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

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 can suffix "MA" after my last name. Some people with fewer diplomas listed on their resume wrongly believe this makes me smarter. It doesn't. I'm just more in debt than they are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recovering

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm going to miss my last name.

My writing sounds just as tired as I am.

'Tis the Season

At one point or another, several of the sites I read have mentioned a lack of excitement for Christmas 2005. Decorating trees, sending out cards, shopping for presents.... It's a lot of work, and not always a lot of fun. However, this year, I find myself enjoying the season more than in years past. Luke and I decorated our little tree right after Thanksgiving. There's been Christmas music and egg nog and mugs of hot chocolate, and for once, a season of gifts paid in full with cash, not because we're rolling in the money but because we were able to achieve a happy medium between extravagent and just plain crappy. We watched A Charlie Brown Christmas. We've been to the zoo to witness the facility aglow with lights, and we've been next door to check out the train exhibit at the gardens. For the most part, I feel that we've thoroughly taken advantage of what the holiday season has to offer. Things feel good. The two of us are good. I'm in a good place.

However, for all of my spirit and cheer, there are some holiday musts I have yet to check off. For example, for the last two years I've watched A Very Brady Christmas while wrapping my presents, because I usually wrap presents alone and nobody will watch the movie with me, so it's an easy way to kill two birds with one stone. This year, Luke and I did this together, and he wanted to watch Pirates of the Carribean. I'm sure many would argue his was the better choice, but really, at what other time is it appropriate to get excited about seeing the Brady clan sing their way through Mike's unfortunate accident at the construction site on 34th Street? It's also fun to watch how the family still treats Alice like a servant, even though the year is 1987 and she's old enough to collect Social Security and Medicaid. Sure, they say she's not their housekeeper anymore, but when she goes to pick up the "kids" at the airport, who carries their luggage? Alice. Who gets hugs and kisses? Not Alice, that's for damn sure!

Maybe it's best I continue to keep this viewing experience private.

Other traditions I've neglected this year:

- My annual It's a Wonderful Life viewing, complete with my own rendition of "Buffalo gal, won't you come out tonight, won't you come out tonight, won't you come out tonight...." (Does anybody know the name to that song?) Up until I was about twelve, this movie was on every cable station and ran every hour and half until Christmas Day. Then NBC bought the rights and became so stingy that now it's only on twice a year on undisclosed days and times.

...OK, maybe that's it. I suppose there are worse things in life then putting off your favorite holiday movies, and because I own both, it's not too late to fill up on the self-imposed required dosage. All in all, I'm counting myself lucky.

And you should, too, for whatever reason. Merry Christmas to you and yours.

Oatmeal in the Hizzouse

Oh, Internet, how I've missed you! I've thought about you daily, reading your updates, tossing around ideas for possible posts. And yet, I have not actually done anything until today. Here's why:

Tuesday: Receive a call from my new doctor's nurse, which initially scared the bejeezus out of me because she said she wouldn't call unless the results were abnormal. Am told the results were abnormal and that I have elevated cholesterol. Am ordered to reduce my intake of fast food, greasy food, bread, cheese, and pasta and load up on fruits, vegetables, oatmeal, and other not-going-to-kill you items. Cry because I suddenly hate my body with all its digusting internal problems that are meant for old lazy couch potatoes like Archie Bunker, not young and vibrant couch potatoes who put a cup and a half of Parmeasan cheese in their spinach dip like me.

Wednesday: Try oatmeal for the first time in my life. Gag reflex is reborn.

Thursday: Visit Annie. Am witness to Kroeger Night, in which workers from the local chain of the national grocery store stop by the facility with a stocking for each resident. Stockings are filled with oranges, electronic Uno, and sample sizes of shampoo, toothpaste, and deodarent. Cry at home when I realize that's all some of these children will get this year.

Friday: After two days of soup and fruit, throw caution to the wind and bust out with a frozen pizza for dinner. Indulge in season-two episodes of Scrubs. Provide shelter for Ryan and her boyfriend, Jason, en route to Chicago from IU in Bloomington. Spend forty-five minutes inflating new queen-sized air mattress with bicycle pump. Never actually finish inflating mattress.

Saturday: Spend the day with Luke's sister-in-law and baby niece, now ten months old. Against my will, order garlic chicken from Chinese place. Spend Saturday night scatching the skin off my thighs, bottom, and stomach, because, they itch! my God they itch! Get out of bed at 2:00 a.m. intending to catch up on soaps "until I fall asleep." Finish soaps. Don't fall asleep until 8:30, after wonderful Luke has purchased Aveeno cream for my skin and Benadryl to finally knock me out.

Sunday: Sleep. Shower (I think). Sleep again. Repeat non-sleep sleep cycle.

Monday: Try to work at home but the itching! my God the itching! won't let up and I'm exhausted and now sick to my stomach. Visit idiot dermatologist, who is an idiot because he dares to talk smack about Proactiv, which I have not personally tried but want to because my siblings and Jessica Simpson and Vanessa Williams are doing it and achieving marvelous results. Same idiot hypothesizes that the itching is caused by an allergic reaction to the meds for my bladder infection, orders blood work, and makes weird lines on my back with a popsicle sick. Submit myself to blood work from rival lab. Think twice about naming my employer on their information forms. Pass the evening in an oatmeal bath, in which I sit for nearly an hour. Surprisingly, no urge to vomit. Instead, sleep peacefully. Hooray!

And now, today: Update with a guilt-filled frenzy that cannot be denied. Will most likely be late for work. Promise the Internet to check for typos at lunchtime.

The Good Life

So. Hi again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

On that note, here's a list of

What I'm Thankful For

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

Happy Thanksgiving.

All About the Benjamins and Monica from Friends

A week away from Thanksgiving, and I'm proud to say I've already started Christmas shopping. Back in October, I sat down at the table and make a carefully budgeted list of who to shop for, how much to spend per person, and on which pay periods I would allow myself to make the purchases; oddly enough, these strict limitations have put me more at-ease with the whole gift-giving process than simply buying to my heart's content like I did last year, when I was carelessly tossing out comments like "To hell with budgeting" and "How can you put a price on family?" and proceeded to fund hundreds of dollars of holiday cheer courtesy of Mr. Visa, back when I could make such decisions with the knowledge there'd be a three-thousand-dollar tuition refund check waiting in the wings next semester. Now I'm having nightmares about the student loans I'll start paying next month and scouting out which interstate junctions to frequent with my little tin cup and cardboard box. Now I'm thinking, "I can TOTALLY put a price on family."

In the short time we've been living together, Luke and I have managed our money pretty well. We've followed Suze's advice and made it a point to pay our bills together each month, and I even sent in the paperwork for a rebate from my contact lens provider, who shall not be named here because I hate rebates and lose respect for any manufacturer that issues them. If you REALLY wanted to give me a break, Contact Lens Provider, you wouldn't make me pay for the damn lenses in full and then demand I mail in not only my original sales receipt but also the UPC codes from each lens box, just in case I'm a thief with the deplorable habit of stealing NON-CASH PIECES OF PAPER THAT ARE NOT DOLLAR BILLS from my fellow man. Then, once I've proved my worth as a customer and a human being, I have to wait six to eight weeks before you'll reluctantly hand over forty freakin' bucks. For cripe's sake, get over yourselves.

Anyway. During our Christmas shopping on Tuesday, somehow the second season of Scrubs and the tenth (final!) season of Friends found their way onto our conveyor belt, two purchases that were not Christmas purchases at all but in fact superficial material additions to our apartment, because they were each on sale and even though I thought the last season of Friends was sort of *eh* I was suddenly dying to complete my collection that. very. minute because the cover was such a breathtaking shade of magenta and Courteney Cox's hair looked really pretty. Plus, Luke loves Scrubs and I hadn't seen the second season and really, people, we don't even have cable, aren't we allowed ANY earthly pleasures?

Obviously, there's room for improvement.

I think it will be easier to save money when there's a lot less of it going around. Once the loan checks start going out, suddenly a smart celebrity hairstyle won't be sufficient grounds to blow thirty dollars, especially when we could use that dough to upgrade to a better brand of toilet paper or perhaps stock up on Ramen noodle soup.

Note to self: Begin construction of cardboard box. Also, purchase tin cup.