping. I've always loved buying presents, and even though we've had to downsize our gifts budget, it's still a lot of fun trying to find things our loved ones won't want to exchange after the New Year. Even though all that walking around usually brings on those sonofabitch Braxton Hicks contractions. Hey, it's for a good cause, right?

I'm sure it's because of the baby, but nevertheless, I can't believe how excited I am for Christmas to come. I've already expressed to Luke my wish to decorate our apartment on Thanksgiving, seeing as we won't be able to travel north, and this Saturday, while he's enjoying a Purdue football game with his dad, I will most likely be watching A Very Brady Christmas while wrapping all the presents we've accumulated thus far.

Despite all the new-mom kinks I'll be working through, already I know that the high I'll get from smelling my baby's head, having full-time support from Luke for the first two weeks after my discharge from the hospital, abandoning corporate America for three blessed months, and filling our modest little two-bedroom apartment with family and friends eager to meet the newest member of our household will outweigh the suckage that is sleepless nights, sore boobs, and a halted paycheck.

(One thing making the "halted paycheck" thing easier to handle is the fact that Parents wants me to continue blogging for them after my contract expires at the end of December, at which time my "column"--that's how I think of it, anyway--will have morphed into a journal documenting my trials and tribulations with new motherhood. Luke and I have money stashed away to be used while I'm on leave, but dude, it feels so good to know that we'll have additional reserves coming in just in case we spend more than we anticipate. Which, let's be honest, is most likely going to happen, because hello, NEW BABY HERE.

In other fabulous financial news, this past Saturday I mailed out the last payment for our Chevy Cobalt, which means the budget we planned for our life post-maternity leave is now a feasible reality. Hooray for an extra three hundred and thirty bucks a month!)

Anyway, I'm ready for the Christmas music. I'm ready for the gift wrapping. I'm ready for eggnog. In fact, I've already had my first glass.

It was wonderful.

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.

On the '06

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year.

As Shoe Like It

I'm a little late in sharing, perhaps, but there will be no installment of Weight Loss Wednesday today. There will be no Weight Loss Wednesday because all the greasy KFC, crappy Jewel cheesecake, melt-in-your-mouth-tender steak tacos, Baker's Square pies, and gooey cheese pizza I consumed over the course of the last six days guarantees a significant gain on the scale, the likes of which I have no desire to become more intimately acquainted. Luke's parents, who are both faithful readers of this blog and therefore well aware of my analog-scale woes, were kind enough to present to me a new scale for Christmas, so I'm holding off on a fitness update until the New Year, allowing me to fully utilize a fat-measuring instrument that won't tack on an extra three pounds to my rolly-polly midsection and maybe even show my face at the Y. Plus, Luke was able to get today off, so we spent last night in Merrillville and I totally forgot about hopping onto the scale until the drive back home, at which point I'd already wolfed down a hot dog and small fry from Portillo's and a chocolate-chip cookie dough Blizzard from Dairy Queen. No way was I sharing numbers with you all after THAT.

However, I will share the fact that I received a holiday bonus from work and it was three point five percent of my salary, which may or may not have played a role in the purchase of five pairs of shoes since Thursday, an act that originated from a simple quest to find the perfect brown boot.

On Wednesday Luke and I tackled the mall in search of new clothing for his parents' post-Christmas/fortieth-wedding-anniversary party, and while I found several darling items from Banana Republic, I left the joint still unsure about what to wear. On the way home I reflected on my favorite gray gaucho pants and a khaki-colored, knee-length corduroy skirt that's been collecting dust in my closet since the spring of 2005 because I normally pair it with a chunky brown turtleneck and sassy brown boots, both of which were no longer in my possession. I got to thinking it was high time to reclaim my right to own a kick-ass pair of brown boots, especially since I was finally able to replace the turtleneck during my shopgasm in the Republic. The next day after work I ventured into the JC Penney branch across the street from my apartment complex and discovered all women's boots were thirty percent off. (These babies were fifty. Bucks. Off. How thrifty am I?)

That explains shoe number one.

...And shoe number two, because it was Christmastime, and my boots were members of the Brown family, and how could I keep family apart at Christmas? Also, buckles! Who doesn't like buckles?

Another Penney's find, discovered in the Merrillville mall the day after Christmas, after deciding my black boots needed updating, too, because the ones I had were super cute but also a half-size too small, which didn't pose to be too much of a problem until Luke and I found ourselves wandering downtown Indianapolis in search of our car after his company Christmas party and the boots and I had to walk the equivalent of ten city blocks. I found four pairs of shoes I liked, including two boots, but these were the only ones available in a nine and they were twenty dollars. I would've been a fool to walk away from that deal, I tell you, a fool, a FOOL!

After another two hours in the mall, during which time Yankee candles, Clinique goodies, and a jumbo Cinnabon were added to our list of credit-card purchases, Luke was eager to check out the DSW that just happened to be on the route back to his parents' house, so determined was he to add a new black boot to my shoe collection. How could I say no? What kind of wife would squelch her husband's dreams and walk away empty-handed?

Just to make sure he knew how much his thoughtfulness meant to me, I bought these, too. Nothing says "I love you" like black patent leather Steve Maddens.

These are the Simple shoes I received for Christmas--a nice contrast to all the heels I'll be sporting for the next eight billion years. Thanks, Santa.

That was way more interesting than a little ole Weight Loss Wednesday update, right?

Tragic Love Friday

Only two posts this week? Bah. I totally had plans to update last night, but they were pushed aside in favor of sharing a spaghetti and pumpkin cheesecake feast with our friends and meeting my required annual dose of A Very Brady Christmas, something Luke vehemently despises but still went along with because Jamie and Yancy are cool people and birthed enough witty one-liners to make the viewing more tolerable. Plus, if he said no, he knew he'd just have to watch it with me alone, and I doubt that's how he wanted to spend his last evening at home before Christmas.

Yes, you heard right, our last evening at home. Tomorrow morning we will pack up enough underwear and toiletries to last through Tuesday, as we'll be spending this weekend with my family in Chicago and Monday and Tuesday with his folks in Merrillville. My mother's side of the family is hosting a party that brings us to the area twenty-four hours earlier than usual, and his parents will have one the day after Christmas, extending our stay by one day. Unfortunately, Luke has to report to the office bright and early Wednesday morning, so we'll make the drive back to Indy after the party. I myself will work just one day out of five; I'm leaning towards Thursday so I can enjoy another three-day weekend.

Since the days leading up to New Year's will be so hectic for us, Luke and I decided to open our presents from each other last night. I rejoiced in receiving the first season of Bones (how is it that I just started watching this show? I. LOVE. IT) and a long-desired pair of sneakers, among other things, while he expressed delight over my reserving two seats at a Jerry Seinfeld show in March. Also, duckie paper clips! Isn't life grand?

If you posed that question to Kayla, I'm betting her answer would be, "Not so much."

-------

PART TWO

CHAPTER FOUR - CASSIE

(One month later)

I was stretched out on my bedroom floor doing some yoga exercises when I heard a knock at my door. Knowing it was David, I yelled "Come in!"

My brother burst into my room, grinning from ear to ear. "Guess what? Steiner gave me a promotion! You are now looking at the new assistant manager of McDonald's!" [Who wouldn't rejoice over the loss of a high school diploma?]

"Impressive!" I got up and hugged him. "Congratulations. Jenna must be estatic that her boyfriend will be working harder than ever so she doesn't have to get off her lazy butt," I added. [Damn pregnant women and their unwillingness to earn their keep!]

David pulled away from me. "Don't start, Cassie. The girl's pregnant. She can't exactly be running all over the place when she's going to give birth in 2 months."

I softened. "Sorry, Dave. I didn't mean to start a fight." I flopped on my bed. "So, are you guys making plans to move in together or get married yet?"

He nodded. "Jenna's been looking at the vacant apartment ads in the newspaper, and she thinks that she's found a few places that we can check out."

"When are you two getting hitched?"

David looked unhappy when he answered, "A week or two after the baby's born." [This seemed so logical to me at the time, but now I'm all, "What's the rush? The kid's already a bastard."]

[Nothing against bastards, by the way. My own parents didn't marry until I was old enough to pick up my head.]

"You don't sound as excited as I thought you would," I commented. He shrugged. "It's just happening so fast. Marriage, fatherhood...it's a lot to handle."

"I thought you were so happy about how things were turning out! God, everyone has been so depressing to be with lately! Always complaining, or moping, or something!"

My brother looked amused. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you're always talking about the BAD things of things that are good [hello, Awkward Phrasing], and Michael mopes around because he doesn't have a girlfriend. Jenna's hormones are all I hear about when I decide to talk to her. 'Oh, the baby's making my hormones out of wack.' That's her excuse for acting like she's been having PMS all month! No matter what you say, David," I told him, shaking a finger at him, "not all pregnant women are crabby women. And Kayla's just plain depressed. She's sick, though, so maybe that's why she's acting so weird."

"Weird? Sick? What's wrong with Kayla?" David asked, looking concerned.

'Well, she's been throwing up a lot. She complains about how sore she is all the time, and my God! Now this girl eats like a pig!" [Oh goodness, what ever could be the matter?]

David looked worried, so I added, "Don't worry, she'll be OK! It's probably just the flu."

Looking relieved, he cried, "Oh, that's good!" [Because Mickey D's pays well, but not THAT well, know what I'm sayin'?]

"Yeah." I got up. "Well, I'm going to Kayla's house for a while. See ya."

When I got there, my friend was crying. She'd been doing that a lot, too. "What's wrong?" I cried. She took a deep breath. "Cassie, I'm scared," she whispered.

"Scared? Why?"

Kayla's body started to tremble. Finally she said "Oh God help me, I think I might be pregnant."

For a moment there was silence, then I laughed nervously. "Kayla, in order to get pregnant, you had to have had sex." [Don't you hate having to point out such obvious things to your friends?]

"I did!" she cried, pacing back and forth. "Cassie, help me."

I was in shock. "Who did you...do it with?"

"That's the worst part," she sobbed. "He cant help me if I AM pregnant. There's no way!"

I took her by the shoulders and shook her. [What, babies love that!] "Who, dammit!?" [This is all so very Lifetime I can't stand it.]

She looked at me with shame. "It's David."

I let go of her. "You've got to be joking!" She shook her head. "He's the only one I've ever slept with."

[Cassie's reaction is a little uncalled for, isn't it? I mean, the two did date for almost two years, David has a track record of screwing around, and Kayla was visibly upset over the boy just a month ago. Their tryst isn't really that shocking.]

"Wow, Kayla." My head was spinning. "What can I do?"

"Can you help me choose a pregnancy test?"

"Of course I will." I squeezed her hand. "We'll go now, if you want." She nodded.

I drove us to the nearest drug store and led Kayla to the isle where the at-home pregnancy tests were at. "Have you done this before?" she asked suspiciously. I bit my lip. "Yeah. I helped Jenna when she went for her test." [?]

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't a big deal. Forget about Jenna and concentrate on you."

"What kind of test do I need?" I tried to remember what kind Jenna got. "You should get something that gives fast results, is easy to take, and cheap." [Frema, M.D. at your service!]

"That's it?" I nodded. "No matter how reliable the test says it is, there's always the chance that it could be wrong. You'll need to see a doctor." [What am I doing working at a lab? I should REALLY be writing public-service announcements and commercials for First Response.]

We ended up picking the famous EPT test. The cashier looked disgusted with us when Kayla bought the item.

[When I bought my first test, I went to the local Wal-Mart. Afraid the clerk would take a similar attitude with me, I threw in an exra-large purple sweatshirt as a distraction. No, I'm not scared shitless at the idea of having a baby. I buy these all the time! Along with poorly made clothing! Which, in hindsight, probably left a much sluttier impression than the one I was trying to avoid. That sweatshirt was hideous.]

Back at her house, I was reading through the instructions when I thought of something. "Hey, Kay, how many days late is your period?"

"17." That's when I was positive she was pregnant. I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to worry her any further.

The test told her to urinate in a special cup included in the box. Then she was supposed to stick the applicator in the cup and leave it in there for 1 minute. If the stick turned pink, it was positive; Blue meant negative. [I should so patent this. Pink equals positive. Easy!]

A minute later, Kayla threw out the pink applicator. I tried to say something that would help. "It could be wrong," I suggested, but she wasn't listening. She had curled up on the bathroom floor and closed her eyes. "No, I'm pregnant," she whispered. "I can feel it. David's baby is inside me." [You can't tell I was a soap watcher, can you?]

"What are you gonna do?" I asked, kneeling beside her. "You could abort it, or give it up for adoption..."

"No," she stated firmly. "This baby is part of me. I want to keep him."

"How are you gonna tell David?"

"I don't know, Cassie. I really don't know."

-------

In the event my posts continue to be sporadic, have a wonderful holiday weekend. Also, thank your lucky stars you aren't a seventeen-year-old future baby momma with no boyfriend, no job, and no common sense. Unless you are, in which case, my sympathies.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Let's just get this over with.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 136
CURRENT WEIGHT: 139
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 14

No, I never made up for last week's lost gym days. No, I didn't refrain from eating three biscuits during Thanksgiving dinner number two. No, I didn't make it to step class last night. Yes, I still managed to devour a steakburger and Bits 'N Pieces milkshake at my favorite diner. Yes, gaining three pounds in one stinkin' week is downright embarrassing.

Luckily, my Internet Exercise Buddy is too busy wetting her pants with excitement over her new engagement to dole out an appropriate punishment.

I know I shouldn't be too hard on myself; it's not like I boycotted the Y in order to sit in front of the TV with a bowl of spinach dip cushioned between my thighs. It was a HOLIDAY. A holiday centered around FOOD. Food I am expected to EAT, which required placing many miles between my fatty fatness and the building where people go for optimal healthy living. Who am I to deny the power of tradition? But it's still disappointing. Three pounds? Am I padding my @$$ for the winter? If next week brings no signs of improvement, I'll have to take the Loss out of Weight Loss Wednesday and replace it with a carved ham. I mean, Gain.

The Reason For The Season

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

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

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

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

What do you think?

Yes, We Are Insane

...because while our four-foot tree remains disassembled in a cheap cardboard box in our storage unit, the Frema-Useless Clutter household has completed its Christmas shopping. During a span of seven days, we inhabitated Best Buy, Target, Books A Million!, Babies R Us, Barnes and Noble, Bath and Body Works, Sears, JC Penney, the Hallmark Store, and numerous boutiques where we lost zero dollars but gained splitting headaches, headaches that are bound to resurface the minute we open our credit card statement.

Ho freakin' ho ho ho.

I Am Thankful

So thankful, for a lot of things.

No longer having to wonder when Luke will pop the question.

Luke finding a job in his field with good pay and decent benefits (even if we don't use them, because mine are better. Hooray for companies who offer vision and dental!).

The roof over our heads.

Controlling our spending for the wedding in such a way that allowed us to pay off the debt with meager savings and generous monetary gifts.

Being able to bank the majority of Luke's salary, even if we have to pull from it to replace three flat tires and provide Christmas gifts for family and friends.

Having an employer who allows me to volunteer for a local reading program during work hours.

Strengthened friendships.

Knowing my mother's mammogram indicated she is perfectly healthy. (Aside from the whole smoking thing, but I'll take what I can get.)

Finding peace with God.

Having the financial means to help others.

My parents.

My in-laws.

Blogging.

My new husband, who's been more patient and understanding with me than any other individual in the history of the universe.

Renting an apartment that comes with a washer and a dryer, at no extra charge.

The Office on NBC.

Lowered gas prices.

Siblings.

Your mom.

Gobble Gobble, everyone!

But the very next day, you gave it away.

While driving from Chicago to Merrillville tonight, Luke and I decided to search for the radio station Lost A Sock advertised as already succumbing to the seduction of St. Nick-inspired holiday merriment. Three tracks in, on came Wham!'s "Last Christmas," one of my favorite seasonal songs of all time.

"Maybe I'll add it to my playlist for the "Hello? Is It My Cheesy Love Song CD You're Looking For?" Internet Swap."

"What are you talking about? This isn't a love song."

"Are you kidding me? Anything relating to the loss or celebration of the warm and fuzzies is more than worthy of the coveted ballad label. When I was a kid, I'd keep this song on repeat for hours."

"My condolences to your childhood."

Be Careful What You Wish For

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

By this time it's seven o'clock, and two of our friends have arrived for a private showing of The Exorcism of Emily Rose, a find I was quite proud of, a find that confirmed my suspicions that the desire to take in a respectable horror flick on Halloween must be regarded as a top priority not to be delegated to the last minute. (I painfully learned this lesson last year when Luke and I waited until the night of to check out a movie and were forced to succomb to the mediocrity that is The House of Wax.) We watch the movie, during which the phone rings twice, both return calls from each of my sisters wanting to scare the bejeezus out of me with tales of my grandmother running through the hallway of the first-floor apartment she occupied for sixteen years prior to her death at the same time I'm watching a college student gorge holes in the walls with her fingernails and spit out various names of The Devil in foreign tongues. I get ahold of Samantha after the movie and share with her my new fear that I'll wake up at three o'clock in the morning with visions of spiritual torture and reprimand. I tell her I still have one more movie to go and am now debating the intelligence of subjecting myself to Saw II. "Maybe you should, so you can get the nightmares over with all at once," she says.

Thanks, Sissy. Happy Halloween to you, too.

It's moments like this in which I find myself thankful for having What About Bob? in my possession. Much to Luke's chagrin.

Beachy Keen

Instead of working on my company's employee newsletter or the bajillion other things I have on my to-do list, I took the day off to savor a four-day weekend. This morning Luke and I made our way to the Indiana lakeshore where, despite a light drizzle, there was much frolicking in the sand and climbing of a very big dune. We're about to make the trek to Chicago to hang out with family and celebrate Pre-Independence Day. A good night not to be pregnant, to be sure.

 

An Easter First

I didn't go home.

Originally that was the idea, even though Luke and I hadn't figured out how it was going to work, because this was also the first time we've been together for Easter. Before he moved in, our roles in each other's lives during the holidays were constantly being negotiated. The first year we dated, I was a senior in college, and I remember us saying our good-byes as I prepared to leave town for my week-long Thanksgiving break. There he was, holding me, telling me he loved me, and then suddenly wishing me a wonderful gobble gobble with my folks back home. I remember standing with my arms around his shoulders, trying to blink my tears away before he had a chance to see they even existed. I was hurt because I'd assumed we'd be together, even if only for part of the day. Same thing that winter. It was Christmas Eve morning and I was moping at the kitchen table, trudging through the first Harry Potter and not feeling particularly impressed (anyone else agree that one kinda dragged?) when Luke called to talk about his activities for the next couple of days. Only after my shrill "Aren't we going to SEE each other?" was any kind of game plan established. The early days of a relationship are so hard, when you're with someone but have no real claim on his time. You've made a commitment, but it's delicate, one with lots of love but no track record, one that has yet to prove itself worthy of superseding all others.

As we became more serious it became more important to work our relationship in on major calendar boxes, but it was still difficult, as my roots were in Chicago, and his in Merrillville, a good forty-five minutes away. Plus, I worked for a Catholic college that was very generous with its vacation schedule, which included "soft" holidays like the Friday after Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve, Good Friday AND Easter Monday (and I left why exactly?). Luke was a reporter and thus had to be at work more times than not, so while he could get away for an afternoon with his parents, anything more than that wasn't doable. I often left family functions early to see him in Indiana and then drive back to enjoy the last few hours of the day with him at his apartment.

Once he moved in with me, everything changed. Holidays were no longer about fitting into a greater familial whole; rather, it was about re-evaluating whether or not our individual traditions were conducive to the new life we were making for ourselves. This year, we were all gung-ho about making the drive up north for Easter, even though Luke was tired from working nights and I was tired from going to bed at twelve-thirty because he was working nights. By Thursday night, we were both ready to drop and decided it might be better to simply stay put. It's a big step for any couple, to say what you have in each other is all that's necessary for a successful holiday. I'm proud we were brave enough to make it.

But the weekend wasn't family-free. My sister Ryan and her boyfriend, Jason, stopped in on their way to Chicago and slept over to avoid the rain and hail that seemed to remain about ten miles ahead of them. They also brought along some special guests.

Meet Bunny, Whose Official Name Is Sox But Is Only Referred To As Such. Ryan fell in love with him as he was hopping around her apartment but tried to tell my mother, who was afraid of catching Rabies or other stray-animal diseases, that she rescued him from Bloomington's National Wildlife Society. On Friday night she explained that she attempted to pass him off to a local animal shelter but was informed Bunny had been away from his mother too long to survive on his own. She's taken that as her free ticket to indulge him in carrots, lettuce, and Cheerios.

Spades, our second non-human houseguest, is Jason's dog and was actually adopted three days before he was scheduled to be euthanized. As you can tell from this picture, he's a frisky fella, and fond of the biting, but neither Jason nor his wrist seemed to mind. I also feared he might be fond of Sox, but Spades was content munching on the pepperoni slices from our late-night pizza.

Saturday and today passed by in a sort of peaceful blur. There was breakfast at my favorite pancake house, a trip to the zoo, two mediocre movies (the latter redeemed only slightly by the two glasses of wine), a walk on our favorite Indy trail, and an Easter service at a nearby Episcopal church, which laid the foundation for another first: receiving communion outside the perameters of Catholicism. Standing in line waiting to partake, I felt like a virgin all over again, only it wasn't my sexual innocence I was losing. It was something less tangible, less able to be defined as right or wrong. I knew Protestants invited all baptized Christians to take the Eucharist and Catholicism restricted it to those baptized within its church. But what about "away games"? Were Catholics allowed to participate with other churches? And did these rules even apply to me, a heathen who dared to think salvation could exist for a Catholic in the walls of an Anglican church? Was my soul clean enough to receive the host at all?

The closer we got to the altar, the harder it was to keep my legs from shaking. But I couldn't turn back. I can't explain it any better except to say this was the only way to validate my recent choices and revelations regarding spirituality. How could I say all denominations were equal in the eyes of God but refuse an invitation to his table because I was afraid of being chastized by a religion I didn't fully embrace?

I'm glad I did it. I cried from the minute I left the altar to the moment my knees bent to pray, but I'm still glad. It freed me in a way my Idiots' Guide to Christianity never could. For the first time, I was taking my relationship with God into my own hands.

I may not have gone home, but in that moment, home came to me.

So Worth The Onions

I once broke up with someone the day after Valentine's Day. As a sophomore in high school, I dated Jon for one month and sixteen days, our courtship initiated on New Year's Eve while sitting on the stoop of my front porch. On February 15, we were hanging out in my room, and miracle of miracles, I was even allowed to shut the door. This was huge, as my parents preferred my dates to consist of me and my suitor playing Mortal Kombat on the Sega in the living room with my seven-year-old brother. I think they were just so happy I had attracted a boy who not only had a GPA higher than 1.7 but also intended to pursue medical school that the possibility of grandchildren conceived out of wedlock wasn't such a bad idea. With my track record, it wouldn't have been unreasonable to assume he was my last chance to cinch a connection to any man who dared to finish high school.

When it came to boyfriends, I had a few strengths. I knew how to make out, maintain awkward silences for as long as thirty minutes in order to avoid conflict (both on the phone and in person, how talented was I?), and pretend not to notice that joint sticking out the pocket of your flannel hoodie. Hell, I did it for five years. However, these strengths did not apply to transitional men, because life was too short, I wasn't that good an actress, and besides, Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, was totally going to come crawling back to me sans hoodie and drug-free.

Anyway, we're in my room, me making small talk, him making a pencil sketch of fall trees in bloom as he was both a doctor-in-training and aspiring artist, and we fall into the topic of some bet we' recently settled. What the bet was about, I have not a clue; maybe we were gambling on whether or not Mel Gibson's scraggly mane in Braveheart was real or if Ross and Rachel were in fact each other's lobster. I only remember that the winner had the power make the loser do whatever he/she wanted, and I was the loser. Jon decides that he wants me to kiss the person of my choice. I decide that Jon has devised a clever way to propose our first kiss; also, that I have no interest in exploring a first of any kind with him.

"Can I pick the dog?" I ask.

Of course, this leads to The Talk, how it's not him, it's me, I'm in a Bad Place, blah blah blah. The poor guy was on the verge of tears, which back then I thought, "Soooo lame." If only he'd been a pot-smoking, comic-book reading, high-school dropout. Then I would've put him on a pedestal.

Stupid girl. Also, bitch.

Ten years later, my actions are much more appropriate for the occasion, only now it's less about Valentine's Day and more about it being Luke's birthday. Not only did I surprise him with some kick-@$$ presents, I also cooked a chicken fajita dinner ALL BY MYSELF, because I'm domestic like that, and bought a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream cake from Dairy Queen. Note to self: buying food is much, much easier. It's also less likely to smudge your mascara.

However, Luke had a kick-@$$ surprise of his own, which I discovered at work when pulling out the Care Bears fruit snacks from my lunch bag. It was a Charlie Brown Valentine's Day card with an inscription that read, "I love you so much, Frema, and I can't wait until the next Valentine's Day because we'll be married for that one."

I almost cried, which is really saying something, because you know me. I never cry.

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 ca