What are you looking at?

Apparently I Am A Big Fan Of Run-On Sentences

Shamelessly stolen from Liza, this meme asks you to post the first line from the first entry of each month of 2006. A year in review, blogger-style, another opportunity to shriek over my Sweet Valley High collection, and a little sumpin' sumpin' to hold you over until TLF. Awesome.

January 2, Belated Apology: The last three days have been a whirlwind of activity centered around cake testing, tuxedo shopping, invitation choosing, and birthday celebrating.

February 2, Figures...: ...that as soon as I wipe my hands clean of the whole meme thing because surely I have more sophisticated witticisms to share with you, the biggest inspiration to wannabe professional "blobbers" everywhere posts her first one.

March 1, Stewing: I have two incomplete drafts on two very different topics, topics that have absorbed the better part of my brain for days, but the right words haven't come yet. (Posted just hours before my Mommy Freak Out Of The Year.)

April 5, Shower The People You Love With Teenage Literary Drama Actually Geared Towards Pre-Pubescent Girls: Finally, the moment you've all been waiting for: the reveal of those individuals who fought long and hard for their chance to receive a small piece of Heaven that is Sweet Valley High.

May 3, Now You Know Where My Witty Sense of Humor Comes From: OK, so it's been a few days since I've posted, but between deciding which table is worthy of getting Jason Chambers at the reception and going back and forth with Luke as to whether a wedding party dance is really necessary and explaining to my brother that "Blow Job Betty" is not so much an appropriate song choice, there's been NO. FREAKIN'. TIME.

June 2, Oh Yeah, I Had A Honeymoon: I'm sorry, Internet.

July 3, 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.

August 2, In Frema's Shoes, Part The First: Before Luke moved in with me last year, I knew I had to make some changes to my then-current state of living.

September 3, I guess the "watch what you say" disclaimer was a tad unnecessary.: Wanna know the perfect way to avoid embarrassment in the wake of an upcoming family reunion?

October 3, Bringing Stupid Back: After more than a week of soup, spaghetti, and take out, yesterday I decided to prepare an actual meal.

November 1, A Domain By Any Other Name...: Well, the name. my. BLOG! contest is officially over, and now I'm left with the momentous task of selecting a winner, eventually dumping Blogger, and moving on with the rest of my online life.

December 1, Tragic Love Friday: In the last week, I've fallen into bed past midnight almost every night after laboring over the creating and burning and addressing and mailing of seventeen super-delicious cheddar-cheesy CDs, avoided resuming regular healthful activity, inhaled half a Pizzeria Uno deep dish, and suffered from one nightmare in which the ghost of a little girl visits me in my dead grandmother's apartment to warn me about the end of the world.

That about sums it up.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Oh, how I love my new little Web site. For this Web site I would spoon in the mornings and blow out my hair and whisper dirty, inappropriate things I've never even uttered to my husband. TypePad and I, we are a match made in Heaven.

I almost love Weight Loss Wednesday just as much.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10

When Luke read the numbers off the scale for me this morning, I rejoiced over a one-pound loss; it wasn't until typing this entry I realized last week's weigh-in was 137 and not 136 like I mistakenly thought, which means FOUR POUNDS have melted off my carcass since last month's Thanksgiving pig fest. And if I hadn't gone to Steak 'N Shake after retrieving Luke from the airport last night, it totally could've been three. But it was so worth it.

Perhaps even more impressive than the loss is that I've been able to do it while continuing to boycott the gym. My work projects aren't disappearing as quickly as I thought they would (really, do they ever?), so my return probably won't happen until sometime next week, right before Luke and I dash off to Merrillville and Chicago for the holidays, resulting in yet another week-long hiatus. So far the month of December has been anything but fitness-friendly, but somehow I'm still managing to produce respectable results. It's a Christmas miracle!

But enough about me. You want to hear more about the blog, don't you? At least, Kristie does. She posted a comment to yesterday's entry asking for more information about my decision to switch from Blogger to TypePad. It's a good question, too, especially with the launch of Blogger Beta, which allows users to customize their templates without having to dig through various lines of HTML.

I guess it comes down to your own personal comfort level. For me, ever since I started reading Amalah back in 2004, I've wanted a TypePad account. I liked that she had separate pages reserved for biographies and links and archives, and I liked that her blog didn't look as cookie-cutterish as some others I'd seen. If subscribing to TypePad was what it would take to create something similar, so be it. Plus, I had an embarrassingly hard time with Blogger. In addition to the frustration that often accompanied uploading pictures, I couldn't figure out how to create a banner with the proper specifications and was unable to customize little things like the color of the border of my profile picture because I couldn't locate the code. Even with the introduction of Beta, I'd had enough.

Compare it to dating a guy who constantly forgets to do little things like open your car door and chat with your mother before you take off for the movies and remove the cigarette out of his mouth before he tries to French you good-bye. Even if he promises to change, are you really going to pass up the opportunity to go out with someone who will not only ditch the cigarette but promise to never smoke at all? You have to shell out fourteen bucks a month to keep him clean, but still. Another case of "It's so worth it."

And so far, it has been. I was pretty confused in the beginning by all the different screen windows, but Lost A Sock had recently gone through this whole process herself and thankfully dealt with my vast bank of Stupid Questions with a patient and gracious hand. Since then, I've learned that many of Amalah's template options aren't standard TypePad features at all but clever CSS code she wrote her own damn self, but one thing at a time, my pretties. One thing at a time.

Now Luke Can Finally Have His Wife Back

Welcome to my new spot on the blogosphere! I've spent the last two months with my @$$ glued to the computer chair, importing entries, updating links, and reloading pictures so that I can move on with my life free from the shackles that bound me to Blogger for two and a half years. (If you come across entries that still feature Blogspot links, please let me know so I can smack myself in the forehead.) (And then fix the link.) I've also wasted numerous hours on numerous crappy banners until finally settling on the half-crappy one you see now. But I made it with my own two little hands, so in your FACE, Photoshop Elements!

You can also see I got m'self a new URL. Janet of A Slice of Pink is the big name. my. BLOG! winner, so Janet, drop me an e-mail and we can discuss the fabulous prize package soon to come your way. A package that will probably include a copy of my cheesy love song CD because I am going to milk that puppy for all it's worth.

(Funny story about the e-mail: Three months ago I started to register for one of TypePad's thirty-day free trials but stopped the minute they asked for a credit card number; apparently, though, the site had already captured my information, because when I registered for real, msfrema was "already taken." Thus, mrsfrema was born. It was kind of a pain but not a horrible way to go, seeing as I'm now a married woman. What a difference an "r" makes!)

Overall, I'm really happy with the look of the new site (though I might've gone a tad overboard with the categorizing) and hope you continue to hang out with me as your schedule permits. I don't have a lot of friends, and you don't want to be the one responsible for me crying into my pillow at night, do you?

[Edited to add: I just noticed that the comments have been wiped out from all but one of my Tragic Love Friday posts. CRAP.]

[Edited to add again: Problem solved! Turns out the little dashes I inserted after each TLF excerpt threw something off in the importing process. All I had to do was remove the dashes and reimport the entries.]

Two Thumbs Up

Last Friday, my good friend Lost A Sock tagged me for a "Favorite Things" meme, and since then I've been trying to pinpoint what those things might be. People are not things. Pastimes are not things. Possible careers and feel-good ideals are not things. We're talking about material items here, and it's hard to narrow them down to one short list.

But I'll try.

Liz Phair's Whitechocolatespaceegg. I have Luke to thank for introducing me to her music via a mixed tape back in college. Though she's currently sold her soul to commerical pop, at the height of her career she was both an edgy Sarah McLachlan and watered down Tori Amos, a musician who turned everyday ideas into larger-than-life entities, who could make you squirm uncomfortably in your seat with her casual use of the "F" word and bring tears from your eyes in the same three-minute span. This CD was produced after she'd given birth to her son, and her vulnerability is embedded in several of the tracks, particularly "Go On Ahead." Other songs of note include "Perfect World," "Baby Got Going," and "Uncle Alvarez," which reveals a new layer of meaning every time I hear it. If it's not in your collection yet, add it to your Christmas list. You'll thank me, I promise.

Edy's Berry Rainbow Sherbet. In effort to satisfy my sweet tooth without adding new layers of fat to my @$$, I turned to sherbet during my stint with Weight Watchers, and it did not disappoint. My current nightly ritual involves indulging in a bowl while watching TV, and since I'm not stingy with the servings, I often diminish my supply in less than a week, whether Luke has some or not. (He usually doesn't.)

ISO's Hydra Cleanse and Daily Condition shampoo products. This is the product of choice at my Chicago hair salon, and I don't blame them. It's light weight, smells good, and...it smells really good. I bought some last October when the economy-sized bottles were on a two-for-twenty sale and I kid you not, the stuff lasted until June. Also, did I mention the smell? So savvy. So pretty. So sophisticated! I can practically feel the positive self esteem that goes along with using a high-grade salon product soaking into my head.

New York and Company's stretch bootcut jeans. Mine are one to two years old, so they're not identical to the ones pictured on the Web site, but they're close. Whoever invented stretch jeans deserves a three-layer chocolate cake, because that material is crucial to fitting my gut into a size-ten waist. Plus, NY&C appears to be one of the few remaining stores that sell pant cuts in styles other than low rise, allowing me to keep the muffin top at bay a bit longer.

Clinique's Dramatically Different Moisturizing Gel. When I was younger, I despised lotion of any kind. Most of what I had been exposed to was thick, heavy, and greasy; for cryin' out loud, it wasn't until the end of my college days that I finally succumbed to the seduction of Bath and Body Works; I didn't even attempt a facial moisturizer until I started purchasing acne washes that dried out my cheeks, and it was just as I'd feared: thick, heavy, and greasy.

In 2004 a coworker introduced me to the wonder that is Clinique, and this gel is my favorite from their skincare line. It glides on with minimal rubbing and feels like silk on my face, so I don't mind spending twenty-three bucks for four-point-two ounces of it, even though I wouldn't dream of shelling out more than six for a brand at Target. Clever advertisers!

Quaker's Oatmeal to Go Bars. Remember last fall when I learned about my high cholesterol? It was about that time that I tried to make myself like oatmeal. I tried it with blueberries, I tried it with brown sugar, I tried it standing on my head, but no luck. What's there to like? The lumps? The bland favor? That was my opinion until my sister-in-law stuffed one of these into my purse one night on my way home; then, suddenly I loved oatmeal, so long as it was chock full of artificial flavoring and packaged in a darling square shape. I'll usually take one to work on the mornings I run out of time for breakfast. Banana Bread is the best.

The Complete Tales of Beatrix Potter. Both the stories and the artwork are timeless. I can't wait to read them to my own children.

Peace Frog pajama pants. They GLOW IN THE DARK, people. How cool is that?

For some reason I never wore pajama pants until college, and that was only because my sister bought me a Winnie the Pooh-themed pair as a going-away present (which are holding up fabulously, by the way, Sissy, thank you very much). As kids, if we wanted something warmer to sleep in, we usually just threw on sweatpants, which were probably a lot cheaper to buy in a house with five kids. Target sells them for seven bucks a piece. Now, though? Now I can't imagine my life without them. It'd be emptier somehow, less fulfilling, devoid of color. Just like a world without Kiefer Sutherland.

So, what do you think of my favorite things? More importantly, what are some of yours?

How 'Bout Some Cheese With Your Lunch?

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

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

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

"Always," Atlantic Starr

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

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

"Biggest Part Of Me," Ambrosia

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

"Sometimes," Britney Spears

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

Anyway, I really like this song.

"Penny Lover," Lionel Richie

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

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

"I Knew I Loved You," Savage Garden

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

"The First Time," Surface

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

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

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

"Far Away," Nickelback

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

"Lucky One," Amy Grant

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

"Soul Provider," Michael Bolton

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

"Cuts Both Ways," Gloria Estefan

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

"Endless Love," Luther Vandross and Mariah Carey

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

"No Place That Far," Sara Evans

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

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

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

"Saving All My Love For You," Whitney Houston

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

"Now And Forever," Carole King

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

"You're In Love," Wilson Phillips

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

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

"Separate Lives," Phil Collins and Marilyn Martin

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

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

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

Honorable mentions include but are not limited to:

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

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

Digging My Way Through The Love

Boy, when you people said you had the cheese, you weren't kidding! I'm in the midst of copying, pasting, and alphabetizing all of the participants' playlists into one master compilation, mostly because a few non-swappers requested it, but also because I'm curious to see which songs and artists we all kept gravitating to. So far I've been bombarded with duplicates from the likes of Air Supply, Bon Jovi, the Bangles, Billy Joel, and REO Speedwagon, and there's been multiple selections from Celine Dion, Gloria Estefan, Stevie Wonder, and of course, the inspiration for this whole shebang, Lionel Richie. If he knew about all the good work that's been accomplished in his name these last few weeks, I'm positive he'd manage a dance on the ceiling in our honor.

I hope to post the master list on Thursday, by which time I plan to have shared my own musical trainwrecks. But that's assuming I haven't drowned in the waves of paperwork swimming around on my desk, so keep your fingers crossed that I survive this work week unscathed.

In other news, the Coin Watch of 2006 is still going strong in the female administrative restroom. Everytime I pass through I enter the first stall with the intent to conduct business as usual until I see those fiesty flashes of metal glimmering from the bottom of the commode. Sometimes the pieces are stacked one on top of the other, like I originally found them, and sometimes they're side by side, huddled together, holding fast to their one inch of porcelain real estate. At one point I swear I saw two quarters, but seeing as the odds of one of my coworkers making change in the john are slim, and also seeing as the five hours of sleep I got last night after spending ALL SUNDAY wrapping presents and addressing Christmas cards might have contributed to a self-delusional mindframe, I let the matter go.

But you know I'll be checking tomorrow.

More Chances For Cheese!

People, I messed up. One of the swap's participants, Cora, didn't actually participate because I am a dork and totally forgot to assign her to a group. So, if there's anyone who meant to sign up for the swap but didn't, here's your chance to get your cheese on. Or, if there are any current swappers who wouldn't mind being part of a bonus group, let me know by Monday morning. All CDs for group number nine should be mailed out by Tuesday.

Let's get together and help a fellow blogger out, OK? I'm counting on you, Internet.

For even more cheese, this week's installment of Tragic Love Friday is below.

Now I Can Sleep At Night

While rummaging through my mother's CD collection this weekend on a quest for cheesy love song inspiration, I shrieked with delight upon finding The Best of Love and Power of Love--individual compilations each bearing sixteen Delilah-friendly tracks; individual compilations I never sold at all, but instead bestowed upon my mother after Vibes Music failed to comprehend their saleability. She has since bestowed them back onto me. "Separate Lives" is once again on my playlist!

My groups members are so lucky to have me.

In Which I Post Strictly For NaBloPoMo Purposes

I'm tired. I spent no fewer than five hours working on my soon-to-be-unveiled blog, importing archives, updating links, lamenting the fact that I'll have to reload every Blogger picture I ever posted to my TypePad account to guarantee those photos will be visible for every page reload.

I'm taking tomorrow off to iron out as many of these issues as I can, so Luke won't be left wifeless for the next several weeks. Better posts are on their way!

Edited to add: Assignments for the "Hello? Is It My Cheesy Love Song CD You're Looking For?" Internet Swap were e-mailed in the wee hours Tuesday morning. If you signed up for the swap but didn't receive an e-mail with a group number, contact me ASAP.

Thanks to some fabulous promotion on your behalf, blogger friends, we received 24 participants (including Dawn and me). How cool is that? It was very hard placing everyone into groups, but part of the reason those with blogs are encouraged to post their playlists online (after December 1, so we can all do it together) is to allow you to see how others approached their CD and possibly do some additional swapping on your own. Once the CDs are mailed, I'll post links to everyone who joined so you can conveniently access your cheese with a single click. And of course, there's still the matter of voting on the Cheesiest Love Song of the collective bunch.

Happy downloading!

Be Not Afraid

Certain things about my template may look a little different to you--mainly, my archives are almost completely wiped out. This is because I have finally, FINALLY started moving everything over to a fancy schmancy TypePad account. I'm still working out the kinks, but if all goes according to plan, I'll be unveiling my new (domain mapped!) Web site at the start of December. Until then, try not to pass out from the suspense of it all.

Owning Hi-Five's greatest hits isn't cause for embarrassment, right?

Remember this past spring when Luke and I tore through old books and CDs in a mad scramble for cash? Well, now it's biting me in the @$$, because while flipping through my disc holder last night, I noticed a variety of my ballad soundtracks were nowhere to be found, which means Time Life's Piano by Candlelight Volume 2, The Best of Love, and other tacky gems are gathering dust in Vibes Music on 82nd Street. This is distressing for two reasons:

1) No Phil Collins's "Separate Lives." Sob.

2) Most of the music I include now will derive from individual artists's albums instead of compilations (with the occasional iTunes track thrown in, of course), showing my true musical colors and pushing me even further out of the Cheesy Love Songs closet. It may be a little frightening, for all of us.

It's day sixteen of NaBloPoMo, and while I'm still thoroughly enjoying myself (have you seen the randomizer? It's better than crack), I fear I'll soon run out of steam. But fear not, fellow readers, for I have ammunition. One of the bloggy bullets is Maggie Mason's No One Cares What You Had For Lunch: 100 Ideas For Your Blog. The other is a new weekly feature scheduled to "air" on Fridays. I chose Friday because tomorrow is Friday and I don't know what to write about yet so is there a more opportune time to start? I think not.

Because I am kind, I'll give you one hint: It will contain lethal doses of love. And betrayal. And a baby.

Who in their right mind would classify Family Ties as cheesy? That show was genius!

According to my e-mail Inbox, several of you are concerned that your love songs collection may not have the "required" dosage of cheese for the "Hello? Is It My Cheesy Love Song CD You're Looking For?" Internet Swap. And to all such worrywarts I say, please don't. Worry, that is. I kind of wish I'd never included that word in the swap's title for this very reason. This contest is not meant to divide us, but rather unite interested bloggers in fun, fellowship, and a mutual appreciation of possibly questionable music. Just like Jesus did.

The truth of the matter is that "cheesy" is a relative term. The Urban Dictionary has assigned it ten different definitions, ranging from "melodramatic" to "stupid" to "hungry" to "an adjective to replace cool," bluntly labeling it as "immensely vague." In other words, one person's provolone is another's filet mignon, which became more obvious after I broached this very topic with Luke tonight, attempting to explain my own take on the word and its implications.

"I think it has a lot to do with the credibility of the artist or group. Like, anything by Michael Bolton is probably considered cheesy, no matter how good it might be, but Frank Sinata's reputation as an artist exempts all of his songs from such a classification, no matter what they're about," I said.

"I don't know about that," Luke replied. "'Swingin' On A Star' is pretty cheesy."

"What?"

"You know...."

Would you like to swing on a star
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
And be better off than you are
Or would you rather be a mule?

Turns out I didn't know, and anyway, it's a Bing Crosby song, but you get the idea. Two different people, two very different ideas of cheese. Other musicians mentioned included Gloria Estefan (no, but her era of popularity sure was, so I think she counts), the Beatles ("Don't even try it," Luke warned), boy bands like 'N Sync and Backstreet Boys (Did I really have to ask?), and Van Morrisson (not a chance).

The last thing I want is for a potential swapper to shy away from participating because of some self-imposed guidelines. Keep the theme in mind, but really, as long as they can be classified as love songs, pick whatever tunes you want, although you need to know I'm calling dibs on Mariah Carey and Luther Vandross's rendition of "Endless Love" right now, even though both performers were highly respected at the time of the recording and the lyrics don't meet the majority of Urban Dictionary's derogatory criteria. This song brings tears to my eyes and a quiver to my lips, it's so moving, but obviously SOME people think there's an element of tackiness to it because it was NOT a song Luke and I danced to at our wedding, so you're going to see it on my playlist, and he's--I mean you're--going to like it, and that's all I have to say about that.

Besides, to borrow a concept from our pot-smoking brothers and sisters, "It's cheese-thirty somewhere."

Lionel Would Be So Proud

It is no secret that I love Cheesy Pop. Especially Cheesy Love Pop. There's something magical about the lyrical rehashing of separations, romance, and general spiritual demise that touches even the grinchiest Grinch, whether it's Whitney Houston saving all her love for a married man, Eric Carmen losing control in his girlfriend's convertible, or Celine Dion convincing herself Jack's untimely death in the middle of the ocean (because Rose was too self-absorbed to scoot her @$$ over a few inches and GIVE HIM A CHANCE AT LIFE, YOU LAZY BITCH) doesn't provide sufficient grounds for her heart not to go on. At twelve years old, a.k.a. the height of my parents' anti-rap campaign, I sought refuge from the trials and tribulations of middle-school hell by falling asleep to mixed tapes of my favorite ballads, providing a soundtrack to the tears I shed over Randy Wooten never liking me in "that" way. Five years, four crushes, and one boyfriend later (who wasn't, unfortunately, Randy Wooten), my collection had grown from one to four.

Last spring, Sarah of Misanthropic-Tendencies decided that bloggers around the world needed to come together and share the music that saw them through their high school years, and really, don't we owe it to Cheesy Love Pop to do the same?

I think we do.

So, without further adieu, Dawnie and I proudly present the

Internet Swap.

Are you psyched? Because we are SO PSYCHED.

Here's the low-down:

Anybody residing in the United States or Canada is welcome to participate. And I hope you do. Not only does this swap allow you to make public your unexplainable attraction to Phil Collins's groovy kind of love, it also provides a way to make new friends and advertise your own blog (though it's not required that you have one to join in the fun). All you have to do is send an e-mail to me with your name and mailing address by Friday, November 17, to reserve your place. All participants will be randomly matched into groups of four, which means you'll be committing yourself to burning CDs for three other people. (To make sure everyone's playing nice and mailing their CDs on time, either Dawn or myself will be one of your three.) Assignments will be distributed that following Monday. All CDs should be mailed on Friday, December 1.

Your CD package should include the CD (duh), which should be protected in some kind of plastic disc case or sleeve, and either a list of the songs or a URL where the list can be found. I did both.

Please include at least sixty minutes' worth of music. To quote Sarah, "Don't be stingy."

Please don't sign up if you can't follow through. The process will involve selecting your songs, buying some CDs from Target or wherever, burning the song list three times, and surrendering six or seven dollars to the post office for mailing. Not a big deal by any means, and I had an absolute blast doing it for Sarah's swap, but Dawn and I were both shortchanged one CD from one of our group members. That sucks. Don't be a party-pooper.

Spread the word! The Lionel button in my sidebar will link back to this post until November 17 so potential Cheesers have easy access to the swap guidelines. Whether you sign up or not, feel free to add it to your own blog with a little linky-link back here so others can get in on the Cheesy Love Song action. (Just be sure to save it to your desktop first. Something about bandwidth?)

Once the CDs are mailed and the song lists have been shared with the masses, maybe we can vote on the Cheesiest Love Song as a fun way to give the whole thing some closure.

What are you waiting for? Lionel's waiting for your iTunes download today!

The Road Less Traveled Just Might Lead To Frema

Before NaBloPoMo, one of the reasons I didn't post very often was for fear that the proposed entry's topic wouldn't be substantial enough to justify my absence. In my mind, every day I went without posting was another paragraph's worth of content I owed to my wee readership; then, suddenly, a whole week had gone by, and I still didn't have anything pretty to show for my hiatus, but I would force myself to post about something, anything, so that you all wouldn't think I'd gone and died from Baby Envy disease.

It's only day seven of my month-long posting marathon and I'm already worried that I'm boring you. I mean, the last really juicy post I had was on Friday, and since then I've given you a few sentences about Internet love and the status on my weight condition. Surely you deserve better than that?

Yes, you do. But today is not the day for making it up to you.

Instead, I'm going to steal Beth's idea and ask how in the world you stumbled across this blog. When answering in the comments section, I was surprised to realize I remembered EXACTLY how I found her. It all started in 2004, months after I had completed an autobiography class for my graduate degree, and I was surfing the Web to find blogs I could relate to on a personal level. I came across Blogger and its handy dandy, will-probably-score-you-a-virus "Random Blog" feature, and after an hour of incessant clicking, found The New Jan Brady, where this post knocked my socks off. It wasn't long before Jan posted about a new site she was writing for, a site where she and a couple of friends would snark on pictures of batshit-crazy celebrities, which I also visited, and which is also how I found Amalah. I followed her on and off for a month or two until this post earned her a permanent spot on my blogroll.

After reading through all of Amalah's archives, I was still bored at work, still hungry for more of The Funny, so I rummaged through her recommended links and found Rockstar Mommy. Then I perused her blogroll, found a link to So The Fish Said, thought, "Hey, that's a weird title," clicked, and the rest is history.

Your story doesn't have to be as detailed (mine sure wasn't on Beth's blog), but if you could play along and explain how you found me, I will eat a bowl of raspberry sherbet in your honor.

Thanks.

Because Stepping On The Scale Isn't Embarrassing Enough

You people will be delighted to learn that Luke and I were pounding on the treadmills at the Y by five-thirty this morning, thank you very much. The alarm went off at five, as expected, and I did hit the "Snooze" button, as expected, but I was up and in the shower when it rang nine minutes later, so I'm still calling it a success.

Lizzie of Margarita Madness holds Weight Loss Wednesdays at her domain, and in keeping with my new quest to hold myself accountable for poor health choices, I've asked for and received permission to do the same here. This means you'll be treated with updates regarding the current tonnage attached to my @$$, a full gym report, and my thoughts on both. Judy, my Internet Exercise Buddy, is on board to do the same, as we are committed to holding each other accountable for achieving our fitness goals, which at this point seem to be simply placing ourselves in the vicinity of aerobics classes and strength-training equipment three to four times a week.

I'm very excited about this new feature, partly because I've been wanting to post a regular feature on this site forever, just like Amalah's Wednesday Advice Smackdown, Isabel's King Fridays, and Luke's old "Are You Gonna Eat That?" column. It's not original on my part by any means, but it's something.

In other news, today I saw the very hairy buttcrack of a man installing walls for a new office at work. You're jealous, I know.

Sharing The Secrets Of The Online Sisterhood

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

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

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

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

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

A Domain By Any Other Name...

Well, the name. my. BLOG! contest is officially over, and now I'm left with the momentous task of selecting a winner, eventually dumping Blogger, and moving on with the rest of my online life. It was so awesome of you guys to step up to the plate; put your best foot forward; give it the old college try (insert additional cheesy phrases here) on an issue that has turned out to be a very big deal for me. I wish I could present each and every one of you with a Sweet Valley High book for all your efforts, but as it is I've wiped out Half-Priced Books's entire library and you'll have to deplete my current collection by ripping each volume from my cold, dead hands. But you really are the best.

Here are the suggestions I've received since last Sunday:

www.fremaeatscheese.com
www.FREMMMMMMMAAAAAAA.com
www.fremadonna.com
www.fremafremafrema.com
www.fremagonewild.com
www.fremasworld.com
www.fremawashere.com
www.fremayomama.com
www.heyyou.com
www.iamfrema.com
www.iamfremaandyouarenot.com
www.iamfremahearmeroar.com
www.lookingatfrema.com
www.lookingatme.com
www.lookingforward.net
www.lookylooky.com
www.passthedip.com
www.primafrema.com
www.thelegendoffrema.com
www.willworkforspinachdip.com

(Note: This list is not comprehensive. Domain names already registered were not included.)

Not bad, eh? There are several I really like, several that seem to reflect the persona I try to consistently portray on this blog, which I attempted to outline here a while back:

Part of the reason I love "What're you lookin' at?" so much is the attitude it conveys, one of curiosity and defensiveness, skepticism and embarrassment. One that, under the surface, seems to say, "I want to know what you're lookin' at because I wish you were looking at me." I can think of no better way to encapsulate my awkward, B-list, Internet self.

I'm going to seriously consider each domain name in comparison to the above paragraph--my vision statement, if you will--to see which one best fits the bill. Or maybe I'll write each one on an index card, lay them out on the carpet Memory-style, close my eyes, and point.

If that fails, there's always www.fremaandkiefersittinginatree.com.

Well, shit.

I've officially been added to Mrs. Kennedy's list of participants for November's National Blog Posting Month. Words can't describe how nervous I am about attempting to post something halfway intelligent everyday for a whole month. I've started compiling a list of ideas that can hopefully be shaped into semi-interesting posts, and I'm seriously considering the purchase of Mighty Girl's new blog book. I suppressed several urges to update this weekend, each time thinking to myself, "Must save for November. Must save for November." I'm reminded of my high school theater days, when I'd spent a week in dress rehearsal prepping for opening night, praying to God for the stamina to make it through the entire run of just one show. I wasn't kidding when I said I'd need your help; for the bloggers who aren't jumping on the NaBloPoMo bandwagon, you all are encouraged to submit daily comments to the ones who are. In exchange for this commitment, I solemnly promise to avoid the evil seduction of the meme for as long as possible.

With only two days left 'til showtime, I'm hesitant to write about anything of substance ("Must save for November. Must save for November!"). However, I will say that on Thursday night I had a dream where I bumped into Kiefer Sutherland on the street and I called him Mr. Sutherland and he smiled and kissed me square on the mouth. That was very nice.

It's already been established that I do not have a top five--you know, being a married woman and all--but hypothetically speaking, just for the sake of argument, if I did have a top five, it might look something like this:

1. Kiefer Sutherland
So urgent. So scratchy with the vocal chords. So very, very hot.

2. Howie Mandel
But only as he currently appears on Deal or No Deal. I refuse to acknowledge he even existed before this show.

3. Peter Krause
Never saw Six Feet Under, but man, was he good lookin' in Sports Night.

4. Zach Braff
Did anyone see The Last Kiss? The movie was just meh, but his dorm-room sex scene with Rachel Bilson is quite the steam inducer.

5. ?

Help a sista out, ladies. If I were to, someday, perhaps in the near future, entertain the idea of creating and laminating a list of top five male celebrities permitted to court me in the biblical sense without engaging the wrath of my very tall husband, who should that number five be?

Recovering

Here it is, Saturday night, and instead of donning a mad scientist costume and accompanying my Charlie Brown husband to a friend's Halloween party, I'm in my Peace Frog pajama pants, alternating between the computer and some American Idol rewind segment on Fox, which I'm thinking is from the first season because Ryan looks as skinny as Clay Aiken and former co-host Brian Dunkleman is all up in his celebrity grill. Future plans for the evening include playing old Nintendo games and breaking into my first season of Murder, She Wrote on DVD, which has managed to hold fast to its virgin state since last summer.

My immune system is doing much better than it was a few days ago, but I'm still pretty worn out, so I thought it best for Luke to go to the party alone, allowing me to catch up on some self-prescribed laying around time. And apparently some blog time, too.

Many thanks to those who've participated in the name. my. BLOG! contest thus far. I'm pretty fond of one of the suggestions already, even though it doesn't really fit the "original but not long" criteria. However, after receiving said suggestion, I'm thinking length has less to do with it than a sense of general confusion. For example, http://www.whatreyoulookinat.com/ is much more in line with traditional branding standards, but what if somebody doesn't notice the contractions and types the "a" in "are" or "g" in "looking"? Where would I be then, Internet? WHERE WOULD I BE THEN?

Anyway, just to give everyone a fair chance to get in on the fun, I'm declaring an official deadline of October 31. Remember, there are fun prizes in store for the creator of the winning name, so hop to it, peeps!

Before I submit to the seduction of the boob tube, here's a meme Jenabeeb tagged me for a while back.

Three people who make me laugh
Zach Braff on Scrubs, Steve Carell on The Office, the contestants on Deal or No Deal

Three things I hate
My indecision on religion, lack of self control when it comes to food, the state of city public schools

Three things I don't understand
Smoking, Harry Potter critics, why apartment buildings get so few trick-or-treaters

Three things I am doing right now
Listening to The Insider, contemplating between Ninja Gaiden and The Legend of Zelda, waiting for my Reese's peanut-butter cup to harden in the freezer

Three things I want to do before I die
Visit a foreign country, have children, own a business

Three things I am able to do
Network, parallel park, see the forest for the trees

Three words to describe me
Self-deprecating, skeptical, ambitious

Three things I cannot do
Tolerate an episode of Dancing with the Stars, play an instrument, take apart our blender

Three things I want to learn
Balance a checkbook to the penny, Fertility Awareness Method, html code

Three favorite foods
Spinach dip, cheeseburgers, ice cream

Three beverages I drink regularly
Orange juice, milk, fruit smoothies

Three shows I watched as a kid
The New Mickey Mouse Club, Saved by the Bell, The Wonder Years

Three people I tag
Anyone who's interested

Blog, Resurrected

Let me start by saying that I am so mad at myself for not blogging on Friday the 13th, mainly for two reasons, the first being that Luke and I had started talking about my favorite horror scenes at Steak 'N Shake last Wednesday and the timing couldn't have been better, and the second being it was exactly one week since my last post, and I do so enjoy having a method to my madness. Now this entry has to do quadruple-duty on topics that could've managed just fine without any additional help, thank you very much. But both of us are up to the challenge.

Remember back in June when I talked about returning to my natural hair color without the assistance of professional dye products? Here's how far I got before I wanted to poke my eyes out with a pretzel rod, just to avoid being subjected to the train wreck that was my head. I like to mentally refer to this picture as Das Root:

 

This was taken on October 14, a mere hours before my cut and color at Enve--yes, the Chicago salon; yes, I've abandoned all hope of finding reputable hair care in Indianapolis; yes, I no longer care about exposing potential fetuses to harmful chemicals and dyes; YES, I AM OK WITH THAT. (But not really on that last one, since a number of Internet mommies informed me the probability of that happening is next to zero.) However, I did go the more practical route in terms of selecting a dye color, one that brought a little sexy back but wouldn't rat me out if I spaced out the length between touch ups. Here is the final result, which I'm pretty happy with, except the cut is still too short thanks to Magda the Racist Hairdresser and her equally bigoted texturizing comb.

Things around here are relatively tame. Last week I helped my boss write a book chapter for some chemistry association, and now I'm focusing on design for our client newsletter. Seeing as I spend the majority of my time at work devouring threads on AMC's message board, this recent flow of activity is a welcome improvement. I've also been on the verge of coming down with some sore throat/primal hunger/hot flash extravaganza that part of me hopes is an early sign of pregnancy but intellectually realizes is just a bug. Our Chi-town visit was fun, as we celebrated my father's forty-sixth birthday and hopped around the neighborhood to visit family and friends.

(Us kids chipped in to present my father with a gift certificate to his favorite Harley store, because he now loves that bike more than life itself. The poor man was accosted this weekend by Geo, who coated the inside of his ear with blue frosting, and Ryan, our hairdresser in training, who couldn't keep from running her hands through his Fantastic Sam's haircut and lamenting the unevenness of his ends.)

Here I am with Brooke and little Michael, now four months old. Though he was busy preparing for his baptism, he was still gracious enough to bestow a series of gifts on my right shoulder. In reply, I smelled his head and Brooke's arms received a well-deserved rest. Everybody wins!

We also saw my Uncle Chuckie and cousins Kenny and Stacey, who are on the cusp of experiencing their first month without my Auntie Debbie. It seems like my family can't get a break on the cancer front: my Auntie Donna, my mother's youngest sister and one of my favorite people in the whole world, was diagnosed with both brain cancer and breast cancer in the spring and is about to undergo seven weeks of radiation, five days a week. I keep thinking I need to address these topics with some lengthy, meaningful observations, but that whole post could be summed up in two words. Be kind. To yourself, to each other, to this unpredictable world we live in. Please keep them all in your prayers.

Still with me? Cuz there's more!

I have decided my relationship with Blogger should meet a timely and not-soon-enough demise, allowing me to explore a more emotionally satisfying connection with its for-profit counterparts. However, I refuse to initiate a courtship with Typepad until I can register for an account using a domain name that I thought of and paid for all by my own damn self. Except not really, because after months of scribbling on old drafts of my lab's clinical directory, I have yet to be inspired by a site name that's smart but not cheesy, funny but not embarrassing, original but not long, and relates somehow to my online persona or blog title. Thus, I have no choice but to call upon your own creative juices to name. my. BLOG!

(Insert TV game show theme song of your choice here and tell me which one you went with in the comments.)

You're up for the challenge, aren't you? Not only because you're savvy and charming, but also because Frema will put together a winning care package featuring a plethora of interesting and not at all Goodwill-worthy items straight from What're you lookin' at?'s headquarters? If I could, I'd arrange for some type of Deal or No Deal format wherein I fly twenty-six of you to Indianapolis, each of you armed with a case that bears your obviously fabulous submission, and I pick one of the cases for my very own and narrow down the list that way, but I'm pretty broke to be shelling out a trillion dollars on airfare for people I've never met, and besides, I'm nowhere near as captivating as Howie Mandel, whose newly bald head alone earns him a spot on my top five. If I had I top five, that is, which of course I don't, I'm a married woman for cripe's sake.

I'm counting on you, Internet. You're my only hope.

Official rules to come later, preferably when it's not one-thirty in the morning.

In Which I'm Given Two Reasons To Babble About All My Children

You know that a meme has gone totally sour when your blogging partner in crime says, "I totally forgot about those things!"

For your sake and mine, let's just get this over with.

At one point, but probably not so much now, Lizzy wanted to know:

Where is and what is in your "junk drawer"?

Both as a child and an adult, no matter where I've lived, the kitchen has always been home to the family junk drawer, and Luke's and my current apartment is no exception. For some reason, the kitchen is always the room with the leftover drawer space. Are they intentionally designed this way? Is anybody's junk drawer NOT in the kitchen? Inquiring minds want to know.

Behold, the evidence.

If I were more skilled in Photoshop I would've put numbers on each item and wrote funny captions enclosed in cartoonish thought bubbles, but I'm not, and there are too many thingamajigs to cover each one, anyway, so this is what you get. From where I'm sitting, I see candles we forget to burn, redeemable stamps from whitewater rafting trips with Saint Joe, batteries, scissors, paper clips used to seal half-eaten bags of chips, a glue stick, tape, an extra sponge for the George Foreman grill, the lining paper I used to address our wedding invitations, and other miscellaneous necessities. Nothing terribly exciting; it's not even that full, since I make a habit of cleaning it out every couple of months.

God, I'm boring. Why are you even here?

Ever have a celebrity run-in in which you behaved like an absolute ass?

Glory be, I actually have an answer to this question. The celeb in question is former AMC hottie Mark Consuelos. Let me 'splain.

While it's true my current soap habit started couple of years ago, it was first born at the impressionable age of thirteen, thanks to my Auntie Donna, who babysat two of my cousins when my Auntie Debbie was at work. In between diapering, feeding, and entertaining a newborn, she managed to keep up with Days of Our Lives, and on one of my visits, I came across an episode where Vivian had buried Carly alive in a desperate attempt to keep her from romancing Laurence and Marlena was frolicking about behind closed doors with John, who'd been brainwashed by Stefano to believe he was Roman Brady, Marlena's long-lost husband, who had just resurfaced to reclaim his life.

Thirteen was a hard age for me, and I kept to myself a lot, so it was easy to embrace this new world. I became so enraptured with the soap genre I eventually added three more shows to the roster, spending the majority of that summer glued to Days, All My Children, One Life to Life, and General Hospital.

Fast-forward to 1995, when I was a sophomore in high school and not so dependent on daytime television, though I was still a huge fan of Days, and had a newfound interest in prime time, mainly due to an attraction the entire male cast of Party of Five (minus Owen, of course). It was around this time I had a short stint selling fudge at McCormick Place in Chicago, and one particular auto convention boasted of a panel of small-screen celebrities who were available for personal meetings, autographs, and the like. It featured actors from both shows--Jason Brooks (Days's Peter Blake), and Michael A. Goorjian (Party of Five's Justin). There was also a third star, Mark Consuelos, but since I hadn't kept up with AMC and Mark had only recently joined the cast, I didn't have the foggiest idea who he was.

On one of my breaks I stood in line for twenty minutes, waiting eagerly to participate in some inappropriate snuggling with men ten to twenty years older than my awkward, freshly dumped self.

I was not disappointed.

It's the second shot that gets me the most, as I remember throwing a quick nod in Mark's direction before promptly helping myself to Michael Goorjian's lap. Mark was the only one of the three who didn't receive my request for an autograph, as I wasn't sure his John Hancock was worth another three bucks. See how jealous he looks? And now he's the only one who still has a career. I sure know how to pick 'em.

What's your favorite joke to tell?

Anybody who knows me even a little bit will tell you I suck at telling jokes; thus, my favorite joke to tell is also the easiest one to remember, thus eliminating the possibility of forgetting the punchline.

Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven eight nine!

I first heard this joke from my parents when I was nine. We were all amazed at its cleverness, which possibly explains where I get my sense of humor from.

Eight years ago, Lost A Sock wondered:

What is the current color on your toenails?

Part of the reason I put off answering last round for so long is this very question. The last time I sported paint on my toes was August, but I didn't want to admit to the Internet that I waddled through the end of the summer with bare feet, so I vowed not to post a response until I had properly rectified the situation. Well, weeks went by, with my toes still shamelessly naked, so this morning I made the executive decision to skip the polish and go for the funny, mentally drafting an answer along the lines of "While I'm lacking in the personal pedicure area, my feet aren't totally neglected. I do shave the hair on my big toe from time to time," imagining everyone would enjoy a hearty laugh in appreciation of my comedic skill.

Then I read Amalah's latest post, after which I could only assume Amy called upon her trusty mind-reading powers to steal my toe-hair thunder. Thus, my new answer is:

Nothing.

If not a writer or a SAHM, what's your next career choice?

Something that allows me to interact less with my computer and more with living, breathing human beings, like a teacher or a career counselor. A friend of mine in Saint Joe's English department once brought up the idea of me presenting a course on online writing in an adjunct capacity, so I'm curious to see if that ever comes to fruition.

In a perfect world, if Erica Kane could marry any man and live happily ever after, who would that man be?

The answer to this question requires some major soul-searching on my part. Currently on her tenth husband, there's been no shortage of marital bliss (and unbliss) in Erica's life. The roll call is as follows:

1. 1971- Jeff Martin
2. 1975- Phil Brent
3. 1978- Tom Cudahy
4. 1984- Adam Chandler
5. 1987- Travis Montgomery
6. 1990- Travis Montgomery
7. 1991- Adam Chandler (fake)
8. 1993- Dimitri Marick
9. 1996- Dimitri Marick
10. 2005- Jackson Montgomery

The writers approach the show with the philosophy that Erica and Jack, the brother of the father of her youngest daughter, have been soul mates all along, and now that they've finally made it to the altar, I'd hate to see them break up, even though Jack has the sex appeal of a coat rack. I like her better with more seductive, more vindictive men, like the evil David Hayward, who once drugged an entire yachtful of people with a libido-inducing drug to set the stage for Tad's one-night affair with the resident psycho while he was attempting marriage for the third time with Dixie Cooney. She also has wonderful chemistry with Zach Slater, a casino manager who hired her as a showgirl for his Vegas number a few years back and went on to marry her oldest daughter, who was once engaged to his son. Maybe one of them will become husband number eleven.

Who let the dogs out? (Who? Who? Who? Who?)

This one's easy. Your mom!

The questions, they are done. Now we can talk about more important things, like your favorite scary movies and the difficulty in determining your cervical position. Good times.

Questions? What Questions?

Bet you thought I forgot about these, didn't you?

Isabel wonders:

What was your best family vacation, ever?

Vacations? Ha! While we took plenty of day trips to museums and the zoo and the park, the only time we ever went "away" was in the summer of 1995, when my father borrowed a camper from a guy at work and all seven of us spent two days on Lake Michigan, where my aunt and uncle have a cabin. (There were two reasons for my family's lack of travel, one being my mother is deathly afraid to ride in a moving vehicle for longer than eight minutes at a time, and two being that five children ranging in age from fifteen years to twenty-seven months can take a significant toll on the finances of a single-income unit.)

It was a nice time, but that was the first summer of Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went Three Weeks Without Calling, and playing in the sand or touring the lake via paddleboat couldn't compare to bawling my eyes out in the confines of our bathroom at home, wailing over life's injustices and what was wrong with me and why wasn't I prettier and why would he want to smoke pot when he could be making out with me and please just caaaaaall me already.

Obviously, I was a delight.

Which sibling do you get along with the best?

When I first read this question, I assumed this translated into "Which sibling are you closest to?" A hard question, to be sure, but it was on the second reading I realized it has more to do with the meshing of personalities. Truth of the matter is that I get along well with all of my siblings. I can spend forty minutes on the phone with each one of them and cover as many different conversations, without uncomfortable pauses or small talk about the weather.

I will say the age difference between Samantha and me is such that it allows us to have a unique relationship. We're so often in the same place, so often able to support each other on equal footing, without the mentoring aspect that sneaks into our relationships with Ryan, Geo, and Donna.

She's also the only one I can talk to about sex without feeling dirty.

The worst? And why?

This question is harder because it deals with the clashing of personalities. I end up rephrasing it as "Who do I have the worst arguments with?" and reflecting on my many faults as a sister.

With that in mind, I say Ryan, our middle child, the brave soul who abandoned traditional college this year to pursue her dream of attending cosmetology school. It has nothing to do with how close we are (because I think we are close) and everything to do with our individual cores. My core begged my parents to let me have a job when I was a sophomore in high school and join nine different clubs. It revels in maintaining categorized to-do lists and outlining bill schedules months in advance and thinking about Christmas budgets in September. Ryan's core is more exploratory and less concerned with details. Ryan's core liberated her enough to attend two different four-year colleges in two years. It doesn't worry about reading the full terms of her apartment lease or submitting her loan papers on time, even if it delays the receipt of her reimbursement check from August to November. And when she does get it, her core has no problems spending it on a week-long stint in the Bahamas.

Pair that with my mother-bear instinct to steer all cubs from harm's way and it's easy see where the source of our conflict lies. Why can't I shut my trap about the logistics of responsible lending and just be happy she enjoyed her freakin' spring break? Especially since I spent my own loan surpluses on Saint Joe sweatshirts and Pantene Pro-V. She actually made the better choice.

I'll wrap up with Lizzy's and Lost A Sock's questions in my next entry, and then we can all rejoice in the fact that it only took me A MONTH to put this damn meme to rest. I'm nothing if not punctual.

No, I'm Not Dead From E. Coli Poisoning

I suppose I could've picked a better time to post my spinach-dip recipe, eh?

Sad as I was to hear about the number of people who grew sick from the latest bout of E. coli, this most recent outbreak is actually the result of fresh bagged spinach, not the frozen kind, so those of you who made yourself a batch over the weekend can thank your lucky stars Frema isn't a staunch advocate of fresh produce.

Anyway, I've dragged out the whole Q-and-A thing for so long that by now most of you could care less about my favorite family vacation or the contents of my junk drawer, but there are still nine questions to go, so buck up and shut your piehole, or something.

Art Nerd Lauren wonders:

Which of your electives in college was your favorite?

I took several college-level courses in high school and as a result started my freshman year with fifteen credits under my belt. Having those credits would've allowed me to double major and still graduate in four years, but I couldn't find another subject that held my attention the way creative writing did. Instead, I dabbled in other disciplines like social work, religion, and political science. It's hard to pick a favorite, but I think I'm most proud of myself for enrolling in Political Theory. Growing up, politics wasn't commonly addressed at the dinner table, so it felt good to get a better handle on a topic that was ultimately foreign to me. We also read some wondeful books, including Brave New World, The Jungle, and Atlas Shrugged.

(The latter is what actually sparked my interest in the first place, as I discovered Ayn Rand through a writing contest at the age of sixteen and fell in love with the characters in her books. Rand's name is rarely mentioned in academic circles, so it impressed me that my professor thought enough about her controversial ideology to touch on her works in his class.)

(I'm such a freak. Does anyone else even know who this woman is?)

What was your favorite teacher like?

I had several favorites, and their common character traits included a genuine love for their disciplines and a willingness to play Devil's Advocate; to ask questions that make the average Joe uncomfortable in a quest to see life through a broader worldview. Dismissing class ten minutes early was just a bonus.

How much of a different world is academic administration type work than regular corporate America?

Before I answer this, it's important to note the many similarities attributable to a traditional office environment. Pointless meetings. Colleagues who don't take you seriously. Two-hour road trips for five-minute appointments. Forced "resignations." Middle management, how we toil for thee!

For me, the most significant difference lies in the level of passion for my work. Education has made a tremendous impact on my quality of life, and through my job at Saint Joe, I was happy to fight for the cause. I loved assisting with admissions events and mingling with prospective students. I enjoyed sharing stories about being the first person in my family to go to college with parents desperate to provide strong career opportunities for their kids. I worked a lot of nights and weekends, and the pay was just mediocre, but I couldn't have asked for a better emotional payoff.

On the flip side, I worked a lot of nights and weekends, and the pay was just mediocre, so when my current boss approached me about a job with his laboratory last spring, I jumped at the chance to advance my career into uncharted territory. So far, I've published with a national magazine (twice!), guided the company through a major branding overhaul, and tried my hand at graphic design. The salary and benefits package is more than generous, boasting of paid sick days, full vestment of employer matches to my 401(k) upon deposit, and monthly contributions to my health savings account.

The downside? It's PEE, people. I write stories about therapeutic drug monitoring and liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry instruments and how to detect adulteration in urine samples. The emotional payoff is much less tangible, but somebody's gotta put those addicts in their place, right?

I hope to continue with the caring and the sharing tomorrow; in the meantime, can you believe I heard the following financial incentive publicized on the radio the other day?

"Free cooch cream with every costume!"

In Which I Talk About Children For the Last Time Until I'm Actually Pregnant. Promise.

For the last few days, I've experienced a perpetual state of famish (famishment? famination? Who the hell knows?), which I've used as an excuse to double ice cream servings, dip into Betty's candy jar once again, and yesterday, eat two lunches. Lunch number one consisted of a sensible ham sandwich and two pieces of fruit--one to accompany the sandwich, the other intended as a mid-day snack. Somehow, I managed to eat all three items before ten-thirty, and seeing as I volunteer at a local elementary school on Wednesdays and don't step foot into the office until nine forty-five, this act is doubly impressive. By eleven-thirty I was ready for round two, so I joined the billing staff in their exploration of a new hot dog place located behind our industrial complex. After reading and seeing the eye-opening works of one Morgan Spurlock, I've sworn off major fast-food chains (except Steak 'N Shake, because their shakes are to die for and I don't want to feel guilty for suporting their efforts so I hope their quality standards are top notch) and was therefore relieved to learn the joint uses one-hundred-percent beef and makes their french fries from scratch. Literally. I saw them peel the potatoes with my own fat eyes.

You'll be happy to know that Frema's first food menu was quite a success; the sole variation took place on Saturday, as we received passes to a local amusement park as a wedding gift from my brother- and sister-in-law and spontaneously decided to redeem them. After step class last night, I rolled up my proverbial sleeves and got to work preparing the cantonese beef chow mein recipe, which I've made once before, so at least I knew going in that the suggested thirty-five minute prep time would take no less than an hour and a half. It went pretty well, except I added four uncooked cups of rice where the book called for cooked, so after simmering on the stove in excess water the entire time it took to prepare everything else, the rice was finally deemed a bust and tossed in the trash.

There's been no menu-planning this week, as most of our dinners have included some sort of leftovers. I get paid tomorrow, though, so I'll get back on the saddle before our next shopping trip. Luke's biggest concern is buying two weeks' worth of fresh produce only to watch them spoil after a few days in the fridge, so weekly Target runs may be key to this new, organized lifestyle. How often do you all shop? What's the lifespan of your most popular non-canned, non-boxed items? Do share your secrets.

In the meantime, I'll share some of mine.

Judy, my new Internet Exercise Buddy, asked:

Which person, alive or dead, famous or not, would you most like to meet and converse with?

When I was eleven, the answer to this question was Eddie Furlong, who ROCKED as John Connor in Terminator 2 and appeared in my dreams as the boy who introduced me to my first French kiss. I'd pop in the VHS tape and spend entire afternoons rewinding his first appearance in the movie. ("She's not my mother, Todd!") The hair, so flippy! The mouth, so pouty! My mother didn't like us taping posters to the walls, so Eddie's Teen Beat spread was awarded full custody of the laundry hamper.

Alas, I'm an adult now, with a laundry basket unsuitable for pre-teen celebrity pin-ups, who doesn't follow current events very well, so there's no deep-seeded wish to meet any historical or political figures. Can I say my internet friends and leave it at that?

Which is your greatest guilty pleasure: sweet snacks or salty snacks?

Sweet snacks. Ice cream's sweet, right? I love candy, too. But is that sweet or just sugary?

Marriage-101 wants to know:

What one thing would you like to accomplish before you die?

Have a baby. Turn my pooch into a six-pack. Pay off my student-loan debt. Kick the @$$ of the acne that's plagued my face since the age of thirteen. Stay married. In that order, of course.

If you could go anywhere in the world, expenses paid, where would you go?

Somewhere hot and beachy, like Aruba or Hawaii. I'd spend my days swimming in crystal-blue water, shopping in yuppie boutiques, and eating at fancy restaurants. Absolute Heaven.

What is your dream job?

My love for writing started when I was seven, when I wrote my first short story: We'll Never Eat Candy Again. It was about two little girls who steal five bucks out of their mother's purse and spend it all on junk food at the local mom-and-pop. It was only six pages but featured a table of contents, chapter headings, and an "About the Author" section. From that point on, I told people that I wanted to be an author. And while I might not write the best-selling fiction books that little girl dreamed about, I did grow up to be a writer. I write magazine articles and relish in the byline. I publish press releases on the Internet and take pride in the compliments I receive on my writing style. I maintain this blog and experience genuine delight in sharing my silly thoughts and stories with the world. I think it's safe to say that my dream job has become my reality.

That said, my current position in the life sciences industry doesn't inspire me to my full potential, and the idea of exploring teaching or counseling positions in local school districts has intrigued me over the course of the last year. However, both of those career tracks require more education, which in turn require more money, and seeing as I plan on taking a hiatus from the work force after Luke and I have our first child, it doesn't make sense to make those investments.

(We officially settled on that last part just Monday, by the way, and I may take Lost A Sock's suggestion to request that Luke put our new agreement in writing. I'm so excited about this I could pee all over myself, even though it means holding off on trying for a year or two while we pay off the Cobalt and accumulate a twenty-percent down payment for our first house.)

Who do you think is the "sexiest man alive"? Luke does not count.

Kiefer Sutherland. Have you seen 24? His "urgent, noble widower in need of a healthy roll in the hay, because my God, faking my own death means I've been celibate for the last eighteen months" persona is sooo my type.

Until now, I've been tackling these questions in order, but in light of today's answers, Jill's question is undeniably appropriate.

What would you do if you are not able to have children?

Upon first reading this, my first instinct was to laugh. I was at home, so I turned to Luke, repeated the question, and said, "What a pointless thing to ask. Of course we're having children." And I meant it. If Luke and I can't conceive naturally or with the aid of fertility drugs, we'll go the adoption route. Somehow, someday, we will have a child, even if it's years from now, even if it costs a lot of money, even if we have to steal someone else's. (I hope I didn't say that out loud just now.) There's no doubt in mind. I will be a mother, and Luke will be a father.

I know that's not what Jill meant, though, so I'll rise to the occasion and offer a more direct response.

First of all, if I couldn't bear a child, I'd be devastated. One of the things that most excites me about having a baby is producing a human being who'll bring together the best of what Luke and I have to offer. My curly dark hair, Luke's model-friendly height, our shared admiration for Zach Braff. I want a fat belly to rub my hands over that's not a byproduct of gas or too many Blizzards. I want to use one of our awesome baby names and push something through my vagina. Having to bid farewell to all those wants would be really, really hard.

If we couldn't have children by any means, though, it would admittedly be a lot easier to iron out the logistics of my life. Money would no longer be an issue, so I'd probably go back to school. I'd search for a job more emotionally satisfying and not place so much weight on the potential salary. I'd hire a personal trainer to whip me into the best shape of my life. Luke and I could travel to exotic places without depleting anyone's college fund. And we'd be the most attentive aunt-and-uncle team you ever saw.

It's not a life I would pray for in a million years, but it's a damn fine plan B.

Poking Two Belly Buttons With One Finger (Or Some Other Equally Non-Violent Phrase That Implies Multitasking)

After writing The Blog Entry Whose Length Rivals The Bible And Also Possibly Caused You To Question My Sanity, I'm grease-lightening things up around here with an entry that both answers the following question posed by Mrs. S:

If you could eat all you wanted of one thing and never get fat or lack vitamins or whatever, what would you eat?

and fulfills a long-time request of Isabel's. Yessiree, Frema fans, it's the moment you've all been waiting for. I'm going to share my spinach-dip recipe.

In a perfect, bubble-butt-free world, the one food I would trust my nutritional livelihood to wholeheartedly would be this deliciously green (my favorite color! Our partnership was so meant to be) concoction. Introductions took place on April 28, 2001, exactly seven days after the auction, at TGI Friday's, the location for Luke's and my first date, except we didn't call it a date because both of us were awkward and shy and still signing e-mails with corny salutations like "Your pal, Luke" or "Your buddy, Bree." We'd just been seated after a twenty-minute wait and decided on ordering an appetizer to combat a predictably lengthy wait. The only other time we'd shared a meal was at Pizza Hut earlier that week, and he let me order our pizza topping (pepperoni, which he hates, a tidbit I wouldn't be privy to for another two months), so I figured it was only fair for him to choose the appetizer.

"How about the spinach dip?" he asked.

Obviously it was a budding courtship; otherwise Luke would've already known about my aversion to foods beyond the staples of the American grill palate and my fear of any vegetable other then corn or green beans. However, eating preferences had inspired several arguments with my last boyfriend, who if permitted would've injected the taste of crab legs directly into his veins, so I gave it a go and offered my approval. Luke ordered it, I loved it, and he loved that I loved it, until I was championing for dip fixes for every dinner out. Or lunch. Or trips to Dairy Queen. Eventually, the time came for me to self-medicate.

Ingredients

1 pack of frozen chopped spinach
1 can of quartered artichoke hearts
1 cup of reduced-fat mayonnaise
1ish cup of Parmesan cheese
Several good shakes of cayenne pepper
Several good shakes of garlic salt
1 bag of blue tortilla chips

Before I go on, it's important to note I've made several revisions to the recipe found in Betty Crocker's red cookbook. For starters, there are TWO dip recipes featured: one using spinach as the base, and one using artichokes. The first one calls for several off-the-wall items like vegetable soup, water chestnuts, and green onions, and since I've never sampled a dip that included any of those things, I just use the second one and add spinach because it's simpler and I'm crafty like that. I double the amount of cheese because duh, cheese makes everything better, and I threw in the cayenne pepper and garlic salt because I thought it would pump up the flavah volume.

Directions

1) Preheat your oven for 350 degrees.
2) Remove spinach from cheap paper packaging and place in large bowl for dethawing in the microwave (usually for three minutes).
3) Press spoon against spinach to squeeze excess water from bowl.
4) Use food processor to "puree" artichokes.
5) Mix artichokes and mayonnaise together, then add the cheese, and lastly the spinach. Following this order will allow for an easier combining of elements.
6) Shake cayenne pepper over surface until the smell burns the inside of your nostrils. Shake garlic salt until it effectively compliments the pepper. (Don't worry about adding too much of either. That's what milk is for.) Mix well.
7) Bake covered for 25 minutes. Or uncovered, if you're the type of cook who routinely forgets that sort of thing.
8) Feast on the goodness.
9) Share the goodness with others in the form of natural gas.
10) Don't say I didn't warn you.

Contraception and Religion: Good Alone But Better Together

OK, so I've already failed my Recommitment to Emptying the Junk in My Trunk plan, seeing as I didn't make it to the gym in time for tonight's hip-hop aerobics class. (Will I ever make it to this class?) Instead, I came home and prepared the barbequed roast beef sandwiches as directed by my online dinner menu, courtesy of Betty Crocker's famous red cookbook. It turned out pretty well, and I was delighted to see the recipe categorized as both fast AND low-fat, though I still prefer the trunk-friendly Sloppy Joe.

But enough of this nutritional nonsense. There are more important things to talk about than what's simmering on my stove. For example....

(Per Silly Hily) What is one thing that Luke does that drives you nuts and he knows it, but he still does it b/c that's "just him"?

Before I answer this question, let me be clear on one thing: when it comes to pitching in around the house, Luke is The Bomb. He cooks and does laundry and scrubs mold out of the grout in the shower without making a fuss, runs spontaneous errands without blinking an eye, and packs a lunch for me every day. I know any questionable housekeeping tendencies he might keep are due to unintentional oversight or ignorance of their existence.

That being said, he tends to splash water everywhere whenever he washes up for bed, and when he engages in his weekly hair buzzing, those hairs somehow end up on the walls, in the sink, around the ring of the bath tub, etc. Perhaps they become invisible once they're detached from his scalp. Maybe they sprout minds of their own and embark on treacherous journeys from the garbage can to the previously listed destinations, just to the spite the bitch who's trying to bring them down. Who's to say? I've spoken to Luke about this, but apparently it's a mystery to us both. He also has a bad habit of spilling coffee grounds on the floor near the garbage can.

I'm going to stop now, lest my husband reveal to the Internet any of MY bad habits, like my resistance to showering after returning home from the Y because when I wake up my hair is clean, yes, but flat and bent at odd angles, so why bother taking a shower when I'll just have to take one again in the morning to combat it all?

Whoops.

Are you on birth control now?

That's the million-dollar question right there. Many of you will remember the freak-out I had over Very Mom's post about possible effects of The Pill. I had been happily subscribing to this method of birth control for approximately eight years, and it only took twenty-four hours for me to swear off chemical contraception for the remainder of my reproductive years. Some might view my stance as overboard, but it's what allows me to sleep at night, so there you go.

Luckily, Very Mom's post also offered information about natural family planning via Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health. It's similar to the rhythm method in that it encourages women to watch for internal signs that ovulation is about to take place, but it differs in that it dismisses the conventionally held truth that women's cycles are typically twenty-eight days, a truth perpetuated by many doctors even today. (I'm a thirty-four dayer myself, thank you for asking.) After discussing matters with Luke, we decided to purchase the book and use condoms while I gave myself a crash course in the significance of waking temperatures and cervical fluid.

In the last seven months, my "crash course" has translated into devouring exactly fifty-two pages, two of which are dedicated to detailed graphics of male and female genitalia. Meanwhile, we continue to pump hard-earned dollahs into the convenience and protection offered by the latex industry.

I'll be the first to admit the situation's less than ideal. Condoms are for teenaged prom queens who want to safeguard their chances of pledging to an Ivy League sorority, not college-educated, properly wed DINKS with the financial means to support a child. Right? I was never fond of physical barriers to intimacy before I was married. I certainly didn't want to implement them with the man who's promised to love me for as long as we both shall live.

Here's the sticky part: As much as I desperately want to have a baby, I also have expectations I desperately want to follow in terms of child rearing. Meaning, I don't want to have to utilize daycare, which admittedly has more to do with my own needs than the baby's. I know plenty of little ones thrive in structured environments where they're regularly introduced to other children and adults besides their parents. I don't think a woman's role is serving her husband barefoot and pregnant, and I don't think a mother who works outside the home loves her children any less. My friend Gina recently opened up her own dance studio, and during our last phone conversation I remember thinking, "If I had a job like that, there's no way I'd want to leave it." Though if I did, the whole dilemma would be moot because I'd be the boss and as such could keep my offspring at my side all the livelong day.

As a writer, I'm lucky. My current job, boring as it may be at times, offers a lot of flexibility, and good thing, too, because between Luke and me, I make more money, so if we received a surprise package from Mr. Stork, and it was necessary for our well-being to do so, I could definitely work from home, even though the idea of juggling newsletter deadlines and screaming babies on a full-time basis is less than appealing. I want to change the diapers do the feedings read Beatrix Potter stories dance to Baby Mozart anytime I want to, because babies are only babies for a short time, and I don't want to miss any of it. Not one single minute.

Until we can make that happen, until we're in a place where we can bring a brand-new person into the world and raise him/her in the way we're most comfortable, I don't want to take any chances.

(Now, I could have spared you all that drama and simply said yes, we use birth control, but what fun would that have been?)

Have you and Luke found a church or a common ground in that area?

Another happy topic! Last time I mentioned this, I gave the impression of freeing myself from the perceived restriction of religious labels, opting instead to embrace all the practices in which my relationship with God can be strengthened. Today? Luke and I agree that our family's spiritual formation will most likely take place in the walls of a Protestant church, and we agree we want to have them baptized as infants in said church, but that's been the extent of it because I'm terrified of the day I can no longer call myself a Catholic. There's no other way to say it, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. I know Luke is the man I want as both a husband and father (not my father, you sick bastard), and I have no doubts that God put him in my life to fulfill those roles for me. Therefore, I imagine He's counting on me to find a way to make it all work. I haven't yet. And that's all I have to say about that.

Did you watch Sex and the City? If so, which character are you most like?

At last, a serious question. I was beginning to think Hilary wasn't interested in who I am as a person.

According to this survey, I take after Miranda, which I'm pretty happy about because she has the snappiest comebacks, hottest husband, and the ability to deal with an unplanned pregnancy. However, her reputation is slightly tainted in my eyes due to the name she chose for her son. Sure, it was a nice gesture to give the kid Steve's last name, but by the end of the show they were married, and even if she kept her maiden name, what about the boy? Did he remain Brady Hobbes, or did he become Brady Brady? Seriously, if anyone can shed some light on this very important subject, you'll be rewarded with dreams of furry kittens and gobs of raw cookie dough.

Of course, if you made it to the end of this post, you pretty much deserve that, anyway.

Recommitting to Emptying the Junk in My Trunk

Luke and I spent part of our extended weekend in Chicago to catch up with family. When we stay in Chicago, we usually stay with my sister, and when we stay with my sister, I usually weigh myself because she has a scale and I don't and I have yet to gather the courage to ask somebody how to work the doctor's-office one stationed in the women's locker room at the Y. I'm not sure what I was expecting to see. I've already told you all about the points-counting thing dying a quick and painless death, and though I've been dragging my carcass to the gym, it's two or three times a week at best, where I mostly walk on the treadmill.

As of Saturday night, I weigh 140.5 pounds. I've gained a pound and a half since my last weigh-in.

I suspect the pint of Breyer's I was inhaling minutes before may have been a contributing factor.

To top it all off, Magda's texturizing comb has left my ends as frayed as if I'd just skipped the damn appointment altogether. Maybe she figured out I'm part Arabian?

Anyway, I had a good cry on the drive home but have since steeled my resolve to lose the fifteen pounds I lost through Weight Watchers the first time around. Only instead of counting points, I'm committing myself to three classes a week at the gym and at least one day on the treadmill, where I can give myself a break if/when I deem it necessary. I've also decided that the couch time dedicated to munching on pretzels would be better spent preparing real food. I browsed through some cookbooks on Monday and have created a dinner menu for every night this week. (I'm accounting for yesterday and today, even though Luke and I didn't make it to Super Target until tonight (after coming home from Prep Step--go me), and we'd already started thawing chicken for tomorrow, so things don't get interesting until near the tail end of the week.)

Monday: Spaghetti
Tuesday: Healthy Choice chicken gumbo and grilled cheese
Wednesday: Chicken
Thursday: BBQ roast beef sandwiches
Friday: steak and pepper fajitas
Saturday: Cantonese beef chow mein
Sunday: wild rice and mushroom soup

Before you criticize my food choices, keep in mind my main goal is to supress the urge to snack. Luke's taking care of the chicken tomorrow, but then I'm on kitchen detail until Sunday night, with the reasoning that if my hands are busy chopping vegetables and slicing pieces of steak, they can't reach into the pantry to wolf down a handful of chips. Also, the fajita recipe was located out of Good Houskeeping's Light and Healthy Cookbook (thanks again, Betty and Brooke!). Also also, minding portion sizes and emphasizing exercise should allow me to eat things like roast beef. Because I know you care, I'll be sure to take pictures and transcribe the more memorable experiences. (Confidential to Isabel: the spinach dip recipe is coming, I promise!)

As if treating you to Frema's Body-Image Chronicles weren't enough, I've decided to answer one of Silly Hily's questions. Don't thank me all at once.

If you could change one thing about your past, what would it be?

The fact that I was so damned insecure in my relationships. The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling--well, often went three weeks without calling, and I didn't have the guts to call him on it (pun a little intended). It took five years to end our make-up break-up cycle, only for me to hook up with Mike, only to trigger Trophy Frema for ten months my junior year in college.

I can see my willingness in volunteering my backside as a doormat caused a lot of the issues I faced with both men. Why should Nick have called when I was so quick to excuse his absences? Why should Mike have made an effort to know my friends when I was dropping them to hang out with his? I was so wrapped up in the intensity of our physical attraction and the status that accompanied having a boyfriend that I didn't allow myself to dwell on the quality of the boyfriends I had.

This played out in some of my platonic friendships as well; I was always so worried about what people thought of me and whether or not I was viewed as a good friend. I'm much better now, but that "old" part of me still resurfaces from time to time.

I'd keep going, but it's twelve-thirty in the morning, and Luke is about ready to rip the keyboard from underneath my fingerpads so he can get some sleep. For my sanity and his, peace out.

I guess the "watch what you say" disclaimer was a tad unnecessary.

Wanna know the perfect way to avoid embarrassment in the wake of an upcoming family reunion? Ignore your Internet friends and their attempts to draw intriguing information from the depths of your very soul.

In my defense, I had five AMC episodes to watch, one bowl of spinach dip to devour, and a shake-n-bake chicken dinner to make in celebration of Luke's return from Alabama (two meals in one week; I am on FIRE, baby!). Any remaining time was spent singing the lyrics to "Soul Provider," which is a pretty good indication of my future intentions regarding Celebrity Duets.

Luke and I are presently in Merrillville, having just returned from said reunion, and his parents have gone to bed, so I figured now would be a good time to bore you out of your skull.

Stacey asks:

What is your favorite book from your childhood?

The Pigman by Paul Zindel. I got it for Christmas when I was ten and finished it in one day. It's about two teenagers who befriend a lonely old man and learn important lessons about Life and Love. It also features a really cool anecdote about a woman who cheats on her husband with a sleazeball who lives on the other side of town and is faced with a dilemma when one night she has no payment for the return ferry home and the alternate route is patrolled by a homicidal maniac and her lover refuses to lend her the money and the ferryman refuses to float her a loan. Does she spend the night with her lover and risk public humiliation and divorce or brave the public road and face death at the hands of the highwayman? The woman chooses the alternate route and consequently death, and the Pigman asks John and Lorraine to rank the order in which each individual in the story is responsible for her death. The answers are supposed to reveal intimate aspects of each character's personality. Kind of like those quizzes in Seventeen.

Roxanne wants to know:

1. If you could be any famous person, who would it be? And why?

This one's tough, because while I've admired a number of celebrities, and imagined what life would be like as a celebrity, I've never put myself in anyone's shoes. If we were basing this answer solely on looks, I'd say Rachel McAdams because she looked gorgeous in Wedding Crashers. How I admire any woman who call pull off dark hair, fair skin, and red lips! However, with a little more thought, I'd say Jennifer Garner, who seems to be the Queen of Just Right. She's not the hottest woman in Hollywood, but she's very pretty in a normal, accessible way, and pulls off potentially troublesome side bangs with admirable ease. She's not A-list but manages a successful career with little hassle from the tabloids. I saw her on Oprah once with her mom and sisters and they seemed like a fun bunch, plus she scored herself a hunky husband and sweet little baby girl. I never would've named my daughter after a "chewing gum fanatic" who picks her nose in Gene Wilder's candy factory, but all those other things equal a life definitely worth stealing.

2. If you were stranded on a deserted island, which dessert would you want to have with you (can only pick one)?

Ice cream. Is that specific enough, or do I have to pick a flavor?

3. Do you buy generic or name-brand groceries (when there's a choice of both)?

Depends on what's being purchased. In my opinon, canned fruit tastes the same whether the label is Dole or Target's beloved Market Pantry, so I'll usually gravitate towards the cheapest brand on the shelf. However, generic cereal makes my skin crawl and I will NEVER buy it, not ever. Growing up, the type of cereal boxes in our pantry spoke volumes of our current financial situation; Fruit Loops equalled L.A. Gear gym shoes and happy mornings at the breakfast table, while Fruity O's meant white Keds from Payless and hours in the kitchen, poking at stale, rainbow-colored pieces of cardboard with passionate disgust. Generic cereal: Just Another Way For The Man To Stomp On The Human Spirit.

I'm going to stop here, partly because it's almost midnight, partly because I'm not sure if anyone's even checking blogs over Labor Day weekend, and partly because Silly Hily asked some thought-provoking questions that deserve my undivided attention. However, for Mrs. S., who asked for the low-down of how Luke and I fell in love: click here.

Wearing My Spaghetti Sauce With Pride

When I first told the Internet of my plans to revamp my online image, it was mainly due to Blogger's inability to consistently upload my photos. However, the idea of shying away from an domain with "blogspot" featured in the URL was planted almost two years ago, as I became more familiar with the blogosphere and discovered sites like Amalah and Dooce, sites whose authors stepped outside the boundaries of the written word in order to really own their designs. The seduction of personalized banners and categories and "About" pages have me primed to tear my clothes off while registering for a Typepad account.

I first started blogging in the winter of 2003 to fulfill a requirement for an autobiography class at DePaul, where I was in the midst of completing a master's degree in writing. I didn't really know what a blog was, but sharing stories and making a fool of myself on the Internet were two ideas I could totally get behind. When the class ended, a month passed before I created "Through the Looking Glass..." at this domain, composing entries of the Dear Diary, today I ate a ham sandwich variety because even though I didn't know what to write about, I knew I didn't want to stop writing. After a few months I changed it to "What're you lookin' at?" because Luke took this really fun picture of me at my sister's graduation party, so fun that I didn't feel comfortable attaching it to my profile until my title was equally spunky. Last July, after carrying on a fifteen-minute conversation with my boss wearing a glob of spaghetti sauce on my forehead, I was convinced that the name change was actually a warning from God Himself. Such a prankster, that God.

It was also around that time I began taking this genre more seriously as a means to improve my writing and attempted to produce more cohesive content. I gained a few readers in addition to the usual group of family and friends and relished in the extra teaspoon of attention. The first time I scored double digits in the comments section, I thought maybe it wasn't totally out of the question to hope I could do this for money, just like my blog idols.

Now here it is, a year later, and my blogging is sporadic, at best. I have yet to achieve Doocedom, or even Amalahdom, whose readership encompasses thousands of individuals around the world every day. The average number of comments I get varies between ten and twenty, and I'm still here at Blogger, because really, what business do I have soliciting advertisers to peddle their wares on this site when I can't justify paying a hosting service for a couple of hundred words a week for an audience of eighty-five people?

A few weeks ago, Silly Hily wrote about these same sorts of feelings, about coming to terms with the fact that she may never achieve Amalah status, and it resonated in the part of me that yearns to follow the footsteps of the Online And Famous, the part of me who has found it so easy to envy the bloggers who've made a real name for themselves, whose writing has inspired paying gigs with companies like ClubMom and Alpha Mom and BlogHer, which will uproot from California and move east for 2007, in my old stomping grounds nonetheless. When you read popular blogs maintained by popular individuals who name drop and vaguely draw attention to inside jokes and Internet drama over who's being trashed and post about the pitfalls of being a public figure and so on and so forth, it's hard at times not to feel like you're in seventh grade again, and I don't know about you, but I was a nerd in seventh grade. I was crying in bathrooms and sticking an index finger down my throat in seventh grade. Reliving those days isn't on my list of things to do.

When you get right down to it, even though most established bloggers handle their success quite graciously, and even though the possibilities for online writing are available to everyone if you just work hard enough, sometimes the pool seems very, very small.

(Very Mom wrote a fantastic post about all of this, by the way, and I love her for it, even though she describes her two-thousand-plus daily hits as "measly." I'd relinquish parental rights to my firstborn child for measly.)

(Also, jealous much?)

In the first paragraph, I linked to the entry where I first began discussing the use of "Fremanitis" as a possible theme for a non-Blogger site, and in the comments, Number Twelve expressed her love for my Frema alias and suggested I use the name as a branding device, just like so many of the well-established bloggers do. She said, "I think you've had food on your face for long enough."

After careful consideration, I disagree. Part of the reason I love "What're you lookin' at?" so much is the attitude it conveys, one of curiosity and defensiveness, skepticism and embarrassment. One that, under the surface, seems to say, "I want to know what you're lookin' at because I wish you were looking at me." I can think of no better way to encapsulate my awkward, B-list, Internet self.

Plus, the Swiss woodworking industry's already called dibs on Frema.com.

So I'm saying to hell with all of it. I'll pursue a Typepad account in the next month or two for no other reason than I want to, and my current title will stay, and I will continue my illicit affair with the "Refresh" button in Window Explorer, and squeal when my comments tracker goes up, because I like sharing stupid pictures of myself with people I don't know. Maybe I'll experiment with ads and maybe I won't. I'll do my best to attend BlogHer next year, and I'll ooh and aah over Internet celebrities just like when Bruce Willis passed my pretzel cart at Navy Pier in 1997, but more importantly, I'll strive to learn as much as I can about this bizarre form of writing that's revolutionizing the publishing industry. And I'll be sure to share that knowledge with all of you, because my sole complaint about the entries following the event we read about for weeks in various corners of the Web is, after all that hype, how little discussion there was about the conference's theme: How are your blogs changing your world? There were countless "I consumed alcohol with these people" links swapped back and forth, but I noticed only a couple of bloggers sharing any personal insights whatsoever. For a medium so ripe for the picking in terms of thoughtful discussion, I was very disappointed.

Then again, I'm also crushed that Scrubs and 24 won't air season premieres until January. Every rose has its thorn.

When Graphics Amateurs And Photoshop Collide

No, I haven't been drinking, why do you ask?

 

Admittedly, two banners revolving around "Your Mom" is a bit much. Even if she is deliciously charming.

In Frema's Shoes, Part The Second

Good thing I broke up the whole shoe series with a little post about pee, because apparently I have shocked some of you with the quantity currently in my possession. Which, COME ON, people. Two pairs were flip-flops that barely meet the criteria of footwear, and a couple of others were ones I've owned for two years or more. Plus, I work in an office, which justifies--no, necessitates--the many pointed heels.

To ease you back into this, though, I present to you first The Only Respectable Product I've Ever Seen Sold From A Fashion Bug, as promised. Also, before you gasp in the superficial materialness of it all, they were three dollars. As in one two three. Anyone who passes on buying shoes that get you change back on a fin should be taken out back and poked in the belly button.

The year was 2004, and I was desperate for a neutral wedge to compliment this red seashell-print skirt I found at New York and Company for eight bucks. (Another sale. Am occasionally shopping genius!) I heart them because they give the illusion that my legs start directly below my breasts and carry on straight to the center of the earth, and yet I loathe them with an equal passion, because the cork has no problem maiming my ankles with deep red gashes. I wear them about three times a summer, and seeing as this is our third summer together, all three of us, I believe I've more than made my money's worth. So what if I cry out in pain when I walk to the printer?

Another old friend, also from 2004. Out of my whole shoe collection, these bad boys are my most expensive pair at a whopping seventy bucks, purchased online at the Simple Shoe Web site. They have also become Frema's Most Worn Shoe Of All Time because of their versatility. You can wear them with any color except black and almost every pant style. Capris. Shorts. Khakis. Jeans of the pant and skirt variety. The leather has held up surprisingly well despite the many hiking trips they've taken through state parks all over Indiana. I'm guessing leather isn't meant to be saturated with water and sweat, but I, I am a rule breaker, and the sandals are powerless to protest.

Your basic black boots, purchased at Bakers last September so I could wear my comfortable, just-like-sweatpants gauchos from NY&C. The heel is thick enough that I don't trip over cracks in the sidewalk, and the toe is square enough that my toes don't throb from lack of circulation. Everybody wins!

Pair three of four from my Nine West spree, which I wear all. The. Time, as evidenced by the fraying straps. I have stripped my entire apartment in a frantic search for pair number four, which makes me think I passed them on to the folks at Goodwill. I must've reasoned that the heel was too high and the toe too pointy to wear them for more than twenty minutes without limping and using complete strangers as a human crutch and thus had no real purpose sitting in my closet. Like that's any excuse to part with a sexy stiletto.

Wedges I bought in April during my honeymoon shopping spree, which I happen to be wearing right now, and which I happen to be madly in love with. Jeans, skirts, capris--they're so darned adventurous!

Working for the institutional advancement and marketing office of a private college means you work a lot of fund-raising events, and during my three-year tenure as publications director for Saint Joe, I was obligated to attend the college's annual scholarship dinner, a fancy schmancy black-tie affair for potential donors hosted at the Sheraton in downtown Chicago. For dinner number two (according to these shoe posts, 2004 was a VERY good shoe year for me), I purchased a fiesty black cocktail dress that needed a fiesty black heel. So I bought these.

...And these, because even though the bow pair is cuter and better matched the sheen of my dress, this ankle-strap pair was easier to walk in. That night I ended up going with the bows, but these have also gotten their fair share of the night life. When I HAVE a night life, that is.

Another Payless find from That Fateful Year, which I usually pair with capris during the summer, but seeing as the soles of the shoe stick to my foot sweat, creating the Sole Bunch dreaded by women everywhere, I don't wear them that often.

My gym shoes, which have definitely seen better days. I have a hard time selecting an athletic shoe because they're either Too Wide or Too Narrow or Too Tight Around The Toes, but these Sauconys are perfect in every way. They've been especially patient with me as I experiment with aerobics classes at the Y. Last Thursday I finally took the plunge and attended hip-hop aerobics, only to find that the hip-hop aerobics instructor was out due to a Family Emergency, so the substitute taught us basic step instead. And not just Richard Simmons, twenty-minutes-of-sweatin'-to-some-oldies stuff. Pam is a Vietnam vet and has the muscle mass of a pre-governor Arnold Schwarzenegger with the body size of Nicole Kidman. It was a great class, and when Luke and I were in the weight room last night, she approached me on the treadmill, saying she was subbing for another instructor again and would be teaching basic step two and would I be interested in joining?

Turns out I was interested; however, completing forty-five minutes' worth of routines with no sign of matt time in sight was my first clue in figuring out "basic step two" actually meant "intermediate." Plus, I heard her use the word "intermediate" when describing the session to another member. Another big tip-off. I almost passed out from the sweating and puffing and moaning and medicine-balling (am I the first one to realize that the rhythms of vigorous exercise and sexual intercourse are exactly the same?). Damn sneaky vets who want me to work up to my potential. I hope to see Pam again tonight, for the real basic step, during her regularly scheduled time.

Finally, I leave you with the flops that died a quick but painful death outside of Don Pablo's last month. Even gobs of medical tape weren't enough to keep them from passing into The Great Beyond.

My mom is an Avon fanatic and saw these babies advertised as two for three dollars and calls them Zsa Zsas because they glitter just like Zsa Zsa Gabor. She offered to buy me a set, and I accepted, only Luke hates the shoes and their name and probably isn't as sorry as he says he is for stepping on my heel and breaking the strap. The black pair is still going strong, though, so we'll see who has the last laugh in the end.

In Frema's Shoes, Part The First

Before Luke moved in with me last year, I knew I had to make some changes to my then-current state of living. Using both sides of the closet to divide my clothes by season and function. Filling all four shelving units with my boxes and boxes of shoes. Not only did I donate about thirty percent of my wardrobe to needy family members and the folks at Goodwill, I also bid a sad farewell to almost half of my shoe collection. Back then, I thought I had a lot of shoes. Today, while photographing the "leftovers" for this exercise (yeah, I'm a little late, wanna make somethin' of it?), I realized something.

I still have a lot of shoes.

This entry is labeled Part the First because Blogger crapped out on me after uploading pair seven. There are still at least ten more, including a pair of "f- me" heels (trademark Number Twelve from this post) that were discovered to be missing just minutes ago thanks to this here project. They're in a Nine West box. You know, in case there happens to be an extra pair of Nine West shoes lying around your house.

And on with the show.

These shoes were purchased last summer and are one of four obtained at Nine West before I started work at the lab, in an attempt to adorn my feet with pretties that radiated Adulthood. The shoes were on sale for half off, so each pair cost me thirty-five bucks. Honestly, it's like I was ripping off the damn store. My mother thinks they're ugly. She calls them my Wicked Witch of the West shoes, which I wore straight through to October. This year? Not once.

Pair number two from previously mentioned shopping spree (number three is sitting on my home desktop waiting patiently for Blogger to pop a Midol and get back on the wagon; number four is somewhere with the missing Nine West box). These shoes look fantabulous with skirts and capris, but the heels of my feet have a bad habit of falling out of them when I walk, so I end up taking near-spills onto the ground. They're worth it, though, because they make my size-nine monsters look like wee, dainty things.

 

I first saw these in Bakers last July for forty-five bucks and cried my heart out, because I couldn't justify spending the money on a pair of shoes I had no outfit for. In September they were on the clearance rack for twenty dollars. I took it as a sign from God, hauled @$$ to the register, and didn't look back. They look great with jeans, when I feel sassy enough to wear them. Having a hard time pairing them with skirts, though. What material would appropriately balance out the darlingness of the darling little broach?

One of several finds from Payless that I'm surprised I've held on to this long. These guys are probably four years old and fit like a glove. Another great Jean Shoe. I've also matched them with a brown skirt and tights. I get compliments on these babies every time I wear them. I can't figure out why, because while I like them very much, I'll be the first to admit they look horribly out of style. Rounded toe! Chunky heel! Questionable stitching! But they're mine, all mine, and I will have them nailed to my chest when I'm eighty-nine years old and lying dead in my coffin and you can't stop me.

Well, maybe you could. Cuz I'll be dead.

Moving on.

Another pair that makes me scratch my head in wonder. When I first saw them in Bakers (aka The Poor Man's Nordstrom), I was looking for a casual brown shoe with no heel that I could comfortably wear with khakis and a collar shirt or sporty tee. The tops of these shoes fit my description perfectly. But WTF is with that sole, man? Are they heels or not? And all that rubber padding? The hell? Apparently, these issues weren't dealbreakers, though, as I bought them anyway, and I love them just as much as my other footy children, so there.

Flip-flops from JC Penney that I bought because I had a twenty-one dollar credit and I'm not the type of person who can walk into a store with free money and not spend at least a little bit of it. That was last year. I think there's still eight dollars left. I'm not a big fan of JC Penney, and you're probably not a fan of seeing my sweat stains, so let's keep going.

We're all big fans of Payless, though, aren't we? How could it be othewise when you know you have a fifty/fifty chance of unearthing the find of the century for a measly ten bucks? These things--they barely qualify as shoes, I know--these things went for nine dollars on clearance, and like a bad car accident, I could not turn away. Don't they just scream "Beachy Sherpa Gap"? No? Then maybe "Toss Me In The Garbage Already Because Your Big Toes Are Gonna Make Love To The Pavement Any Freakin' Day Now." Definitely that one.

I'm almost embarassed to say I wear these to work at least once a week, with khakis. I should be totally embarassed, now that you've seen I have more appropriate attire in my possession. Last year was all about making a good impression; I donned eighty-dollar slacks from The Limited and made my face up with foundation, blush, and eye shadow every single day. This year I'll wear the aforementioned khakis three days in a row and barely remember to take the shine off my nose. What do you think? Progression because I'm brave enough to brake the ties that bind me to the corporate world or regression because I don't value my feet enough to wear shoes with an actual shape? You be the judge.

Stay tuned, as Part the Second includes boots, a sandal that might be the only respectable product I've ever seen sold from a Fashion Bug, and approximately one zillion variations of The Little Black Heel. You're about to wet yourself with anticipation, I can tell.

Random Thoughts For Hump Day, With An Extra Serving of Bold

Music has always played a significant role in the shaping of my mood. Bruce Hornsby songs inspire reflection on days gone past, missed opportunities, and the day I made fun of Billy Hall in seventh grade for writing a love letter that featured lyrics from "Love Me Tender." (Sweet bastard. I was such a bitch.) "I'll Be Loving You" from New Kids on the Block reminds me of my childhood, when I would slow dance with my best friend's throw pillow and imagine it was Joey Joe's pudgy middle pressing seductively into mine. The last couple of weeks have involved hour-long drives to Bloomington to conduct press checks for some marketing materials, and I knew only a few CDs would have the special gift of preventing me from slumping over the wheel in a deep sleep. One of those discs is Justin Timberlake's aptly titled Justified. And I am not ashamed. In fact, I'm a bit evil, because the lyrics I'm about to share may in fact infest your brain for the rest of your life. They're that perky.

Now listen, I wanna try some right now
See they don't do this anymore
I'm a sing somethin', and I want the guys to sing with me
They go, "It feels like something's heating up, can I leave with you?"
And then the ladies go, "I don't know what I'm thinkin 'bout, really leaving with you"

Guys sing!

It feels like something's heating up, can I leave with you?

And ladies.... I don't know what I'm thinkin 'bout, really leaving with you

You're very welcome.

Have yet to join the Y. Will definitely join the Y and sign up for hip-hop aerobics. Will become the new J. Lo, white-bread style.

In exactly a week and a half Luke and I will have overnight visitors for the first time in months! Samantha and Dan are driving down on a Friday night and will stay until Sunday afternoon. We gonna tear this town UP, yo.

My face is breaking out more than ever lately, and it seems like Clean 'N Clear face wash isn't going to cut it. Some siblings of mine have had great success with Proactiv, but when I visited the site, it said the formula was created for young people between the ages of twelve and twenty-five. Not even thirty and already too old for acne medication? Then what the hell business does Vanessa Williams have peddling it via Guthy-Renker to women on the brink of menopause?

Luke and I are married two months today, the same day in which I actually uttered the words "I'm so glad we don't have children right now." Either I'm maturing or very, very drunk.

The unpredictable nature of Blogger in regards to posting images is grating on my last nerve, and may in fact provide the final push into setting up a "real" blog. But that option triggers a whole new slew of decisions that makes my nose hurt. TypePad or WordPress? What color scheme do I want? What will my header look like? Should I change the name of my site? Luke hates the name of my site, which I only recently discovered and has since made me want to cry a little bit. I thought it was jaunty.

Maybe I need a branding makeover? Fremanitis.com is open; my whole gimmick could center around edgy medical jargon. I could pose in photos with stethoscopes and thermometers and sport the General Hospital scrubs my mom found at a Chicago thrift store. I've even birthed possible taglines:

"The disease that keeps on giving."
"You likey."
"At least it's not syphilis!"
"Just what the doctor ordered...for YOUR MOM."

Or I could stick with Blogger and sign up for a lesson in Internet appropriateness. Ya think?

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

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

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

Frema's High School Musical: 1994-1998

“Mmmbop,” Hanson

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

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

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

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

“Bullet With Butterfly Wings,” Smashing Pumpkins

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

“Not the Doctor,” Alanis Morissette

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

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

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

“When You Come Back To Me,” World Party

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

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

“Alone,” Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories

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

“Who Will Save Your Soul,” Jewel

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

"Fade Into You,” Mazzy Star

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

“Push,” Matchbox Twenty

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

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

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

“Wannabe,” Spice Girls

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

“Talk To Me,” Wild Orchid

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

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

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

“As I Lay Me Down,” Sophie B. Hawkins

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

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

“Good Enough,” Sarah McLachlan

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

“The Roof,” Mariah Carey

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

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

“China,” Tori Amos

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

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

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

Change the World,” Eric Clapton

One of the best. love songs. ever.

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

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

“To The Moon And Back,” Savage Garden

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

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

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

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

I was SO too cool for school.

Settled

This blog is, at least. For now. On Tuesday I was overcome with an immediate desire to jazz up my template AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, a hard task when your html knowledge is limited to creating tags for bold and italic. Things got worse before they got better, to which at least one of you can testify, but it all paid off, because while thousands of bloggers have text boxes with rounded corners and a background color equivalent to the dried insides of your nose, my header is a really green shade of green.

My, but I have a way with words.

To make up for my skimpy number of entries this week, I solemnly swear to post in all my intoxicated-bachelorette glory before passing out in front of my sister's toilet this Saturday night. And also to report the results of my hair appointment. And whether or not I can still get into my wedding dress, as I'm scheduled to pick it up tomorrow. Oh, the suspense of it all!

Because I Always Honor The Wishes Of Very Pregnant Women

Tagged!

1) Isabel
2) Lost A Sock
3) Sista Sambo
4) Painting Chef
5) Silly Hily
6) Number Twelve (We miss you!)

What Is This Meme Ban Of Which You Speak?

OK, when I said memes would no longer be posted on this Web site, I was clearly out of my mind. How could I think such powerful literary devices discourage deep reflection, when it's because of the meme I recently discovered the true extent of my current religious development? No, really! In this entry I go on and on about how I'd never leave the Catholic church because no denomination is perfect and I'm above obsessing over spiritual labels and blah-de-blah-blah and now it looks like my offspring will become poster children for the contemporary WASP movement. Also, I was tagged by the Queen of Everything, people. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

Six Weird Things About Frema

1) I have a love affair with all writing utensils. Real-life companions can testify to the fact that I carry one in my hand at all times, even when I'm driving, which scares Luke, because what if I'm chewing on a pen cap and I have to bring the Cobalt to an abrupt stop and the cap forces my head back and scrapes off a chunk of the roof of my mouth? Pens have been found nestled in my jacket pockets, at the bottom of my purse, in the seat of my jeans, hooked to my shirt collar, and resting beside my dinner plate at Ruby Tuesday. And believe you me, this is PROGRESS, because when I was a kid, I was so infatuated with all things Bic that come bedtime, I couldn't deal with the idea of a seven-hour separation. I'd hold on to them while I slept, being careful to hide my hand under the confines of my pillow.

Slumber parties were the worst, because I'd have to work the pen into bed in phases--like, whoops, someone forgot to return the "Win, Lose, or Draw" marker to its proper place in the box! ...How'd that marker get on the floor? Hey, would you look at the crazy marker roll underneath the bed? So long, old friend! And only when the last girl had passed out was I brave enough to grab The Precious and hide it under the covers where it belonged. I broke myself of the habit before I reached high school, partly because I was afraid my parents would find out and stage a Party of Five-style intervention and partly because how many girls dream of revealing unhealthy fixations with phallic objects to potential Special Someones? Although now that I think about it, that could have helped me score my first French before the age of fifteen. Hmmm.

2) There's a tiny clear wart on the middle finger of my right hand, a wart that has accompanied me through the last five years of my life. I've purchased Dr. Scholl's several times to get rid of the damn thing once and for all but am ultimately too lazy to finish the treatment.

3) I have an irrational aversion to posting more than one blog entry per day. I'm afraid current and potential readers only look as far as the latest post on the site, so publishing a second within twenty-four hours would result in my earlier post getting lost in the vast white space that is the Internet, and what if my earth-shattering insights on The State Of The Nation or Why Daytime Soap Operas Should Be Made Available For DVD Distribution went unheard?

However, this fear did not stop me from posting My Adventures in Garbagedom on Monday. Or this very entry. I'm nothing if not flexible.

4) When I was younger, I used to wash dishes at the kitchen sink with my left foot propped on the side of my right kneecap. My family called it The Flamingo Pose, even though flamingos stand like this, not like this.

.

5) I think Cathy and Christopher's relationship in Flowers in the Attic is the most romantic pairing in literature. Also note that I consider Flowers in the Attic literature.

6) I can't turn left.

This is the point where I'm supposed to tag six people, but I'm exnaying that because memes just provide an excuse for capable writers to produce less than quality work, and I have better things to do with my work day than read about some poor schmuck's fear of peaches.

Hee.

P.S. Be sure to record Days Of Our Lives tomorrow, as Jason Chambers, aka The Gold Ceasar Guy From That Taco Bell Commercial, is scheduled to appear as the EMT who assists Bo in a noble rescue attempt to save Salem's finest from the local sewer system. Rest assured, Drama will ensue!

Shower The People You Love With Teenage Literary Drama Actually Geared Towards Pre-Pubescent Girls

Finally, the moment you've all been waiting for: the reveal of those individuals who fought long and hard for their chance to receive a small piece of Heaven that is Sweet Valley High. Number Twelve, Isabel, Lauren R., and Fraulein N., pull out your bangle bracelets, roll up the cuffs of your jeans, and prepare to be amused by the delightful antics of Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield as they learn about life and love with their crazy gang of bookworms, playboys, cheerleaders, and jocks.

Choosing a winner was really hard, not only because every woman is worthy of the wisdom SVH can bring, but also because only four people expressed any interest in receiving one, and how could I deem one gal's reason as more valid than another? I mean, would you be able to choose between a first-time mother about to go into labor versus a stressed out bride-to-be versus a working mom looking to make peace with the gaping hole in her teenage existence versus a woman who wants to reconnect with the series that introduced her to Linda Ronstadt? Cuz I sure couldn't. Also, I'm a little bit in love with all of you for leaving such great comments when you visit, so the idea of strengthening the Internet bond I feel we now share by declaring everyone a winner is really the best way to go. So, if I don't have your address already, be sure to send it to my gmail so we can get on with the sharing as soon as possible.

In other news, in case you couldn't tell by these blogs, Luke and I were given a totally awesome wedding shower by my sister and my parents. There was spiked punch, Frema's landslide winning of The Toilet Paper Game, and the congregation of blog readers and writers alike.

 

Lost A Sock, Number Twelve, and me.

Auntie Betty, Ryan, and Brooke. Unlike her digital-photo companions, Ryan is not a faithful reader of this blog, but I didn't remember to get a picture of Betty and Brooke together, so there you go.

Our towel cake. I have never heard of such things being used outside of weddings in my family, but apparently to someone they are a traditional element of bridal showers, and my mother has taken it upon herself to carry this tradition on with us. Yes, my momma made that, with her own two, carpel tunnel-ridden hands, no less. Talk about having a kick-@$$ heirloom to pass on to your kids.

Edited to add: OMG, I can't believe I forgot to showcase the coolest readers of all. Our families! Here we are with Luke's parents, Daddy D. and MJD. Don't be surprised if both sides ostracize me for making such a fatal error in judgement.

Samantha and me. She's been the best matron of honor a girl could ever ask for.

Sunday was the day we met with our pastor for the first of two premarital counseling sessions, which took place in Joe's Crab Shack after the late-morning service. A man of many opinions but few words, Pastor Tim's message to us was simple: remember what brought the two of you to this point and never lose sight of it, no matter what. Be aware of what your partner loves most about you and work hard to nurture that part of yourself. And finally, "Take a good, long look at the person sitting next to you, because that's all you need to make your marriage successful. Each of you will serve as an anchor for the other."

It was a new experience, sitting in front of a person who didn't know the details of our relationship and yet listening to the best advice on marriage I'd ever heard. And explaining to him what it is about Luke that I love so much moved me in a way I didn't expect. It was as if I was looking at him in a new light. Luke is prepared to love me for the rest of my life. He'll be by my side through new jobs and the birth of our babies and the loss of my parents and the purchase of our first home (though hopefully not in that order). We'll celebrate second honeymoons and golden anniversaries and the beauty of compounding interest with our 401(k)s. And one day, after we've retired and our children are grown, we'll be like those sweet little couples I see walking hand-in-hand down the street, shuffling along at a snail's pace, barely talking, happy enough just to be in the presence of the other. Thinking about it chokes me up inside, because I know how lucky I am to have crossed paths with a man of Luke's caliber; I know some people go through their whole existence never being part of such a happy accident, never knowing what it feels like to be loved so intimately and so completely by another human being. That feeling is the best reason I have to bow my head and give thanks to God.

On that note, I leave you with the most unique gifts we received on Saturday, courtesy of our beloved Number Twelve:

SVH And Life Lessons? Not So Much.

Hmmm. So my "share a life lesson from your Sweet Valley High reading experience" thing hasn't gone over so well. You're obviously in more need of SVH wisdom than I thought, so the WORST thing I could do is deny you access for silly reasons like literary amnesia.

I'm tired, people. All the pondering and reflecting has apparently zapped my motivation to make you jump through hurdles. Just tell me why you want the freakin' books, OK? The blogger who makes the most compelling argument wins. And there might even be a runner-up prize, because I possibly perhaps maybe ACTUALLY own three copies of Number 9.

Go.

Booked. Also, Slightly Less Freaked. I Think.

Two rooms at this hotel for the Sunday and Monday night after the wedding, with additional plans to stay over in Michigan that Saturday and Tuesday, to break the eight-hour drive up a little. Today I received permission from my boss to take a week-and-a-half break from work beginning with the Wednesday before the wedding, which allows me some time to sort through last-minute reception details and also have one week where Luke and I can simply enjoy our new married status. As I look at the calendar, I realize by this time in May I'll have been Mrs. Useless Clutter for almost two weeks. Wow.

And I'm feeling good. We've been doing a lot of reading on different Christian denominations, attempting to pinpoint our non-negotiables. It's harder than you think. For example, Catholicism believes in the Assumption of the Blessed Mother--that her physical body was transported into Heaven in addition to her soul. It teaches she was a virgin throughout her life, despite being a married woman. There are prayers for Mary, special devotions and stories about her appearing to St. Bernadette of Lourdes, the children of Fatima, and other faithful Catholics around the world.

However, in the Protestant tradition, Mary is regarded simply as another saint in the communion of saints. The "foremost of saints," according to this Web site, but Luke didn't learn the Hail Mary. He never prayed the Rosary. For him, there was no Assumption, no perpetual virginity on her behalf, because there is no basis for either one in scripture. And if there's no basis for this in scripture, why is the church teaching it? Where did these ideas come from? Church officials? Those who saw her? While we're asking questions, do I truly believe these miracles took place? If I do, how could I not raise my children in Catholicism, if it turns out no other denomination of Christianity supports them? And if I don't, how could I not leave the church?

I'm working ideas out even as I type this, so obviously I don't have any answers. For the first time in my life, I'm taking the time to question my beliefs and how they came to be regarded as truths by the Catholic church. Can you believe I got through parochial high school and college without knowing the whole perpetual virgin thing? I may not have given anything up for Lent, but I don't think it's a coincidence my religious exploration is taking place during the same time Jesus was dealing with some difficult issues of his own.

And throughout all of these hard questions, questions that might lead to answers that surprise us both, Luke still wants to be my husband. Despite my recent tendency to subject our relationship to the unforgiving glow of the pre-marital microscope, he's not once doubted his decision to make a commitment to me that will last the rest of our lives. "Are you sure you want to marry me?" I say after filling our apartment with post-sloppy joe flatulence. "Are you sure you want to marry me?" flys out of my mouth after sharing that I can't really consider other religions before I've thoroughly investigated my own. But no matter how many times I ask the question, no matter how many ways I ask, his answer is always the same. Yes. Yes. Yes. Words can't express how grateful I am that he continues to have such faith, in himself, in me, in us.

Even more earth-shattering than my personal spiritual journey is that we were able to enjoy drinks, steak, and ribs on Saturday night courtesy of Vibes Music, which shelled out EIGHTY DOLLARS for two stacks' worth of used CDs, the titles of which escape me now. I can, however, tell you what they *didn't* take: The Best of Piano by Candlelight Volume 2. Jamiroquai's Synkronized. Lenny Kravitz's Five. The Spice Girls' appropriately titled disc, Spice. Thus, I'll spend at least part of this week hunting down alternative sources through which my questionable musical taste can be savored by the masses.

Lastly, in regards to the SVH contest: forget about another quiz sure to stump friends and family alike, because I just took the damn thing again as "Frema" and only scored an 80. Apparently when I made the quiz last March I was still high on Spider-Man 2 and thought Toby Maguire had more sex appeal than Kiefer Sutherland; now I'm seriously wondering where my brains were at because who doesn't agree Kiefer Sutherland and his urgent scratchy voice are the hottest things ever to grace the Earth? If I had a list like this, he'd be number one, hands-down. If I had one. Which I don't, Luke. Just saying.

ANYWAY, the contest. Let's try this: Why don't you tell me about an important lesson you learned from Francine Pascal's endearing-yet-often-simplified-and-over-the-top series? Like, I just reread Forbidden Love, where Maria and Michael get engaged even though they're not supposed to be dating because of some Romeo and Juliet type feud their parents are involved in. They have to do this project for history class where they pretend to be married for two weeks and manage a budget and deal with problems facing their imaginary children. Michael learns that Maria doesn't want to be a housewife and Maria learns that Michael is comfortable using "belt therapy" to correct their son's juvenile delinquency. In the end, they break up, the families reunite, and Maria ends up dating Winston Egbert.

The lesson? Who cares? I still can't get over Sweet Valley High sanctioning the teaching of marriage and family values in history class. But you'll do a much better job than me. To the best answer, the spoils.

Fasten Your Seatbelts, 'Cuz You In For A Wild And Incoherent Ride

I feel like there's a lot for me to talk about: losing myself in memories as I sort through pictures for a wedding slideshow. Digesting the results of my cholesterol test. Painting my toes for the first time since June. But all I can think about are babies.

On January 19, I stopped taking the pill. I stopped because Luke and I want to prepare my body for some baby-making magic. I stopped because this post had me sobbing at my cubicle, horrified at the possibility that in my quest to prevent pregnancy I'd actually terminated one. Never mind that one of us is looking for work and we're not married yet; hell, we don't even know when we want to start trying. I stopped because I couldn't live with myself otherwise.

Seeing as I'm already five steps ahead my biological clock, I figured, why not jump over a few more flights by opening up the whole "stay at home or go to work" can of worms? It's all around me. I see truly wonderful women and how their lives have been transformed by the decision to raise their children full time. I read stories from courageous working mothers who place their children in day care to provide a life they wouldn't be able to otherwise.

So when Dooce wrote this post on Monday in response to a "Good Morning America" guest who declared that children with stay-at-home mothers are no better off than those placed in child care, I felt comforted that I wasn't the only one who couldn't erase this concept from my head. Heather opened up comments for the first time in over a year to encourage feedback, and to date more than fifteen hundred people have shared their experiences about the pros and cons of both. Not one to pass up an opportunity to share Deep and Meaningful Thoughts, I posted a comment that sort of attempted to kind of answer the following questions Heather posed:

• Did your mother stay at home? Did she work? How did you feel about what she did?
• If you could change anything about what she did what would that be?
• What do you hope your daughters grow up to do?

I present to you my Deep and Meaningful reply, which really wasn't Deep or Meaningful but sort of rambled on about baking cookies and selling my soul to Sallie Mae.

During my childhood, my father worked odd sorts of jobs--cab driver, flower guy on the highway--until he became a firefighter for the Chicago Fire Department when I was seven years old. In addition to this, he spent his time away from the firehouse doing construction jobs on the side. And for 95 percent of this, my mother stayed home. Just last fall she took a job with my youngest sister's former elementary school as a bus monitor. She works from about ten to four and loves saying that she has somewhere to go during the day and that she can finally contribute to their finances.

When I was younger, our house (apartment, actually) was the one where all the neighborhood kids wanted to be because my mom was one of the rare few who stayed home. She made cookies, cooked dinner, knew our friends and our schedules. In high school I was a good kid but got pretty wrapped up in my first real boyfriend, and if it wasn't for her constant nagging on where I was, who I was going to be with, were parents going to be around, etc., there's a good chance I'd be the mother of a 10-year-old child by now, fathered by a man who was unemployed and still living in his mother's basement by the time I finished my bachelor's degree.

When I was younger, I always thought my mom stayed home because my dad wanted her to. It wasn't until I was older that I realized she was exactly where she wanted to be. However, since they had me so young (19) and struggled for so long, neither of them had the chance to further their educations, which is why they're both so adamant about all of us kids going to college. I wish BOTH of them could've done that.

My fiancé and I are getting married in May and know we want to start our family soon. I have a master's degree and job that has great pay and benefits, but I want to be a SAHM so badly I could cry. However, I'm not willing to sacrifice everything to do that. I want to have the means to be able to help them pay for college so they're not drowning in debt after graduation. I'm paying over five hundred dollars a month to Sallie Mae because my parents had four other mouths to feed in addition to mine and there was no extra money for stuff like that. I'm not angry about it, but that doesn't mean I want my kids to be in the same position. Also, I want Luke and I to have a retirement account. My parents have always lived paycheck to paycheck, no savings, so they don't have anything but my dad's pension to depend on. They're nervous about that. I don't want that to happen to Luke and me.

Once they actually exist, I hope my children have the means to make the best choices for their families, whatever those choices may be. And I really, REALLY hope they aren't saddled with debt. :)

I know. A half-hour for THAT?

It wasn't until after hitting "Publish" that I realized these paragraphs in no way came close to describing how much I love and respect my parents for their decision to place us first--above new cars, fat savings accounts, trendy clothes, nights out, even above their own free time, so that we could experience the kind of life they thought we deserved. How amazing.

Because I read so many "mommy blogs," I also read a lot of comments from women defending the side of the fence they live on, whether they stay at home or go to work or breastfeed or bottlefeed or cosleep or whatever, because no matter what choice you make, someone is going to damn you. And I'm torn. I believe nobody will love and care for Lucy like I do, but it won't kill her if someone else is in charge of changing her diaper from nine to five five days a week. That she's only little once but will need me more when she's in fifth grade and offered a cigarette, or when she's seventeen and unsure if she wants the guy she's been dating for six months to be her first. I think some families complain they can't afford to live on one income because they're afraid of life without two cars or TiVo, but I also think Lucy should be able to earn her bachelor's degree without having forty thousand dollars of debt to her name. Five or ten? No problem. But not forty.

To anyone still reading, I apologize, because I'm sure after thirteen paragraphs you rightfully expected to glean some interesting philosophical insights. I don't have any interesting philosophical insights. I don't even have kids! What I do have are overwhelming emotions that are very possibly the result of my first chemical-free period in six years and the burning desire to be a mother. But not just any mother. A good mother. A loving mother. Someone like MY mother.

We'll see.

Beauty and the Prick

The beauty is ... well, me. The prick is from the nurse's needle that broke the surface of my skin yesterday because, after two weeks of insurance glitches, I said to hell with Anthem and their refusal to hand over my new insurance card and just kept the damn appointment to follow-up on my cholesterol.

(Or by the time I remembered to call and cancel on Thursday, the doctor's office was already closed and my appointment was the first one of the day and I didn't want to piss off the nurse because she's nice and all but has a bit of a Homie Don't Play That complex. Would you want to trigger the Homie in your health care professional? I didn't think so.)

Anyway. I get to the office and engage in some friendly banter with the receptionist, who's become a kindred spirit through all this insurance nonsense, and then I get weighed, and then I get pricked, and then I twiddle my thumbs until the doctor delivers the verdict.

Turns out he's got good things to say. While the actual test results won't be available until early next week, he reports that I've lost four pounds since my last visit, a sure sign that my cholesterol is on its way down. He said that I'm the exception, because most people who come in for this kind of follow-up have either gained weight or simply refuse to be weighed, a sure sign that they fell off their diets. He congratulated me for making such great progress and left instructions to call on Monday for the numbers.

And the whole time he's talking, all I can think is: there's no way I lost four pounds. No. freakin'. way.

Because at my last visit, I remember the nurse weighing me in at 133, and that made me ecstatic, because on the visit before THAT I was 139, and I said, "I lost six pounds?" and because she has a Homie Don't Play That complex, she wasn't about to patronize me, so she said, "Let me check on that," and then a few minutes later she was all, "You're right!" And then I cried tears of joy into the camera and thanked the Academy for making this miracle possible.

At yesterday's visit, I weighed 135, which at first didn't bother me because I was on day two of my cycle and therefore blamed the extra poundage on Aunt Flo's water-retaining suitcase. That is, until Mr. Doctor started talking about extra weight sentencing patients to cholesterol hell. THEN it totally bothered me, and twenty-four hours later, I still can't tell which of us is the crazy one. Was that glorious visit a figment of my imagination, or did Mr. Doctor skip over the last page in my file?

Who knows. It no longer takes three jean wears for the denim band to accommodate my pouch, so maybe he's on to something. Either way, I'll find out next week. Cross your fingers.

In other news, I cannot BELIEVE I forgot to mention last week that Amalah answered my question on the Wednesday Advice Smackdown! Here's how it happened:

Last Thursday I was checking my Gmail, minding my own business, when I discovered the following message:

Hello!

So I read your comment AGES AGO about having a question in the July batch of advice emails (Right? Am not hallucinating this?) (Man, I gotta cut back on the shrooms.), and I was all, "Oh! Frema deserves special treatment, because I love her!" So I was decided that your question would be the next one I answered.

Except...um...I don't seem to have it. Which is probably completely my fault -- I may have not labeled it correctly or something. So! I would like to answer your question, either the original one or any other new question of your choosing, since you know, JULY.

Bah.

Amy

And I was like, "Holy crap! The goddess of the Internet is talking to ME!" So I wrote a really long reply that spelled out my question of what to do about sunburnt shoulders, originally submitted because I was wearing a strapless dress in my sister's wedding and needed advice on how to cover them up. I went on to tell her that now is actually the PERFECT time to be answering this because I'm getting married in May and the dress is strapless, thus resurrecting the problem all over again. I may or may not have ended my monologue with, "This e-mail will stay in my Gmail box FOREVER." Nerd.

And then, heavens to Betsy, I was on Amalah.com.

Amalah did a great job of whittling my rambles down into a short and comprehendible read, though there are a few words peppered here and there that only those privy to my original e-mail would understand. But still, me! On Amalah.com! Mine was the last question, so do a little scrollin' and witness the glory for yourself. Also, if you read the comments, you'll notice our own Number Twelve was the first to post. A happy, happy day.

Aww, You Guys...

In honor of 1992, I'd like to say, Boy, do I feel salty.

I wrote the first couple of sentences leading into yesterday's entry mainly as a joke, to point out the types of things people are willing to comment on, so imagine my surprise when you all felt you had to defend yourselves for not announcing your presence. However, another part of me was looking forward to seeing what kinds of comments the soul-baring might bring about, like maybe other married people would share the thoughts THEY had running through their heads when they were getting ready for the altar, or what they thought about those close to them when they went through it, and I kind of hoped my comments section would bear witness to some sort of Lifetime love fest with all the relating and the reflecting and the wisdom-sharing, so I was a little bummed when that didn't happen. Anyway, didn't mean to call you out, homies. That's what DeLurking Week is for, and you all did wonderfully for that. I don't think I ever actually said thanks for reading, so seriously, thanks for reading. I love those of you who visit and say nice things, and even those who say snotty things, because it means somebody's paying attention.

In the almost two years that I've been maintaining this site, I have been transformed. Before I knew blogs existed, I had dreams of writing but no motivation to do so. What was the point in pouring energy into a first draft that would need countless revisions when I had no way to share it with anyone short of a book deal? If I was only in this for myself, I'd be content just listening to the tangents that run through my head all day long. This Web site allows me to make myself heard, so there are no excuses. It's write or bust.

And for the most part, I do. Incidents that were once dedicated to a few lines in e-mails to friends are now fodder for Internet comedy. Now I have a reason to bother tackling deep thoughts once deemed too hard to verbalize. Now I can make them tangible to the entire world. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have a real shot at achieving my dream of becoming a published writer, even if "publishing" means nothing more than hitting a button in my Blogger account so that my "essays" can be sought after by those with PC access and a few spare minutes to kill every other day.

Today I'm slightly nervous about the state of my blog, seeing as it's 99 percent likely that Amalah will answer the question I submitted in July for her Wednesday Advice Smackdown, and her Web site is to me what Ann M. Martin is to children's literature and pre-teen baby-sitters born after 1980. I feel like I need to do something special in case she stops by, like blow out my Internet hair and pick out the broccoli that's stuck between my two front Internet teeth.

Except that broccoli will never get stuck between my teeth. I hate broccoli.

All My Videotapes

Before I begin, I have to acknowledge a couple of things:

1) Yesterday I found the business card of the DJ in partnership with her dead husband, and listed under Acts was "Little People." This has cinched my "Don't Call Us, We'll Call You" gut reaction, though a sliver of me is curious as to the events that would transpire at my wedding reception if under their wing. A belly-dancing dwarf would make a nice addition to the wedding album, don't you think?

2) Two important people in my life recently jumpstarted their own journey into the land of the World Wide Web, as documented on Lost a Sock and The Magic of Books. What most stands out to me about these women is that they've both contemplated this move for months but put it off because, as mothers of young children, they felt they didn't have the time. However, so powerful were their creative urges that they had no choice but to surrender to the seduction of the Internet.

Which kind of brings me to me, someone considered to be pretty busy herself, what with a job, fiancé, wedding in the works, teenage girl to mentor, and possible career change on the horizon (another post, but soon, I promise). My personal free time is limited to only a few hours a week and must be used wisely. Therefore, I have executed another bold decision:

The discontinuation of my All My Children recording.

...

OK, so maybe this doesn't inspire the kind of heart-stopping uproar my cable-scrapping did, but this is a huge milestone in the Frema-Useless Clutter household. Back when I had cable, I had SoapNet. I loved SoapNet. I could spend some time recovering from work before watching my favorite daytime characters in action at seven o'clock every night. Miss a show? No worries! SoapNet understands that life gets in the way of television; that's why they re-run the entire week's worth of episodes on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon, giving you three chances to enjoy the comings and goings of the residents in Pine Valley. While I waited for little hand to strike seven, I passed the time by watching 90210, Melrose Place, and Days of Our Lives. Afterwards, if I was trying especially hard to avoid my required reading for school, I became re-aquainted with General Hospital.

What started as a piqued interest in a baby switch soon grew into an obsession. There were stacks of VHS tapes featuring weeks worth of episodes that had to be viewed before commiting to current storylines. Once I spent the entire weekend on the couch, ooohing and aaahing over staged love scenes and giving my thumb an intimate remote-control workout. I was bragging to coworkers that I hadn't missed an episode of AMC in almost a year. Scary stuff.

And then I moved to Indianapolis and realized I couldn't afford cable. Poof! went SoapNet. Poof! went the dedication to shows I had to sneak to watch as a kid. Poof! went AMC until recently because I was too lazy to program the VCR. And now it has Poofed! again.

Will I miss it? Hell yes. I like Pine Valley. I like watching people fall in love and out of love and poison their neighbors and kidnap their own baby because her first ex-husband said he died in childbirth but really was given to his barren sister on One Life to Live. It's easy to forget wedding dress worries and the realization that you're in the wrong field when you're nursing a bowl of Breyer's on the couch with the likes of Erica Kane, a woman far too sophisticated to be trapped in an abandoned wearhouse minutes before she's scheduled to interview Geraldo Rivera on her new talk show.

But the tapes, they've started piling up once again, and it hit me that spending three hours catching up on shows that aired around my birthday is not the best use of my time. For Luke, for my wedding, for my own sanity, it's time to cut the cord.

For now.

The Retiring of the Meme

But first things first: the wedding dress.

I did not get a wedding dress. I DID, however, get a good dose of what happens when two very emotional people fumble through a miscommunication the night before a very emotional day. In short, the new shopping date is this Saturday at 1:00 p.m. And come hell or high water, a dress WILL be purchased. I don't care if I'm the only one who shows up and all the dresses are at least a thousand dollars and the color options are limited to bubble-gum pink, baby blue, or gray. Then bubble-gum pink it is.

While we're on the topic of unnatural coloring, a big thanks to everyone who had nice things to say about the hue of my roots. You'll all be happy to know that I have already scheduled my next cut and color with Brenda, which just happens to be the morning before Luke's and my wedding shower, which just happens to be on April Fool's Day, which just happens to be freakin' hysterical to me.

Now, on to business. The memes and I, we've had a blast. They've provided me an outlet through which to bare my soul about my five-year history, the Devil, and tapioca pudding. But the following meme will be the last I post on this Web site. Why? Because as much fun as the little buggers are, they don't inspire my best writing, and one of my goals this year is to really put my best foot forward in each entry, to give each post a purpose, even if that purpose is to simply vent my frustrations via one mangled run-on sentence or picture of me bearing an eerie resemblance to Severus Snape. That one sentence and one picture could tell more about Me than a blog survey ever could.

Here we go.

7 Things I’d Like To Do Before I Die

1. Marry the love of my life
2. Give him some babies
3. Find a job I truly love
4. Publish something not associated with urine
5. Jumpstart my own Web site, sans Blogger
6. Find eye makeup that eliminates The Crease
7. At least try on a wedding dress

7 Things I (Currently) Cannot Do

1. Declare myself debt-free
2. Finish The Chronicles of Narnia (In case you haven't noticed, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader has been featured in my sidebar for like, seven months)
3. Sleep through the night without going to the bathroom at least twice
4. Tolerate seafood
5. Stop staring at my engagement ring
6. Book a DJ
7. Go one week without bawling about Life's Injustices Regarding My Special Day

7 Things That Attract Me To Blogging

1. The challenge of finding something meaningful to say at least three to four times a week
2. Instant publishing gratification
3. The ability to post an entry in draft form and tweak it at my whim
4. Making connections with a unique community that, for the most part, puts it all out there
5. Comments, both giving and receiving
6. Learning from the experiences of others
7. Having something else to do at work

7 Things I Say The Most

1. "What are you, eight?"
2. "You know, for shits and giggles!"
3. "May 12, 2006."
4. "Thank you."
5. "I love you."
6. "Quit making that face, I hate it when you make that face!"
7. "Hooray!"

7 Books I Love

1. Flowers for Algernon, Daniel Keyes
2. Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand
3. The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
4. Animal Farm, George Orwell
5. Flowers in the Attic series, V.C. Andrews
6. Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling
7. The Complete Series, Beatrix Potter

7 Movies I Watch Over and Over Again

1. When Harry Met Sally
2. The Wedding Singer
3. High Fidelity
4. Father of the Bride
5. Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery
6. While You Were Sleeping
7. Alice in Wonderland

7 TV Shows I Thank God For

1. Friends
2. Sex and the City
3. 24
4. Scrubs
5. The Suze Orman Show
6. All My Children
7. My So-Called Life

(I made that last one up because I don't want to steal Number Twelve's tagging thunder. She and I were both originally tagged by Lisa, so I know it's coming soon.)

Until I Can Come Up With Something Better...

...I invite everyone who reads this blog to leave behind a little hello. You have no idea how much your comments brighten my day.

Not sure what de-lurking is? Here's a definition:

De-lurk: v. to come out of the blog-reading closet and acknowledge your www presence with a comment. Frema will cry into her container of beef stew if you don't de-lurk this very minute.

While you're at it, please tell me how long you've been reading and which entry you've enjoyed the most. After a year and a half of verbally exposing myself, sometimes I still feel like I'm grabbing at air.

Checklist for the Ghetto Fabulous

An e-mail forwawrd courtesy of Donna Lyn, my twelve-year-old sister, the only sibling who can say things like "holla atcha gurl" without appearing whiter than a slice of Wonder Bread.

You Know You're Ghetto...

1. If you've ever used an album cover for a dustpan.
2. If you've ever run a race barefoot in the middle of the street.
3. If you had a candy lady in your neighborhood.
4. If you ever had to pick your own switch or belt.
5. If you have ever had to walk to school or walked home from school.
6. If you have ever used dishwashing liquid for bubble bath.
7. If you ever mixed Kool-Aid one glass at a time because you got tired of other people drinking up the Kool-Aid you just made.
8. If you have ever played any of the following games: Hide and Seek, Freeze, Tag, Momma May I? or Red Light Green Light.
9. If your neighborhood had an ice-cream man.
10. If you refer to "Now and Later" candies as "Nighladers."
11. If you've ever run from the police on foot.
12. If you've ever had reusable bacon grease in a container on your stove.
13. If the batteries in your remote control ever been held in by a piece of tape.
14. If you have ever worn any of the following: Brute, Hai Karate, Jean Nate, Old Spice, Chloe, English Leather, Stetson, Charlie, or Faberge.
15. If you've ever used Tussy.
16. If you've never been to the dentist.
17. If you have a friend or family member whose nickname is one word said twice: dee-dee, man-man, kay-kay, lee- lee, ree-ree, ray-ray, nay-nay, etc.
18. If you have ever paged yourself for any reason.
19. If you've ever worn house shoes outside of the house.
20. If you add "ED" or "T" to the end of words already in the past tense (for example,Tooked, Light-Skinneded, kilt, ruint, etc)
21. If you use 'n'em to describe a certain group of people (for example Craig'n'em or Momma 'n'em)
22. If you've ever driven on a donut more than two weeks after your flat.
23. If your child drops his/her pacifier and you sanitize it by sucking it.
24. If you have ever slept in a chair to avoid messing up your hair.
25. If you've ever left a social gathering with a plate.
26. If you can't hold a glass because of the length of your nails.
27. If the gold teeth in your mouth spell words.
28. If you don't have your own place but your child had a leather coat and a pair of Jordan's.
29. If you constantly hit *69 and ask, "Did you just call here?"
30. If you think Tupac is still alive.

What I find most disturbing about this forward is the fact that participating in childhood pastimes like Hide and Seek is just as ghetto as having a lack of pride in your dental hygiene. Other thoughts: Do pre-teens even know what albums are? Who says "Nighladers?" And since when did the simple act of walking become synonymous with pimphood?

I feel old.

Not Your Momma's Paper-Towel Spokesperson

I found this link on another blog and spent the better part of a half-hour last night nearly wetting my chair. Be sure to click on "Innocent Escapes" to watch one-minute snapshots of just how Perfect a Perfect Man can be. I can't decide which of them I love best--the one where he compares my beauty to that of a doe or convinces me that frivolous purchases are really a gift for both of us.

Note: The Brawny Man's soft, Kiefer Sutherland-like raspy voice allows these gems to be viewed at work, as long as you can master the volume level. Not that I'm advising you to cheat your employer out of labor time by engaging in non-productive Internet activity. Except that really, I totally am.

Addendum: I was so easily drawn in by The Brawny Man's rugged sexuality that I neglected to realize each video shot is actually a subtle promotion for the paper towel itself. Catching spiders, opening pickle jars, drying off after an unfortunate faucet incident.... All a calculated scheme to entice me to purchase more product. And you know who noticed that? Luke. It would have served him better to take notes. I mean, it is too much to ask to write a song about my haircut?

Let The Children Come

Make that "child." Luke and I had one little tyke trick-or-treat us, and only because her aunt lived upstairs. (I shudder to think what would have happened had I not taped a construction-papered pumpkin to the front of our door.) I nearly fell over myself with the candy bowl, stuffing Starburst chews and mini-Snickers into her little purse until her mother told me to stop. Good thing, because I was about to start raiding my purse, I was so happy. Perhaps she would have enjoyed a Visa bank card or half-used bottle of Purell?

It was a low-key Halloween. Luke wasn't feeling well, and I was too busy lamenting the loss of cable on such a significant holiday to properly tend to his needs. I actually had to go to Blockbuster, people. For a girl accustomed to Michael Myers marathons on TBS and back-to-back showings of A Nightmare on Elm Street on USA, this is the equivalent of asking a duchess to pee in an outhouse. To make matters worse, this is the first year in four that we didn't carve a pumpkin, and we barely glanced at our collection of ghost stories. If it weren't for these pictures, I'd forget I ever celebrated October 31st at all.

[Edited on 12/9/06 to add: Some photos were lost during the Blogger/TypePad merge.]

In that last one, I'm a Nurse Dressed As A Pumpkin. Genius!

Last year I posted a list of movies that freak me the @#^$ out. If you're interested, click here.

Anyway, today's Monday, so it's time to post the results of my "Name That Tune" contest.

1) "Feels Like Love," Vince Gill 2) "I Wanna Be The One," Stevie B. 3) "Penny Lover," Lionel Richie 4) "Baby Got Goin'," Liz Phair 5) "I Like The Way (The Kissing Game)," Hi-Five 6) "Giving You The Best That I Got," Anita Baker 7) "Poison," Bell Biv Devoe 8) Growing Pains theme 9) "As I Lay Me Down," Sophie B. Hawkins 10) "Mmmbop," Hanson

Winner: Anonymous

Seriously. I have no idea who you are. But you win! You got all ten right--maybe because you Googled the lyrics; maybe because you're my long-lost twin; maybe because you broke into my apartment and tore through my CDs. No matter. For your prize, I'll answer a question, if you want, or say something nice about you like the folks at Snapple do for their customers. Your call, as long as it's free and I don't mind doing it.

To those who played, gratitude; to all my readers, apologies for exposing you to this list. But really, it could have been worse. Does "Never Gonna Give You Up" mean anything to you?

Filler

What to do when you have an idea for a Halloween entry but also want to post the day before Halloween? Do a meme! Thanks, Liz!

Three names I go by
- Frema
- Bree
- Breain (pronounced Bree-in)

Three screen names I have had
- Chasingamy109
- Lolalicious
- MsFrema

Three physical things I like about myself
- Fingernails
- Hair (most of the time)
- Lip shape

Three physical things I don't like about myself
- Gut
- Acne
- Eye circles

Three parts of my heritage
- Irish
- Mexican
- Arabian

Three things that scare me
- Student loans
- Paying for a wedding
- Never finding a job that I 100% love

Three of my everyday essentials
- Chap stick
- Clinique's Dramatically Different Moisturing Gel
- Alterna's Texturizing Glaze

Three of my favorite musical artists
- Liz Phair
- Elton John
- Lionel Ritchie

Three of my favorite songs
- "As I Lay Me Down to Sleep," Sophie B. Hawkins
- "Closer to Fine," Indigo Girls
- "These Are Days," 10,000 Maniacs

Three things I want in a relationship
- Openness
- Laughter
- Respect

Three lies and truths in no particular order
- I hate jewelry
- I love seafood
- I have six toes on my left foot

Three physical things about the opposite sex that appeal to me
- Dark hair
- Big hands
- Easy smile

Three of my favorite hobbies
- Reading
- Hiking
- Watching movies

Three things I want to do really badly right now
- Win the lottery
- Get back under the covers
- NOT feel like I'm coming down with something

Three Places I want to vacation
- Boston
- California
- New York City

Three kid's names I like
- Amelia
- Nathan
- Lucy

Three things I want to do before I die
- Publish something
- Be a mother
- Learn how to swim properly; I am deathly afraid of water deeper than five feet

Three ways that I am stereotypically a boy
- Burp and fart a lot
- Don't always enjoy showering every day
- People sometimes misread my first name and call me Brian. Does that count?

Three ways that I am stereotypically a girl
- Cry at the drop of a hat
- Horrible at math
- Want to get married

Three celeb crushes
- Kiefer Sutherland
- John Cusak
- Peter Krause (I've never seen Six Feet Under, but I did love Sports Night)

Two people I would like to see post this meme
- My sister!
- Brooke