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

Forget the epidural; why doesn't anybody warn you about the IV?

It's been a long few days.

Those of you who follow my Parents blog already know about last Thursday's ER scare; those of you who don't? Well, you really should follow my Parents blog.

Just kidding. (Except not really.)

Here's the story: Almost two weeks ago, I showed signs of my third pregnancy-related yeast infection. I began treatment and took my last dose this past Wednesday; the following morning, I awoke to mild irritation in my vaginal area. Initially attributing it to an ill-timed poke with the Monistat applicator, I drove to Rensselaer as usual for class because my friend Jackie--fellow BlogHer attendee and seasoned PR executive--was scheduled to give a presentation about her experience with blogs in the marketing world. I didn't want to waste her time or cheat my students, and anyway, I figured the discomfort would fade away as the day wore on.

Only it didn't. Two hours before class, I was crying to Luke about the pain, my God, THE PAIN, in my special place and now my stomach, too, wondering how the hell I was going to make it from six to eight-thirty without running to the bathroom, pulling my pants down, and trying my damndest to relieve myself, as by that time, my symptoms were comparable to the worst urinary tract infection imaginable.

As it turns out, I didn't make it. Hell, if you ask my students, I barely made it the first thirty minutes. Five minutes before class began, I called Luke to tell him I needed to get to the hospital. I knew I couldn't drive back to Indy in my condition, so the plan was for him and his brother to meet me in Purdue country, enabling my husband to take my spot behind the wheel without leaving behind a second car. I figured Jackie could make her presentation and I could end class shortly after to get started on the forty-five-minute trip to Lafayette.

Educating young minds without sacrificing my need for immediate medical attention. Everybody wins!

Jackie eventually transported me to the local ER.*

I didn't know what to feel. On one hand, Freka's activity level hadn't changed at all, and I wasn't leaking any fluid, so a phone call to my doctor reassured me I probably wasn't in labor. On the other, I was also experiencing irregular contractions and a physical strain so intense I could barely walk. All I could think about was parking my ass on a toilet and willing it out of my body.

The ER nurses loved hearing that. "Don't push, don't push!" one of them barked when I explained my urge to pee. "We don't want to deliver a baby right now!"

Me, neither, lady.

Thankfully, I wasn't in labor. I was, however, badly dehydrated, and apparently lack of fluid was to blame for the contractions and that horrible pain. I received my very first IV feed, and it hurt like a sonofabitch. A non-stress test confirmed the baby's heart beat was strong, and three and a half hours later, Luke and I left the hospital with the results of my urinalysis and strict instructions for me to get more rest and drink lots of water.

The fun part? A follow-up appointment with my ob/gyn the next day showed that our little Freka is sitting way lower than normal for this stage in the game; also, my cervix has already begun to soften. Even though there's still seven weeks to go until my December 10th due date, it's not totally off-base to think my Christmas baby might be here by Thanksgiving.

At least she's head down.

Things are OK now; I had another "episode" on Saturday night, but I'm thinking the six hours Luke and I spent running through the aisles of Babies R Us and Super Target in a frantic attempt to stock up on the last of our baby essentials had something to do with it. Once again, copious amounts of water saved the day.

...And consider yourself officially caught up on all matters related to my uterus. Don't you feel special?

In other news, my sister's post-wedding wedding shower is set for November 18th, but in light of recent events, there's no way I can in good conscience commit to a trip to Chicago. Ryan was extremely understanding, and she promised to visit with Jason while he's on leave, but still, knowing I have to miss one of the few marital milestones I could've actually participated in for her doesn't have me jumping up and down for joy. (Their elopement, by the way, was rescheduled for this weekend due to outrageously priced air fare, so she still has another few days of living life as a single woman.)

Tune in again on Wednesday to see all the progress I've made on my prenatal to-do list. You'll be amazed, I promise.

* Words can't express how grateful I am for all Jackie did that night--taking over my class, driving me to the hospital, staying by my side until Luke arrived.... I couldn't have managed on my own, and she made it possible that I didn't have to. Jackie, thanks so much for being such a good friend. It means more than you know.

Even more amazing than peeing on all those sticks

There were two possible ways I could approach blogging about today's appointment.

1) Post a quick "It's a insert gender here!" and go into more detail later.

2) Write a lengthy entry and make you wait 'til the end for the reveal.

At first I thought I'd go with number two, until I realized that most people would just skim through the entry until they found the information they wanted, which meant all my carefully crafted prose would go to waste, and who wants that?

In the end, I decided to write the tell-all version right off the bat. But first...

Sugar and spice and everything nice, indeed. And this next statement might sound weird, especially since you're essentially looking at my daughter's ass (I think; some of these pictures are super hard to read), but she's absolutely beautiful.

------- ------- -------

It wasn't until Luke and I were in the car to make our 10:30 appointment with the ultrasound tech that I began to feel nervous. Up until that point I'd been solely focused on learning the gender, but once we were on our way to the clinic, I couldn't stop picturing worst-case scenarios about the progress our baby was making. I'm eating much better and have put on a few pounds since my last visit, but what if my lack of weight gain was due to the baby's lack of growth? Why hadn't I felt Freke move yet? What if, lying on that table with my belly covered in goo, we were told the baby had died?

Awful thoughts, but I couldn't shake them. My heart was pounding, my hands were clammy, and I thought I was going to lose the bowl of Fruit Loops I had for breakfast.

Once there, we waited about ten minutes, and then suddenly I was lying on that table, pulling down the waistband of my maternity pants, and breathing deeply in an effort to stay calm. Lisa, our technician, squirted the gel over my stomach (and it was hot! Yikes!), and went into her spiel.

"Now, I normally use 'he' when referring to the baby, so until I say, 'I think it's a...', don't take that to mean anything, OK?" she said.

We nodded.

"Also, I like to make faces when I'm reading the screen, but that doesn't mean anything's wrong, OK?"

Again with the nodding of the heads.

She was a pleasant woman, that Lisa, and the three of us chit-chatted about various gender myths as she moved the wand over my belly, typing notes on the screen and keeping an eye on the monitor the whole time. She kept it face forward, so I tried to crane my neck a bit to see what was going on, with no luck. I motioned for Luke to join me next to the table, and he grabbed my hand.

After a few minutes, a slew of pictures printed from her machine, and she tilted the monitor towards us. There was our baby.

She pointed out various body parts for us to see: head, legs, arms, spine, stomach, from all sorts of angles. I almost stopped breathing when I saw the tiny little heart muscle, beating just as fiercely as it had during my initial appointments through the Doppler. A hundred and forty-three beats per minute, she said.

Then we were on a mission.

"Let's see what we can find," she said, and proceeded to poke and prod my belly for a shot of the good stuff.

It was hard at first, but finally the baby moved into the proper position, and Lisa took a peek.

"Now, there's always a chance I could be wrong, but I think..." Her voice trailed off, and her fingers returned to the keyboard to type those fateful words.

"It's a girl."

And that was it. I started to cry, and I really went all out, with the chest heaving and shortness of breath and the blotchy red face. I couldn't believe it. I was so damn happy to see our baby in action, in person. It was the most miraculous moment of my pregnancy thus far. Not since learning about this little person's existence have I been so emotional.

Luke squeezed my hand and kissed the top of my head, and Lisa grabbed some tissues. She didn't comment on my tears, and I was glad, because I hate when people acknowledge my blubbering. It just makes the blubbering worse.

After about fifteen minutes of watching our baby in action, Lisa was helping me off the table and handing Luke our now-precious VHS tape. We went back to the waiting room for my 11:00 appointment and were ushered in just minutes later.

The actual appointment was great. Measuring within a four-day range of her December 10th due date, our little girl is doing marvelously, and there's no reason not to think I'll give birth to a strong and healthy baby.

Hi there, baby. We love you.

------- ------- -------

Now the only question is what to do about her Internet moniker. Freke no longer seems fitting, and I was considering Frekie, but that might be even worse. Freka? Frekette? Your suggestions are most welcome.

If Lucy Ricardo had worked, this is how she would have announced her pregnancy at the office

Before I disclose the full details, it's important that you know I originally circulated a bare-bones version of this entry via e-mail to family and friends because I thought the content could possibly get me dooced. However, Isabel has since guaranteed my job security, and it really is a pretty harmless little tale, so I'm going for it.

Transport yourself to last Wednesday afternoon, a point in time in which only three people at work knew about my pregnancy because I was afraid my "condition" would result in a harsher critique of my performance.

(In that respect, men really do have it easy. Luke was able to spill the beans to his co-workers shortly after we found out because he doesn't have to worry about anyone keeping an eye on how many trips he makes to the bathroom or how many days he has to work from home because he can't make the twenty-five-minute commute without dry heaving behind the wheel.)

Anyway, I'm sitting in a meeting for which I was the last person to arrive. We're making traditional small talk about the weather and local construction and what not, preparing to outline a production schedule for some promotional videos, when suddenly my boss is mentioning that the wife of one of my co-workers--the co-worker himself being in the room--recently received a horrible sunburn at the beach while on vacation, and she's eight months' pregnant. Then he turns to me and chuckles, "But you don't want to hear about that," which sends a ripple of subdued laughter throughout the conference room.

HOLY CRAP HE KNOWS. He knows! I could feel the redness in my cheeks as my mind raced to pinpoint a time when I might've given myself away, eventually concluding it must've been the previous Monday when he used the extension in my office, the day I ripped off the flap of my sample box of prenatal vitamins and positioned it by the phone so I would remember to contemplate other options with my ob/gyn nurse. What other possible reason could he have for directing that line to ME? What does this mean for my job? I knew I had to broach the topic with him as soon as possible, but he left the meeting early, and by the time it was over, he was gone for the day.

Crap. Crappity crap crap.

The next morning, I decided to nip the problem in the bud and asked him to have a seat in my office during his morning rounds, requesting that he please close the door. I took a deep breath and donned a "knowing" smile.

"I have something to tell you, but after a comment you made in yesterday's meeting, I think you already know," I teased. He wrinkled his brow in confusion and looked at me, obviously intrigued. "No, what?"

And at that point I realized he didn't know, had no clue, but it was too late to come up with something else on the fly. I was about to out myself for no reason.

"That I'm having a baby?"

"No, no, I had no idea! Congratulations!"

"But," I sputtered, "that story you told about John's wife..."

Turns out that had been a topic of conversation just before I walked into the room, so what I interpreted as a sly administrative tactic informing me the jig was up was really just an inside joke he didn't want to relive twice. How a pregnant woman's sunburn becomes small talk during any company meeting is another matter entirely, but the point is, I'm an idiot. Thanks for playing.

So, ladies and gents with children, how did you break the news to your bosses? For the singletons (men and women alike), how do you think your employer would respond if you announced you were expecting a baby right now? Do you work in a family-friendly environment? Would you be able to pursue your career goals without any major obstacles?

What to Expect When You're Not Expecting Anything

The Sunday before Easter started out like any other Sunday, except that Luke and I didn't make it to church. We rolled out of bed around 8:30, lounging around our apartment in tee shirts and underwear, devouring three blueberry muffins a piece in an effort to liven up a free breakfast at home. I continued my DVD player's love affair with the third season of Sex and the City, initiated the day before while Luke was in Michigan for work, while he surfed the Internet for potential city parks to visit later that afternoon. We talked about Easter and how nice it would be to relax in Indianapolis in lieu of a six-hour round trip to vist family and friends scattered throughout the Chicagoland area. We debated over the dinner menu for our cozy little holiday, lazily wondering if we were in the mood for turkey or ham.

Since it was the first of the month, Luke updated his "Walking America: A Year on Wilderness Trails" calendar that hangs above the computer station in our bedroom, and it reminded me that my own Peter Rabbit masterpiece needed flipping as well. As I tacked the new page to the wall, I noticed I was on day thirty-nine of my cycle. There was nothing particularly alarming about this, seeing as the last few months have followed this same pattern, so I figured I was due the next day. However, after studying all my not-at-all-inconspicuous date circles indicating Luke's and my...er...special marital time, I thought, hey, I've still got two First Responses left. Why not pee on a stick?

So I did. And two minutes later, I almost peed again, this time all over myself, out of pure, unadulterated shock. For the first time in my twenty-seven years on this planet, I saw a second pink line. It was faint, but it was there.

"LUKE!" I yelled, arms shaking as I held onto the bathroom sink, my lower lip already beginning to quiver. "THERE ARE TWO LINES ON THIS TEST OH MY GOD OH MY GOD."

"What?"

"JUST GET IN HERE AND LOOK AT THE TEST. IT SAYS I'M PREGNANT, RIGHT? YOU WOULD CALL THAT A SECOND LINE, RIGHT?" And I kept talking just like that, in all caps, while pestering my husband for his non-medical opinion regarding the actual existence of the life-changing second pink line.

"I think so, honey."

"SO THAT MEANS I'M PREGNANT, RIGHT?"

"I think so, honey!"

For the next thirty seconds we kind of just stood there, dazed and confused with this unexpected piece of information, and then he sauntered over to the kitchen table and started flipping through yesterday's mail while I exploded all over our bathroom.

OK, so that didn't really happen, but by that point I was a dry-heaving mess. It's probably safe to assume I lost all concept of rational thinking at the same time I lost my urine.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THIS? DO YOU THINK I'M PREGNANT OR NOT?"

"I would say so, honey," Luke said for the third time in five minutes, poor guy, totally wanting to reassure me before I lost my already-fragile grip on reality and totally not knowing how. Luckily, I had the perfect solution.

"GO TO WALGREENS AND BUY MORE TESTS. RIGHT NOW. WHY AREN'T YOU PUTTING ON YOUR COAT." (Nope, no question mark there. NO TIME FOR QUESTION MARKS!)

He was gone in eight seconds. Meanwhile, I decided to occupy myself by making the bed and taking the second test. Thank the Lord for bonus packs.

And there it was again. A second pink line, only this one was dark enough that I started to think maybe, just maybe, the universe wasn't filming a special April Fool's edition of Candid Camera.

Now that I had two sticks confirming my future presence on the Mother ship, all I could do was sit and sob and pray to God not to take away my baby before Luke returned from the pharmacy and I could pee on two more.

He returned. I peed on two more. Positive, each one. (You don't say, Frema!) And that's when we both cried and Luke kissed the second of my two gut rolls as a "hello" to the newest member of our family. Before the day was out, we had celebrated with pizza and a trip to the bookstore, where I purchased The Girlfriends' Guide to Pregnancy and The Real Book of Birth, because I am already terrified about pushing this miracle out of my special place. Last Monday I only made it through a half-day of work because I came in to discover an army of ants crawling all over my desk and the facilities manager decided to spray my office and I skidaddled the hell out of there as fast as my legs could carry me because OH MY GOD I WILL NOT ALLOW MALICIOUS INSECTS OR THEIR DEATH JUICE TO KILL MY BABY.

(Get used to the caps-lock voice. It's probably going to stay with us until my November 29th due date, as estimated by my ob nurse, who also informed me that I needed to adjust the lower seat belt strap when riding in the car so it doesn't tighten around my belly in the event of an accident. "Just like Kyra Sedgwick in Singles," Luke offered helpfully. Thanks, dear, for easing my troubled mind.)

(Also, I'm pretty sure she was recommending this for when I'm actually showing, but that hasn't prevented me from hooking a thumb through said lower strap and pushing it away from my stomach, you know, so the baby can breathe. I am such a good mother already.)

To this day we've taken six tests, bought three books (and two magazines to boot), purchased Baby's First Onesie, and started an official list of names; I've also taken it upon myself to start combing through Amalah's pregnancy entries in between projects at work. We waited an agonizing five days before telling our families so we could deliver the news in person, which involved presenting each set of grandparents with an Easter basket and a commercially manufactured Hallmark greeting introducing the future tiny object of their affection. My mother's reaction was straight out of a sitcom, pulling the card out of the envelope and waving it around dramatically for three minutes before finally reading out loud "You're going to be..." and then stopping mid-sentence, dropping her jaw, and turning to the kitchen table for emotional support. (Like mother, like daughter.) As for my father, well, he had to lie down. At six-thirty. For the rest of the night.

And now, in the middle of my sixth week of gestation, finally I have permission to tell the Internet.

Internet, we're having a baby.

Those EPT readings were both positive, I swear.

A Blush-Inducing Public Service Announcement

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until this year.

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

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

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

But do I know for sure?

No.

And my budding family deserves better.

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

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other

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

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

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

Which is exactly why I wet my pants.

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

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

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

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

Bringing Stupid Back

After more than a week of soup, spaghetti, and take out, yesterday I decided to prepare an actual meal. "Pork and vegetables" was originally slated for last Monday, and since the main ingredients had already been purchased, pork and vegetables it was.

With a few dishes under my belt, the whole cooking thing is becoming much more enjoyable, thus making it easier to navigate through each step. It took just twenty minutes to cut the potatoes, slice the carrots, and "wedge" the onions, and according to my Pillsbury cookbook, the whole sensuous ensemble would be ready in the same amount of time it would take to recap the AMC episode of the day. Just stick the meat thermometer into the thickest part of the meat to verify it cooked all the way through, and the triumph of another successful dinner would be mine.

True to Pillsbury's word, the time went off just as Zach and Dixie's murder trial came to fruition. Hurriedly I ran to the stove, eager to show off my mad housewifery skillz to a husband who graciously launders ninety-eight percent of our clothes, and became dismayed to find the face of the meat thermometer glued to the top of the oven. "Oh, well, at least the meat is done!"

"What do you mean, 'At least the meat is done?'" Luke jumped up from his seat on the couch in time to see me extract a now-ruined thermometer from the pork's caboose. "You're not supposed to cook that with the food!"

"But the book said to stick it in the thickest part of the meat!"

"Yes. AFTER it's done cooking!"

"Then why did they include it at the beginning of the directions?"

Luke: Bangs head against wall, wonders if this incident provides sufficient grounds for divorce.

Frema: Doesn't blame him.

Utensils And Their Place In Corporate America

This morning I attended a roundtable session that focused on the future of life sciences in Indianapolis, as my boss was invited to co-facilitate the discussion as an industry expert. Since I have to write a story about his involvement, I decided to tag along. The start time forced me to wake up half an hour earlier than normal, and in such instances, there's only time for the bare essentials. There's no eyelash curling, no applying of the chapstick, and certainly no time to scarf down a bowl of cereal. But no worries--the session decided to attract participants by way of the continental breakfast, which really just means coffee and fruit, but still creates a little ball of excitement in the pit of your stomach, because getting your hands on free food provides legitimate yet dignified means to stick it to The Man.

I arrived at the conference room at a quarter to eight, allowing me plenty of time to fill up on my share of grapes, and was pleasantly surprised to find almond-braided coffee cake and danishes in the midst of breakfast offerings. I grabbed a plate and carefully selected items least likely to get stuck in my teeth. Just needed some juice and a fork and I'd happily be on my way.

Except there were no forks. Little red coffee straws? Check. Napkins? Check. Butter? Confusing, but also Check. Zero forks.

At first in denial, I blamed its absence on my poor findability skills. (Yes, it's a word.) (OK, no, not really, but don't you think it should be?) My eyes scanned the table again, but nothing. Then I looked back at my knife.

Now, in case you couldn't tell through the style and subject matter of my entries, I'm not a classy girl. I attach "You know?" to the end of ninety percent of my sentences. I don't own a business suit. I still can't eliminate The Crease from my eyelids. And if there's more than one spoon surrounding my plate, I pick up the closest one and use it for the entire meal. That's just me, you know?

So when my eyes rested on the knife, I thought perhaps it was part of a New Way to eat pineapple wedges and grapefruit slices that I was too unrefined to know about. Because the other option was to eat it with my fingers, always the thing to do when you're surrounded by white-collar executives eager to check their Blackberrys in five-minute intervals and hand you a business card upon learning your name. I considered asking, but if it really was The New Way To Eat Fruit, I sure as hell wasn't going to out myself. So I took the knife and headed back to my seat.

Once everyone was settled in and the PowerPoint was in motion, I oh-so-subtly took a survey of the room and mentally counted the individuals in my vicinity brave enough to tackle the whole fruit/no-fork thing, and pinpointed a guy about my age just two seats down who'd filled his plate with grapefruit. I waited to see how he would approach said grapefruit.

Five minutes. Nothing.

Ten minutes. Nope, not hungry yet.

It was an hour and a half before he took a piece of grapefruit and ate it with his fingers.

In the meantime, I had used my knife to cut my coffee cake into sections and pop the cubes into my mouth (sophisticatedly, of course) (Yes, I know that's not a word either, but really, people, I'm not very smart), leaving the fruit untouched the whole time, so I finally broke down, cut up the pineapple, and followed my nearby companion's example. I figured if anyone picked up on the sound of me sucking my fingers dry, I could shrug my shoulders and nod my head in his direction, as if to say, "There's your real culprit."

It's amazing, the number of etiquette-related behaviors that have ceased to find a place in Corporate America. Or maybe it's more about status. After all, my nearby companion and I waited out almost the entire length of the program before we gave in to our fruity hunger. (No pun intended.) (Well, maybe a little bit intended.) (What is it with me and parentheses today?) However, the seasoned researcher who presented the PowerPoint had no problems wiping his nose with a Kleenex while still at the podium, and one of the panel members removed his glasses to give his face a thorough once-over with his hand. These are the same people who delight in telling stories from "back in the day" and pointing out to you--in a group consisting of you and your superiors--how those stories are way before "your time."

You Baby Boomers say what you want about Generation Xers and our lack of interest in big business, but dammit, at least we have manners.

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

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

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

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

Apparently, so have I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Worth The Onions

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

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

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

"Can I pick the dog?" I ask.

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

Stupid girl. Also, bitch.

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

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

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

To Plate Or Not to Plate

While trying to fudge with the margins of a balance sheet I'd just pasted into PowerPoint at work, I received a phone call from my aunt, my father's sister, who also happens to be my godmother. It had been a few months since we last talked, so she asked about my job, offered congratulations on Luke's and my engagement, and wished me a happy birthday. We were on the phone no longer than five minutes before she got down to business.

"I want to buy your china," she said.

"Oh?"

"I'm looking at the catalog for Carson's, and they've got like seven patterns on sale for fifty percent off. I wanted to get you white, you know, so that they could go with everything, and they have different trim colors. Do you want blue, silver, or gold?"

"Oh!"

"If you don't get it now, you're never going to get it, you know? I figured that since you're a professional, you'll need it, you know, to entertain."

"Yeah.... Thanks, Auntie. I really appreciate you wanting to do this for us."

"So which one do you want?"

"Can I talk to Luke first?"

"Sure, sure. I wanted to get you something special, honey, since I'm your godmother. I want to do this for you."

"I know, and I appreciate it. But.... Auntie? I don't have people from work over for dinner. And we kind of weren't even thinking of china right now. We were just going to look some regular dishes--ones we could use every day."

"Well, I'm not sure how long this sale is going on...." (Flip, flip says the pages of a Carson Pierre Scott catalog, because my aunt believes that Carson's is the Greatest Store on Earth.)

"It's really nice of you to want to do this for us. But I don't even know where we'd put stuff like that right now. We don't even know where we're going to live afterwards."

"I have a girlfriend who got into a house with almost zero down. You could do that, couldn't you?"

"Yeah, but...."

And so on and so on.

I have no doubt that her intentions were sincere. Throughout the years, she's made a conscious effort to remember my birthday, buy me gifts at Christmastime, and generally establish a relationship that better mirrors one that's shared between girlfriends. And I'm grateful for that.

But that's not the point. The point is this whole china thing. I don't want china. Luke doesn't want china. Luke and I don't want china! We eat soup out of bowls from the Dollar Store that have been disfigured by the microwave and spaghetti off of plates that bear rust stains on the rim. We're simple folk, really, and have no need for plates that cost more than ten bucks apiece and/or could inspire the makings of a family feud years after our death.

"I want Momma Frema's white gold china with the blue trim she and Daddy got from Carson's!"

See? No good for anybody.

But I couldn't make my aunt see that. It makes me wonder if the gift is about me having the china or my aunt being able to say that she bought me the china. I couldn't have been any nicer about not wanting the china, any more appreciative about appreciating the sentiment but not appreciating the china. Yet still, it's all about the china.

China, china, china! And while we're at it, Appreciate!

I suppose this was to be expected. When my sister got married last summer, HER godmother was also insistent about purchasing fancy plates and went so far as to tell her to register for a nice pattern at Marshall Field's. Samantha didn't need the china, either, but she didn't want to appear ungrateful, so she went downtown at the height of the Wedding Crazy and picked something out. A few days later, the godmother, the person who asked Samantha to register for the dishes in the first place, called her back and suggested that maybe she would consider a lesser pattern at Sears?

Samantha said a paper shredder would do just fine, thank you very much.

Her godmother bought the china. One setting, to be exact, as in one cup, one plate, one bowl. Samantha returned them all and got her very first Coach purse. This is quite distressing, as I am the oldest sister and I don't even have a Coach purse.

Maybe I should reconsider my aunt's offer after all.

Belated Apology

The last three days have been a whirlwind of activity centered around cake testing, tuxedo shopping, invitation choosing, and birthday celebrating. Plus, my good friend Molly gave birth to her second son, Jack, this morning, who just happened to be the New Year's baby for their hospital, so a big hip hip HOORAY! to the Ray family, PLUS, I've caught up on the first of two weeks of All My Children tapes and discovered that Dixie is alive! Could life get any better? I think not.

Our experiences over the weekend bring with them the potential of amazing blog entries, but I'll let Luke handle that. The thing I can't stop obsessing over is the etiquettenesss (is that even a word?) of the whole thing. Dates for singles? Kids or no kids? Perform or forgo bouquet and garter tosses? Make room for or scratch off "The Chicken Dance"? The pressure from all this decision-making is enough to break my body into a thousand tiny pieces.

However, the most interesting directive falls upon the shoulders of your guests: Guests, if you RSVP for the ceremony and reception, please plan to the attend the ceremony and reception. When you agree to take part in somebody's special day, please don't show up at the church and leave the bride and groom with apologies that you won't be at the hall because your boyfriend wants to take a nap and you are too much of an @$$wipe to stand up to him.

That @$$wipe? Would be Trophy Frema. She did it to baby Jack's momma on October 28, 2000--her wedding day.

During the ten months that Mike and I dated, I ran myself ragged trying to please him. I bought him cigarettes even though I despise them and to this day still attempt to wiggle out of my mother's requests to pick up a pack for her at the corner store. I charged extra cell phone minutes on my credit card so he could call his buddy from the aisles of Best Buy to get the name of a Nirvana CD he had to have. And I acted like it was no big deal that he didn't want to go to Molly and Kevin's wedding because it was the same weekend of his annual Halloween party, and I didn't think I was a good enough reason for the party not to go on.

I eventually guilted him into agreeing to be included on the RSVP, while he eventually guilted me into skipping the reception, saying he'd worked a long week and was really tired and just wanted to go home and sleep. So, instead of expressing my excitment at the night's upcoming festivities, I gave Molly a hug and shook Kevin's hand after their beautiful ceremony and left them standing there at the end of the service with nothing but a congratulations and our regrets. Turns out The Powers That Be found a way to punish me for my faux pas, because that same night Mike patted my stomach and casually remarked, "You didn't have this when we first started going out." Karma, she's a bitch.

Today, as I reflect on all the time and effort Luke and I have funneled into this wedding to date, it crystalizes for me just what it means to be included on somebody's guest list. It means you are wanted. It means you are loved. It means your relationship is worth a twenty-dollar meal and the price of an open bar. In other words, you are not expendable.

I also realize how lucky I am that Molly never called me out on the rudeness of my behavior, that she never tried to make me feel bad, that she continued to be my friend. During these next few months, may God bless me with the same grace and understanding this incredible woman exercised with someone who should have known better. For what it's worth, Molly, I know better now.

"It Tastes Like Feet!"

Today provided a sort of break-through moment for me, as the technical director I have inwardly referred to as The Man Who Hates My Guts Or At Least Doesn't Like Me Very Much made it a special point to invite me to the company's Christmas breakfast, a breakfast I had originally planned to skip because there would be things like French toast and omelets and I don't like French toast and omelets and I didn't want to appear snobby by participating in a breakfast at which I didn't plan to eat.

However, I had been so sure that this man Hated My Guts Or At Least Didn't Like Me Very Much and was therefore so moved by this gesture that I could only smile, nod, and follow him to the breakroom, where he and another scientist were playing chef. I took in the scene: griddles with toast sticks, tubes of salsa, sheets of bacon, and frying pans for yucky, cheesy, surely-going-to-increase-my-cholesterol omelets. To my relief, though, there was also a healthy supply of muffins and bagels. Was there a chance I could survive this experience carbed up and unscathed?

"So, what'll it be?" he asked.

At that point a banana-nut muffin was already on my plate; yet, instinctively, I knew that wouldn't be enough to appease the emotional appetite of a man determined to feed me. So I did what many eager-to-pleasers have done before: play dumb to stall for time.

"You know, I've never even had an omelet. What goes into one?"

"Meat, mushrooms, cheese.... Whatever you want."

"Aww! I'm supposed to cut down my cheese intake," I said apologetically, all the while mentally high-fiving myself for pulling out the health card, because really, who has the gall to challenge the health card? Surely not The Man?

"We don't have to put cheese in it. We can cook it however you want. Really."

"Oh."

By now it's decision time and I'm panicked. I don't understand! I like meat, mushrooms, and cheese. But I don't like omelets. Why don't I like omelets? Tell me, Jesus, why don't I like omelets?

It wasn't until after I had agreed to my sentence that my eyes met his hand and my prayer was answered.

Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding! Eggs, you idiot moron! You know, that rubbery yellow $#@* that made you wretch on sight as a kid? The crap that even your mother stopped trying to forcefeed you because she was sick and tired of cleaning up your--

Amen.

I watched in horror as the eggs got eggier and the omelet got omeletier and pretty soon it was impossible to tell where one part ended and the other began. In mere minutes, The Man was presenting his finished masterpiece.

"You wanna put salsa on that?" he asked.

The hell? But there was no choice. In a desperate attempt to cancel out the substance's rubber plasticity, I drowned that mutha in Pace and never looked back.

Once at the table, I took my time. Had a drink of cranberry juice. Enjoyed a slice of bacon. Picked at the meat that had worked its way out of its taco-like coccoon. Checked to see if The Man was looking.

The Man was looking. And kept looking until a forkful of the stuff was in my mouth.

"How do you like your first omelet?" he asked, and I was immediately reminded of that episode of Friends where Rachel makes the beef trifle. It took all my energy NOT to disguise my gag reflex with belly rubs, head nods, and encouraging mmmm sounds.

Luckily, it only took one "It's good!" from me before he had to go back to work, and then my other colleagues were going back to work and I was on the path back to my cubicle, believing myself fortunate to escape the situation as intact as I did. The omelet sat on my desk for approximately twelve minutes before I wrapped it up in a paper towel and stuffed it in the trash.

One day, when The Man and I are bosom friends, I'll share this story and we'll enjoy a hearty laugh, just like how my former boss likes to bring up the time she found my doodle paper in the fax room, bearing scribbles that combined her first name with the last name of her last boyfriend. Just to see if it looked nice.

Quiz Show

Today is significant because:

a) It's pay day.

b) The January issue of Glamour arrived in the mail.

c) I participated in an all-you-can-eat spinach dip contest.

d) It's exactly five months to the day Luke and I say "I do"

And the answer is... D, for Dammit, It's About Freaking Time!

On the night I returned home from my trip to Minnesota, the Red Sea parted and the angels in Heaven sang a chorus of "Hallelujah" as Luke got on bended knee and asked me to be his wife. With me in sweat pants and a blubbery mess of tears. Then it was Ramen noodle soup and off to bed, because it was eleven o'clock and we were both tired and apparently we now resemble senior citizens who get pooped after a round of Bingo and an episode of Wheel of Fortune.

I have to say, thus far, our journey to the altar has been anything but traditional. The shenanigans began in mid-November, when we started talking about having a May wedding, and wouldn't it be nice to have a May wedding?

Then came the day after Thanksgiving, when the two of us not only picked out my engagement ring, but Luke had "The Talk" with my dad.

Saturday, December 3: Luke picks up the ring, which I refuse to lay eyes on again until it's slipped on my finger. I worry all the good May dates will be taken. We nail the hall for Friday, May 12, 2006, in Merrillville.

Sunday, December 4: Secure the pastor. (Yes, pastor. However, the race isn't over until the Fat Lady baptizes someone. The Catholics still have a chance!)

Monday, December 5: Book a gazebo for the ceremony.

Wednesday, December 7: Officially become engaged (read: I'm finally wearing the ring that keeps me from looking like a fool for making plans without having the goods to back them up).

This weekend was The Telling Of The Families, which means it's now OK to share our happiness with the entire Internet, which I have been dying to do since Black Friday. So now you know why my entries have been somewhat sporadic. Suppressing the information that has just about taken over my entire being was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It was worth it, though, to see everyone's faces when we sprung the news. The scene at my parents' house was like one comprehensive episode of The Brady Bunch, with Marcia and Greg building the house of cards in one corner, Bobby weeping over the disappearance of Tiger in another, and Jan yakking it up with George Glass. I finally shouted, "Everyonebequietwehavesomethingtotellyou!" Then I held up my left hand and cried, "We're engaged!"

Imagine much hugging and crying and the perusing of many, many bridal magazines.

This moment in our lives has been four and a half years in the making, originally conceived one April night when I was brave enough to bounce a check.

We're so happy.

Note: I am fully aware that the publishing date of this entry says Monday, December 12, but that the actual publishing date is Tuesday, December 13. However, if I were to officially acknowledge this by changing the date, my whole quiz gimmick would go to pot and I would have to kill Luke for being too tired to blog and thus foiling our plan to update our blogs within minutes of each other so neither could accuse the other of stealing the wedding thunder. See how well that worked out?

Scream 4: Indianapolis

Time: Monday Night

Scene: Frema and Useless Clutter's Apartment

It's 7:30 p.m., and Frema has just come home from a mentoring session with Annie. Tired from staying up late the night before, she is anxious to change into her pajamas and perhaps maybe dabble in some dip of the spinach and artichoke variety. Eyelids half closed, these are the thoughts running through her mind when she unlocks the door to her apartment. The lights to their newly decorated Christmas tree are on; Frema tilts her head and releases a happy sigh at the idea of peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. All should be quiet, as Useless Clutter is participating in the first night of his evening temp job. But what's that noise? The alarm clock? Could Useless have overslept and missed his first night of work?

Frema makes her way to the back of the apartment to the bedroom, where the alarm is set for 6:45 p.m. She turns off the noise and then turns her head. Why is his sock drawer sitting in disarray on their bed?

Frema is very aware now that something isn't right. A cold rush goes through her body as she slowly works her way through the apartment. The garbage can lid is up. Kitchen cabinets are ajar.

There's a good possibility a manevolent stranger is taking refuge in her pad.

Frema barely refrains from wetting her pants as scenes from Halloween, Child's Play, and Pet Sematary race through her head, and she hesitates at the doorway of each room. She resists calling out, as that very act has resulted in many Hollywood characters meeting their maker prematurely and with lots of blood. She does, however, turn on each light and investigate each space: behind the shower curtain; inside the laundry room and the hallway closet. She cannot bring herself to crouch down and check under the bed. She'd rather be knifed in the ankles then in the face, as her Prada glasses offer no stab-free guarantee.

The check is complete. Nobody is in the house. But that doesn't mean there never was. Frema realizes that Useless could have been kidnapped and tortured into revealing his girlfriend's schedule. He might still come back for her. Maybe to rape her. Maybe to slash her throat or pump bullets into her skin. Frema thinks she needs to get THE HELL out of there.

But first, she turns on the TV. That guy with the mustache from The Insider is talking about some obese woman with a disease that makes her think she's hungry all the time. She has a bad habit of hiding unbaked cookie dough in the soles of her shoes.

This could be interesting. And she IS really tired. Surely the killer wouldn't arrive in the next half hour, she thinks, and settles her bottom into the softest spot of the couch.

Later, Frema will learn that Useless made it to work unscathed. However, he did have some trouble finding his ID.

End Scene

Priceless

* As Number Twelve chronicles the story of how she met her husband, it reminded me I've never shared with you just how Luke and I came to be. I wrote the story last year, and it was published by the Rensselaer writing club I belonged to. Here, the highlights. And one adorably dorky photo.

Almost five years ago, when I was writing for the second-smallest daily newspaper in Indiana, I was a junior in college who wasn't looking for a serious relationship. I already had one proving to be more trouble than it was worth. But when Luke's brown eyes and kind handshake greeted me one December afternoon, I instantly knew he was something special. When I returned to my residence hall an hour later, I couldn't help babbling to my friends about the cute reporter I'd met that day. He believed in God, loved his parents, and thought stealing was wrong; that alone placed him above and beyond every boyfriend I'd ever had. I was hooked.

I still had my own beau back home, but my enchantment with the cigarette smoke and Play Station 2 that so encompassed him was fading fast. Breaking up with him was easy; showing Luke I was now an eligible bachelorette required more effort. There were "just-writing-to-say-hi" messages delivered several times a week to his home e-mail address, conversations about Kevin Smith movies and Ice Cube, and invitations for him to join the Relay For Life team I was captaining in town. Soon he was making mixed tapes--always an encouraging sign, am I right, ladies?--and returning from vacations with souvenirs especially for me. When I found out he had reluctantly agreed to volunteer his time at a local charity bachelor auction that April, and that there was one ticket to spare, I felt my cards had finally fallen into place. The night of the auction, though, I was beginning to doubt my decision, so I devised a plan: I would not take along any credit cards or receive any cash advances from my ATM. My ammunition consisted of a Monopoly-themed checkbook with a fifteen-dollar balance and a twenty-dollar bill. If God couldn't find it in His heart to present to me The Man Of My Dreams for a combined thirty-five bucks, surely it was a sign we were not meant to be.

As I made my way into the VFW hall, wearing the only dress I owned at the time, a velvet number totally inappropriate for spring, I did what any restless girl would do in an unfamiliar place: head to the bar. By the time the auction began, the room was slightly off-kilter and my bladder was filled to capacity. Meanwhile, Luke had already downed four rum and cokes. Earlier in the week, he'd confided in me that he wasn't very secure in the Looks Department and was afraid it would detract potential buyers. Silly boy--I was already worried that hoards of drunk female professionals would trump me with their plastic before I made my own meager offer.

And suddenly, he was up.

"Can we start the bidding at fifty dollars?" the emcee asked. I bit my lip and frantically shot a look at one of my female coworkers, who whispered, "Bid, Frema! Bid!"

"Fifty dollars!" I shouted, and the whole room stopped and stared at my overzealous announcement. I couldn't meet Luke’s eyes as the emcee said, "I've got fifty dollars! Can I hear fifty-five?"

"Fifty-five!" I replied. Then, "Sixty!" I eventually outbid myself with a grand total of one hundred and twenty dollars. The other ladies never stood a chance.

"Sold to the lady in red for one hundred and twenty dollars!" he concluded, and then it was up to me to collect my new prize. I grabbed Luke's arm. "I wouldn't let them get you," I whispered, still afraid to meet his eyes.

"Thanks," he said.

After the bidding was over, there was the small matter of payment. That's when I remembered my pre-auction resolution and the fact that I was ninety-five dollars short. I gulped as I wrote out my check and handed it to the cashier. Everything will work out, I told myself firmly, but really, it didn't. I bounced that check, as well as the one I wrote to cover it. And so it went for two months until I landed a steady summer job selling popcorn and pretzels to snobby tourists at Navy Pier. Adjusted grand total: one hundred and ninety five dollars.

But he's worth ten million times more.

God Works in Indianapolis Ways

Through no (recent) work on my part, it looks like my dream of finding a new job by graduation is actually coming true.

It all started on Monday, when my employer held its annual student career fair. I was visiting with an alumnus, "Dr. Job," who owns an analytical laboratory in Indianapolis. I've interviewed Dr. Job several times over the last three years and knew him well enough to stop by his booth for some chit-chat. Our conversation included him asking me about my plans after receiving my master's degree. I told him I wasn't sure but was interested in working for a smaller company, as I liked the personal contact between employees.

"Well," he asked, "how would you like to come work for me?" and proceeded to say that his company has been expanding and he needs help with proposal writing, newsletter writing, and the like and that he's had me in mind for a long time. The position would be new; I could start whenever I was ready.

Great news, right? So I had lunch with Luke that day and told him all about it. When I returned, one of my co-workers said that he bumped into Dr. Job and was deluged with a bunch of questions about my work performance. I also spoke to our career development director, who had a similar encounter. The day climaxed when Dr. Job interrupted a meeting I was in WITH MY CURRENT BOSS to talk more about the position. She skidaddled, and then it was just the two of us.

"So," said Dr. Job. "I've been asking around about you today."

"Really? You don't say."

"Oh, yes. Everyone's been very impressed with you, and I think you'd be a great fit for us."

To make a longer story shorter, I'll be making a trip to Indianapolis on April Fool's Day to meet with his team and iron out some details. Judging by his language, the job is mine if I want it, and by the end of Monday, I had decided that unless he offers me minimum wage and slave-labor hours, I'm taking it. I never considered working in Indianapolis, as it would place me farther away from my family and friends in the Chicagoland area, but how exciting to be in a place ALL MINE. Picture it: malls and chain restaurants in the same zip code! I could get a dog! Buy a couch that wasn't from the 1970s! And I could enjoy it all in a great apartment (or condo, if the price is right) while being done with school FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE. I can barely contain myself. Hopefully he won't end our visit by tweaking my nose and shouting "April Fools!"

It's going to be a long week and a half.