What are you looking at?

All About the Benjamins and Monica from Friends

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

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

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

Obviously, there's room for improvement.

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

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

Honey, We're Home

This was my thought when Luke and I returned from a weekend trip up north, the first in a series of four, as there are baby showers to cry over (quick shout-out to Molly and baby Jack!), Chuck E. Cheese parties to attend, turkeys to eat, and parental birthdays to celebrate. And as wonderful as all of those things are, there's still nothing like unlocking the door to your apartment, tossing your duffel bag over the thresh hold, and breathing a sigh of relief that you're finally off the road and alone with the one you love.

However, before heading home, the two of us ventured to Super Target and obtained our first "our," an "our" that, prior to Sunday night, was neither his nor mine nor a hand-me-down from a sibling nor a rental car from Enterprise: our first Christmas tree. It's not very big--only four-and-a-half feet and most likely a distant relative of Charlie Brown's little friend--but there's something particular about this "our" that brings home the realization that, wedding rings or not, we have made a home together. I get chastised for picking at the shredded cheese originally meant for tacos, and my disdain for all bread that is not Mother's All Butter will one day be the reason why I'm still single. Until then, we'll continue to argue over whether or not Clorox disinfectant wipes are any better than a roll of Brawny and a bottle of Windex.

This Christmas, the stockings won't be hung at "my" apartment, and there won't be lights in the windows at "Luke's." Instead, we'll be choosing Christmas cards and buying presents and decorating our tree with ornaments that will one day spark countless arguments between our children, all of whom will no doubt fight to the death for mementos from the first Christmas Mom and Dad spent under the same roof. And when we run out of ornaments, they'll have to settle for our vault of stories, stories about how their father used to wait in the wings for me to return from work so he could take candid shots like this one in the hallway:

 

...and about how Mom was so excited to start a family with Dad that she cried over other people's babies. Then the youngest one will snuggle into my arms and poop in my lap. Ah, the good life.

I can't wait.

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.

Progress

I was reading through older entries this morning and found that I had blogged exactly one year ago today. It's a sad little entry, one in which I talk about not fitting in with my graduate-school classmates because I lived so far away from campus. Now, on October 21, 2005, I realized that I'm going through the same thing all over again, only this time I'm striving to forge a relationship with Indianapolis. As much as I love the activity, the possiblities of being in a metropolitan area, I still don't feel quite at home. I still have many of the issues I faced in Rensselaer: I can't see my parents after a long day of work. No after-dinner drinks with lifelong friends, friends who I haven't lived in the same zip code with for eight years. No lazy Saturday breakfasts with my sister, unless I drive for three hours the night before. Though I try to stay connected as best I can with phone calls and visits, it's not the same as being around every day.

Sometimes I wonder what I was thinking when I agreed to move another hour-and-a-half away from the support group I love so much. If I had held out a little longer, I might have landed a job at Brookfield Zoo, a job that totally would have kicked @$$. I wonder what life would have been like for me then. I would have been surrounded by friends and family and felt a little more at ease with only seeing Luke on the weekends. We probably would've waited until marriage to live together. I know that would have pleased my mother.

But moving to this city has served as a catalyst for the progress of Luke's and my relationship in a way that Chicago never could. If I hadn't moved here, he would still be working at the Rensselaer newspaper, and we would still be waiting for that "perfect" moment to start our lives together. This move has allowed both of us to stretch our limits as individuals and unearth our true possibilities as a couple. It's been hard, and there are days when we both feel angry, taken for granted, out of place with ourselves. However, when we're tucked into bed, he opens his arms to me and allows my head to rest on his shoulder, signaling that we've made it through another day. That alone makes Indianapolis good for something.

Mental Smorgasbord

OK, it was definitely time to update, because that baby post was really starting to creep me out. You want kids. We get it Frema, we all get it. Dry your eyes and shut your pie hole. Hell, I found myself saying this to MYSELF. Let's all move on.

Anyway, I started a post on Sunday about Luke's and my glorious time at the Whiter River Gardens bonsai exhibit, cleverly connecting the show to my only memories of bonsai, which all stem from The Karate Kid Part III. However, when I received a link the next day from Luke announcing his then-latest post, what did I find but MY idea, shamelessy stolen by someone who's never even seen the damn movie. Now, talking further about the day just seems redundant, and really, I can find my own original ideas to post about, thank you very much, Useless Clutter.

It's been kind of a blah week, a week in which I have experienced the full impact of our domesticity. Over the weekend we made a special trip to the mall so that I could redeem my highly cherished Victoria's Secret coupon for one free pair of panties. (FYI: Every time I say the word "panties," I imagine Eric from That Seventies Show in the episode where Donna finds strange underwear in his car and she imagines him in his bedroom surrounded by his lingerie trophies, shouting, "Panties! Glorious panties!" and then gleefully tosses them over his head.) Anyway, as I'm sure Victoria is well aware, women who get something free are likely to also walk away with items that cost the very opposite of free. Only this time Luke was there, and he shook his head vehemently when I said it might not be a bad thing to get one more bra. You know, for work! Yet still, no.

We were at the mall again tonight, shopping for my father's birthday, and for the first time in a long time, I walked away with nothing for myself, even though I am the proud owner of not one but TWO good-through-October-only coupons for New York and Company. Now that Luke and I are a Financial Unit, it's not OK to say "&*$# it" and charge three sweaters on my NY&C credit card. For the first time in my life, my money-management skills affect someone other than myself. Plus, with student loans, a 3,000-dollar Visa debt, and soon, a wedding to pay for, it's time to grow up and learn to keep the plastic in Mr. Pocket. But it's hard. I spent so much of my childhood hating my clothes. As an adult, I love the control I have over my wardrobe. The idea of not adding to it at my whim is depressing. But such is life.

The one aesthetic splurge I can look forward to is my haircut and color this weekend in Chicago. Yes, Chicago. I've strategically scheduled all of my hair appointments to coincide with my Chi-town visits, as the salon I visited in Indy back in June left the top layer of my head a shade of copper neither I nor God himself ever intended for my hair. That's what I get for going to a place that spells "curl" with a K. Behold the evidence, if you can. Sunglasses may be required.

Less than a week after this was taken, I was sitting a chair at Enve in Chicago, pleading with Brenda to make the ugliness go away. Not only did she fulfill my wishes, but she also demonstrated the proper way to use a diffuser, not realizing she had bestowed upon me a gift more precious than the cotton-candy-pink bicycle my grandma bought me for Christmas in 1987.

As much as I heart Brenda and her mad skillz, though, I've come to discover Indianapolis is actually chock full of salons whose employees don't show up for work in scrubs and sport hair styles that were shaped by a mixing bowl. Plus, my hour-and-a-half appointments subtract from the precious time I have with family and friends. So, this weekend, I'm saying my good-byes to Brenda, in hopes of finding an equally if not more savvy stylist at least two and a half hours closer to home. Any opinions on Ulta?

And...I'm out.

Playing Hooky

Well, not really. I did go to work yesterday and managed to stay until lunchtime, but with my projects at a standstill and the lovely weather beckoning and the fact that my boyfriend was at home with nothing to do, I could stand it no longer. I was off.

There is something slightly scandulous about having fun on a Friday afternoon, knowing you should be at work and remembering all those you left behind, forced to go about business as usual until 5:00. Just the fact that you're away from the confines of your cubicle makes the day spectacular, even if you do nothing but organize your sock drawer.

Don't worry, I didn't really organize my sock drawer. Instead, Luke and I went to this orchard in Indianapolis, which turned out to be nothing more than a barn that sold expired eighties candy (Blow pop, anyone?) and homemade mustard and oh, yeah, some apples, too. So off we went again, this time to downtown Indianapolis, where we walked around and got ice cream and visited the Soldiers and Sailors Monument. We finished our city adventure by heading over to Broadripple for the second time this week and talking a stroll down the Monon Trail, which is where we took the above picture and, in my opinion, one of the greatest things about this place. Broadripple reminds me a little bit of the north side of Chicago, with its quaint little shops and tons of restaurants and loads of upscale twentysomethings decorating the streets. In addition to the slew of townhouses that you know the owners are paying out of their ears for, there are also joggers, bikers, dog walkers, parents with baby strollers, and a variety of other residents looking to get their blood pumping. I always admire the joggers in their sporty shorts and tee shirts, wearing gym shoes that probably cost more than my grocery bill, chatting with their companion about the daily grind. When I was in high school, I always pictured myself being one of those joggers; I'd have an apartment in Chicago off the lake shore and live in a neighborhood where it was common to have your groceries delivered and have dinner parties with "colleagues" from work.

I may not have my Chicago dream, but life is still pretty good. Luke and I have spent the majority of the week experiencing the first season of Scrubs on DVD, as a way to pass the time until the fifth season starts in January. The last month has been a weird one for me in regards to TV, as I used be attached to an IV that fed me all my favorite shows intravenously. (If you don't believe me, read this.) Now, the loss of cable has also caused me to lose most of my television appetite, so that I usually end up just popping in a Friends disc and letting it play all the way through. I haven't even bothered taping All My Children. Soaps just aren't as much fun without SoapNet. I can't decide if someone should congratulate me or initiate an intervention.

Coming Home

Big weekend for Project Useless Clutter and Disarray: Luke and I cleaned out his apartment in Rensselaer, a major undertaking that included soaking blinds, wiping window sills, and attempting to unclog the kitchen sink. We spent Friday night in a sleeping bag on the floor, as his bed had been disposed of the week before, and when my cell phone's alarm woke me up at 7:00, after fewer than six hours of sleep, I wasn't sure I could make it through the day. I did, though, for Saturday was Homecoming for my alma mater, and it was the first time in four years that I didn't have to snap pictures or take notes for the alumni magazine. Instead, I volunteered in the registration tent and mingled a bit with people who I don't get to see very often. I also found out one of my classmates is a faithful reader of this blog (hi, Mandy!), and she shared some fun living-together anecdotes with me. I have also received e-mail from someone who was a year ahead of me in school, armed with cohabitation stories of her own. This blog is slowly becoming a safe haven for those who are Living in Sin and couldn't be happier about it. Kind of.

Because so much has happened since I left Rensselaer and Saint Joe in May, I wasn't sure what the weekend would hold. The work relationships I had once enjoyed on a daily basis have now evolved into more casual ties, and I felt a little sad thinking about all the inside jokes and gossip I could no longer be privy to. But it was so great to tell the little $%#@ who approached me in the Beer and Brat Tent to say, "So, you're still here, huh?" and fire back, "Actually, I have a great job in Indianapolis and I'm here on my own terms now, you obnoxious tool."

It's amazing how different I feel, for I truly have reached a point in my life where I am on my own terms, without wanting to apologize to anybody for how I got here. I'm proud of how I got here, because dammit, I have put in my time. The niches in my belt are filled with squeezing in a term paper on my lunch hour, spending weeekends at the office, crying at my desk after meetings (and unfortunately, sometimes in the meeting), and doing my best to follow a work ethic I couldn't fully support. After four years of breaking my back, I was ready for something new.

Right now, Project Cohabitation is still plenty new. After one week, I'm still kind of floating on air, similar to the way you react in the first weeks of romance, where you see everything through rose-colored glasses. It's been hard going to work every day, knowing that when I'm eating lunch in my cubicle, MY BOYFRIEND IS IN MY APARTMENT RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE. With no fear of being grounded for it! My boyfriend, all access, all the time. Monday was wonderful. He woke up with me, we had breakfast, and he sent me out the door with a packed lunch and kiss good-bye. When I came home, dinner was ready and waiting. Was seriously thinking that maybe this whole double income thing was not so necessary after all. Then Tuesday started with me breaking the floater attachment on the toilet and waking up Luke to say, "I think I did something wrong." He wasn't so eager to kiss me then.

We are still learning the ropes in this new life of ours, doing our best to distinguish what can remain "yours" and "mine" while still nuturing the "our." (He refuses to accept joint ownership of my Murder, She Wrote season one box set, while I happily relinquish all rights to his coffeemaker. But with two computers in the house, we both stake claim to the wireless adapter that makes all of our Internet dreams come true.) Still learning to carefully ignore the way the quilt on the mattress scandulously brushes the carpet every morning and instead just be thankful to be in love with a man willing to make the bed. Maybe just one of us is learning that one.

I suppose for every rose-colored moment, a little toilet water must fall.

Useless Clutter and Disarray

The Merge is complete.

 

The Organizing is not.

But all the little butterflies are finally gone. I was so nervous last week, bombarding myself with Deep questions: Are Luke and I dooming our relationship? Are we really ready for this? Hell, am I ready for this? But when I woke up on Saturday morning, that cold feeling in my stomach had disappeared, and all I could feel was excitement that we would finally be together again.

As we begin compressing our lives into this one-bedroom apartment, there have been no major problems, only interesting issues that I'm sure every Merging couple faces. Like, we now possess a gazillion dishes, but I can't get myself to throw away the bowl and cup sets I bought from the dollar store my freshman year in college. That was EIGHT YEARS AGO, PEOPLE. The dollar-store dining ware and I, we have a history.

And OK, I know we have more coffee cups than all the Starbucks in Indianapolis, and yes, I am aware I don't even drink coffee, but don't ask me to get rid of the English cup I received from SJC's president's wife for driving her to the bus stop in Merrillville three years ago. And it still hurts that I will most likely have to give up the ugly-ass teacups taking up all the space in one of the top-shelf cabinets. The ugly-ass teacups I have used maybe one time but match the ugly-ass plates my mother gave to me when I moved out of the dorm and into my first (rented) house.

And then there are the questions. Why are you putting your measuring cups in the drawer when I have a perfectly wonderful set that's not missing any of the measuring increments? What will we do with nine pillows and three laundry baskets? If I "let you" display your electric razor, will it be OK if I leave my make-up bag on the ledge of the medicine cabinet? Will you ever remember to dry the bathroom countertop after you wash your face?

Many of these debates have taken place in my head as I put dishes away, shred Luke's old credit-card statements, and watch him assemble yet another Target bookshelf. But there is one thought I cannot keep to myself:

"I'm so glad you're here."

God Bless Betty

I didn't realize how starved I was for platonic companionship in the workplace until today.

Betty is probably fifty years old and answers the phone lines at the lab. Betty lets me in through the visitor's entrance when I forget my ID. On my very first day, Betty told me how to get to White Castle. But today, Betty was my friend.

I had just stapled a 401(k) announcement to the bulletin board and tossed last week's update in the recycling bin when Betty asked, "So, is anything going on?"

For a moment, I was startled, then confused. "Do you mean with me personally?"

"Well, yes," she said.

"Well, yes," I answered back, and proceeded to spill my current life saga about Luke moving in this weekend and that I was a little nervous but mostly excited and opinions are murky and my mother wants me to be married and this wasn't Plan A but, well, doesn't she think Luke and I want to be married, too? Because we do, and I know that Luke is thinking about proposing soon because I SAW THE BOOKMARKED LINKS, PEOPLE. And he knows I saw them, because he showed them to me, because he thinks my family and I don't have any faith that he's in this for The Long Haul. So yes, Betty, there is plenty going on and I have nobody at work to talk to about this with they are all too damned busy with urine samples and infant bowel movements to chit chat with me. And I lent my Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban DVD to the senior lab director in hopes of sparking a lifelong friendship, but alas, it has not happened just yet.

And dear Betty, she just listened and gave grandmotherly advice, and in her own way suggested that we could have upped a wedding just as easily as we upped moving in together. And then I was like, "Huh," and then, "Well, money, yeah..."

Huh.

So, OK, Luke is still totally moving in this weekend, but I have now deemed my House Fund (formerly known as Emergency Fund) as the Wedding Fund. Because really, it makes the most sense.

Thanks, Betty.

I'm Too Sexy For This Post

Well, it's the eve of the day my modeling career is sure to take off, and I don't feel ready. Never found the time or the twenty dollars to get that professional blow-out I wanted so badly, so my public will have to settle for The Curls. Which is bad enough, as the chances of strutting my stuff on the runway with frizzy hair have now doubled, but we beauty queens are also expected to do our own make-up. I am getting much better at this but still have not yet mastered avoiding The Crease. Girls, you know what I'm talkin' about--you start the day with gorgeously applied eye shadow and end up with it caked in the crevice of your lid. Even with this product, designed to specifically prevent such atrocities, The Crease lives, adding a slight dent in my love for all things Clinique. Am I using too much? Too little? I have heard both answers, as they vary with each counter I visit. Very frustrating.

Plus, upon requesting directions on how to work it, I've been told, "These are your friends, people you know, so just have fun with it." Actually, Parisian special events coordinator, these people are not my friends. They are friends in the MAKING, which means it's very important I don't make an @$$ out of myself. This being the case, the following moves have been considered but pretty much kaboshed:

- Running fingers through hair and shaking head playfully
- Flashing innocent citizens with the inside of my jacket
- Raising eyebrows suggestively
- Twirling
- Kicking a heel in the air
- Voguing
- Gripping knees and laughing playfully a la Betty Boop
- Shaking what my mother gave me

I will totally make an @$$ out of myself.

This post reads as frazzled as I feel, and it's not just the fashion show. It's like my life hasn't had a chance to slow down since I moved here; there's always been something on my plate: graduating, starting my job, helping with my sister's wedding, Luke and I deciding to live together, helping his brother and sister-in-law get ready for a move into their new house.... Today was so crazy that I pulled the White Trash card and ate White Castle take-out in the waiting room of a Jiffy Lube, just to get dinner in. I am ready for normalcy. I eagerly anticipate the days where I can come home, nestle into my beloved reading chair, and devour Harry Potter shenanigans until Luke is finished with dinner. Afterwards, he'll brush my hair, rub my feet, and paint my toes, but not before he's prepared me a warm bubble bath and set my night to music.

Having a live-in boyfriend is going to be great. I just know it.

How Useless Clutter Changed My Life

The Moving Day, it has been set. On Saturday, September 17, Luke and I will officially be living in sin. Exciting! Seriously, though, my stomach is starting to flutter at the idea of being able to see the love of my life every day. And in a city with more than one zip code! We'll go out for coffee and get joint memberships at Cardinal Fitness and snuggle up on the couch after a hard day's work and fall asleep in each other's arms. No more jumping onto I-65 at 5:00 p.m. on Friday to be in Rensselaer by dinnertime. Gone will be the days of an extra bottle of contact solution at his place and extra pairs of his socks at mine.

When I first started spreading the news, I was so bogged down imagining everyone's opinion that I didn't give myself permission to be happy. Now, that's all I can think about. The very first day I met Luke, I knew he was someone special. And as we got to know each other, I learned he had all the qualities I'd been searching for in a man: he loved his parents and had a wonderful relationship with them; he believed in God and the importance of being a good person; he was funny; he didn't judge; he was kind. And I was hooked.

In the more than four years that we've been together, we've had problems. Of course we have. But as each obstacle stared us in the face, we didn't back down and refused to give up. And he has never seen me for anyone other than who I am. The biggest reason my past relationships failed was that those guys never really GOT me. They weren't horrible people; they were just less interested in who I was and more concerned with what my persona had to offer. And I had a few of them. There was Savior Frema, who made numerous attempts to rescue a person who barely gave her the time of day, someone who went MIA for days and even weeks at a time and stole from her workplace and lied about cheating on her and then had the audacity to tell her that her morals were outdated. There was also Trophy Frema, the girlfriend who smiled a lot and always did her hair and hung out with the boys and at 20 years old did the best she could to appear adult to men who saved up for comic books instead of down payments. In both scenarios, she was almost always on edge, always afraid that one day she would slip up and be unmasked as the fraud she really was.

With Luke, I can be me. It's OK to burp and fart and laugh through my nose and cry with my whole heart. He sees me in my favorite lounger capris and still calls me pretty. He thinks it's cute that I still get excited about bunnies and ice cream. When we go out to eat, he always asks if I want to get the spinach dip appetizer, even if he's not in the mood. When my feet are sore from wearing high heels for ten hours, he'll carry me to my car (or at least halfway; light as a feather I am not, people). I have never before experienced a love like this.

But most importantly... he has NEVER stolen Pokemon cards or cash from my place of employment. That alone gives me hope for our future.

A Wedding Wedgie

I can't believe I forgot to write about this the other day--it consumed my entire being for three-fourths of the ceremony. As it's not considered classy to pick underwear out of your tush when you're standing in front of 120 people in God's house, I kept my hands to myself, but it was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. Which made it even more painful to hear Father Off-the-Subject ramble about Notre Dame and his upcoming fiftieth anniversary with the priesthood and his praise of Samantha's Italian heritage. Please note that the only Italian in Samantha's background is the occasional spaghetti dinner and her devout love for pizza. The cause for celebration is questionable.

Anyway, I've got a better handle on my emotions and am slowly making peace with the fact that not everyone will jump for joy at the moving-in-together news. And that's OK. Luke and I were not asking for permission, or approval, or even for advice when we spilled the beans. Those who think this is a mistake are certainly entitled to their opinion. However, we reserve the right to feel excited and happy, so for those of you who are actually on board, much love.

To prepare for Moving Day, which has yet to be determined, we are each taking inventory of our respective things and mulling over what can stay and what must go. I am also preparing to lament over the loss of my fabulous closet space. Right now the left side is reserved for casual clothes and the right for work clothes, with both divided by season. The shelving unit holds almost all of my gazillion shoes, and my purses are nestled comfortably on top. I think I can live with everything else, but this will take the most getting used to.

I also asked whether or not we would keep any CD duplicates, but Luke assures me there are more important matters to dwell on. Besides, who COULDN'T use two copies of Liz Phair's Whitechocolatespaceegg?

A Wedding Story

Well, she did it! On August 19, my little sister, the girl who sucked her thumb until the age of nine, became a wife.

She was amazing. No apprehension, no worries, just full of eagerness to get to the church and start her life with Dan. I held it together pretty well until she and my father made their way down the aisle. Mad props to Maybelline's Full 'n Soft waterproof mascara in Very Black.

Here I am, showing off a sleek blow-out, an air-tan, and the red lipstick that only comes out when I'm feeling particularly adult. Also, scandulous cleavage. It could not be contained.

There were a few surprises with the tan, the biggest one being that an "air technician" applied it to me personally instead of an automatic sprayer. Which basically means that I got to first base with a Keira Knightly look-alike who saw me and my flabby flab in all its naked glory. I was also given disposable underwear to don, but for all the coverage it provided, I could have just put on a maxi-pad and connected it with a string around my waist. I put the smackdown on that and refused to take off my briefs. I do have some pride. And for all that trouble, it had all but faded from my face by Thursday night. Bronzer to the rescue, with mixed success.

Here are The Cleavage and I, keeping Samantha's wedding dress from hitting the pavement. Apparently this very act is the sole reason for having a maid of honor. Even the priest (who took a brief hiatus from his homily to talk about Notre Dame's football team) was telling me to pick up her train. Very, very important.

The reception was a lot of fun. The only glitch was that the air conditioning konked out from a brown-out the night before, turning the hall into a giant sweat box. My sister was so hot in her dress I thought she was going to faint, so she ended up ditching her slip after pictures, a slip I had to cut her out of with a steak knife. I blame my mother and her affection for the double knot.

Now it is Tuesday, and life is still filled with The Crazy. We moved Ryan into her Bloomington apartment on Sunday so that she could start transfer orientation at IU. Luke and I also made the big decision to move in together by the end of September, whether or not he had another job lined up. He gave his two weeks' notice at the newspaper yesterday, and we both broke the news last night to our parents. His are very supportive; mine are more skeptical. My mother thinks it's a way to avoid marriage, despite my telling her that we want to get married soon, and they both wonder why four and a half years have passed without it already happening. I haven't made a move that they haven't been proud of for almost four years now, and when you have the emotional sensitivity of a kindergartener, it hits you pretty hard. I understand where they're coming from, but it hurts just the same.

As if THAT joy wasn't enough, I found out that I filled out the wrong consolidation forms and now owe a four-hundred-dollar bill to The-Evil-Student-Loan-Company-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in three weeks, half of which is overdue. It'll take about a week to sort out, so in the meantime I get to fantasize about where to find four hundred dollars if this bill actually needs to get paid. God forbid they CALL me and TELL me about the screw-up. It's not the end of the world; I know I can get the money. It's just one more thing to keep me from paying down my Visa bill. Grrrrrr.

And I still haven't finished Harry Potter. At this point I'm tempted to use the last precious vacation day I have just to BE DONE WITH IT already. And I still have to model in that post-Labor Day fashion show. In case you can't tell, I am not in a very model-y mood. If all else fails, I can bust out with The Cleavage. No pun intended.

Losing Cable, My Mind, And Other Necessities

The cable. It is done.

What started out as an innocent phone call to Comcast last Thursday about possibly terminating cable service in the next week or so turned into the bastard pulling the plug while I was on the phone. While I was watching the last ten minutes of All My Children. The horror! Imagine being a smoker, casually talking about how you'd like to quit, and out of nowhere somebody SHAMELESSLY rips the lit cigarette from your fingers and CRUSHES IT INTO THE GROUND.

While trying to cope with this new sense of loss, I traveled to Chicago this weekend to visit with family and friends--OK, I came in to recolor my hair but thought I would stick around to visit with family and friends--and found out my sister is continuing to get dumped on with all kinds of "assvice" (coined by Amalah) about the wedding. (Which, by the way, is this Friday, which, OH MY GOD.) If one more person says one more thing to make my sister cry, I will choke them to death with my cable cord. God knows I don't need it for cable.

I also had a mini-breakdown, if "mini" means sobbing for three hours about wedding shenanigans, averaging 300 miles per weekend on your car, and missing the boyfriend who has yet to join you in Indianapolis. You know, the usual. I am trying to stay positive, but it's been hard. I've actually considered whether or not this whole "great job in Indy" thing will work out. Life would be much easier if I had somebody other than Harry Potter to comfort me in my zip code, but even he's preoccupied, what with this whole Half-Blood Prince business.

On that note, have a happy day, everyone!

Will Work for Sanity

Today is the last day of the month, which means I've been officially unemployed for half of May and will continue to be until June 13. All of this sleeping late, pigging out, and watching TV is taking its toll. My body is physically starting to reject vacation. I woke up this morning at 8:30 with a sinking feeling in my stomach. "Isn't it time to DO something?" my insides shouted. "I mean, really, don't you have ANYWHERE else to be but in bed?"

I did this weekend, actually. Luke and I had a lot of fun in Indianapolis, where we did more in two days than I've done since I've taken up residency.

 

We spent most of Sunday at the Indianapolis Zoo and White River Gardens, which exposed us to dolphin adventures (real and plush), red panda fun, and joyful butterflies flittering this way and that. Our last time at the gardens was with Maura and David two years ago, during which we witnessed one brave butterfly perch herself on the very middle of a very large woman's behind.

Both Saturday and Sunday night were spent hanging out with Luke's parents and his brother's family, which includes his little niece, now three-and-a-half months old. Her newest accomplishments are sitting up and sucking on her fists.

[Edited 12/11/06 to add: One picture removed.]

Monday was a little more low-key, though we did check out Holliday Park, located right in the city itself. There was hiking, nature-centering, lots of picture-taking, and some attempted (and sadly, unsuccessful) hand-standing.

 

But now it is Tuesday, and Luke and the rest of the world is at work, and here am I, still in my bed shirt, futzing around on the computer, wondering if I will make to the shower before noon. And there are still two more weeks to go. Enough is enough. I've spent some time this morning researching volunteering opportunities in Indianapolis, and two possible contenders are the Humane Society and Big Brothers Big Sisters of Central Indiana. If anyone has additional suggestions, I'm all ears.

Hoosier in a Strange Hoosier Land

Well, I'm back in Rensselaer and in front of a computer again for the first time in a week. I'm a little sleepy right now, but my Internet thirst must be quenched with a blog post or I'll be lying in bed and feeling guilty about not providing my readership with an update on my New and Fabulous Life. So, here I go.

First of all, the movers. Love them! It was absolutely wonderful to sit back and watch total strangers pack up my books, breakables, and movie collection; manuever every piece of furniture down my narrow, spiral-like stairway; and haul it up to my second-floor apartment in Indianapolis. Luke and I didn't do a thing the entire time they were there, which made us feel like lazy, good-for-nothing-preppy-snob bums, but that's why they were getting paid $100 an hour EACH and why I tipped them $20...EACH. They made out like bandits, and frankly, since the moving bill is going straight to my new employer, so did I. Absolutely wonderful. (You can read Luke's thoughts on the big day here.)

And then the Target runs began.

Did I mention there is a Super Target in the same zip code as me? Well, it's worth mentioning again, because we spent about 20 hours there shopping for food, furniture, and other fun things. No milk? Time for Target! Interested in a shredder? Better go to Target! Jelly Belly refill? Target, Target, Target! It also turns out there's a wider variety of shopping options than I originally thought. At last count, there are at leave five Applebee's, four Starbucks, several branches of my bank, three different movie theaters, TWO malls, a Ben and Jerry's, and one Original Pancake House, which makes my favorite pancakes ever (banana chunks cooked right in!). However, none of that was enough to comfort me after Luke left for home. Of course I cried, and later on it was really hard to get to sleep, as I knew the Devil and Chucky and other creatures of the night would surely capture me and throw me into the pits of hell now that I was left to fend for myself. I have resorted to playing one of my Sophie B. Hawkins CDs at lights-out; this tricks my brain (and the Devil?) into thinking there is another flesh-and-blood human being in the room on call to protect me 24/7. It's the next best thing to a night-light.

I still have a lot to get used to. There are bruises all over my legs, arms, and even hands from bumping into unfamiliar corners and sharp edges, and my neighborhood is plagued with m*****f***ing medians, which is why I almost drove straight into a semi after getting gas on Sunday night. Then I went home and proceeded to dream about smashing the Dakota and losing car insurance and bussing it for the rest of my life. Thankfully, that did not happen, and yesterday I traded in for an easier-to-manuever Grand Am, thus demoting me from driving on top of the world to just below it. But it's only for another two to three weeks, as my insurance company has declared my car totally fixable. Which, after comparing the damage between the Cavalier and the Cobalt, OF COURSE it is. I doubt the engine received any damage at all. So that's all well and good.

But I'm lonely. Here I am with all this time on my hands, and mostly I'm in my apartment, alone, wondering if my former colleagues have forgotten my name, if I'll ever make solid friendships in Indy, and if my friends up north will eventually write me off as "the girl who lives too far away to justify a visit." Plus, worried, worried, worried that my sister doubts my ability to be a good maid of honor now that I'm three and a half hours away and her wedding is fewer than three and a half MONTHS away. Everything snowballed into one big cry last night, after I finally settled in to watch the Sex and the City series finale Luke taped for me and discovered the last 10 minutes were shaved off. Bawl, sob, hiccup, sob. That was me.

All of this nonsense basically reveals that my life right now, while certainly New, is not yet Fabulous. It's getting better, though. Besides, life can't be too bad when this is the view you have from your balcony.

Plus, I spewed all of my feelings onto Luke (poor guy), and we eventually shot over to Wal-Mart so I could buy the Sex DVD that features The Reunion of Carrie and Big That I Knew All About But Had To See For Myself. (For that I paid 37 bucks, and it didn't even feature the complete last season. What a sucker.) Also, I'm going back to Indianapolis tonight to see a musical about menopause. How many times does a gal get to say THAT?

Oops, I Did It Again

Well, I didn't REALLY do it. Blame the picture below on some punk townie who thought he could make a left turn into my brand-new car. The one I got from the OTHER accident I had THREE MONTHS AGO. Clearly it's not fun to have just one.

Luke and I were on our way to McDonald's on Sunday night when it happened; lucky for me and my insurance premium, the officer on the scene said it was totally the other guy's fault. When I stopped by the body shop to check on the Cobalt's status, I was told the appraiser estimated about $7,500 worth of damage. For a car that's worth maybe $13,000 now, not great. I should know early next week if GMAC will choose to repair it or total it. Because the townie has insurance, and because he'll most likely be paying for it, I'm thinking it'll be totaled. Especially with the airbags damage. I can't decide whether that makes me sad or not, but there's not much time to worry about it. I still have an apartment to move into, a new job to prepare for, and a graduate class to finish up. Plus, my sister Samantha has announced that she and her fiance will be having their July-2006 wedding this August, which, AH! (No, she's not pregnant.) And I thought I'd have nothing to write about.

In other related news, today was my last day at work. Hmmm. Even being the crybaby that I am, I didn't anticipate the heartwrenching sobs I exploded with after emptying my office and coming home to my most precious belongings stuffed into tupperware bins. Tomorrow the movers come, and it's just now hitting me that I'm moving into uncharted territory. When I kiss Luke good-bye on Sunday knowing he'll no longer be a stone's throw away, it'll hurt even more.

Before you start shedding tears of your own on my behalf, know that there's a Super Target, Applebee's, and White Castle five minutes away from my new place. And, despite my crash-prone record, my insurance company had no problem handing me the keys to this. Cuz, you know, I'm such a fantastic driver.

Ready to Explode

My brain, that is. It's still racing with visions of Indianapolis and the lifestyle that will go along with it. Poor Luke has been driven crazy with questions like, "Where should I live? The West Side near work or the North Side near all the fun?" "What kind of dog should I get?" "Should I exnay a landline phone and stick to my cell phone instead?" "How much would a sofa couch cost?" Good thing the big day is this Friday or I'd soon be out one boyfriend.

I've also been trying to pinpoint the best time to wrap things up at work. This is the problem about working for your alma mater in a nonprofit environment where the manpower is overworked and budgets are underfunded. It's not like I can just give two weeks' notice and wipe my hands clean. April is a flurry of Big Important Events, and May starts off with graduation, so the earliest I can take off without packing two big bags of guilt is after that. April should be OK; May will be hard. I can already see myself fiddling around at my desk, organizing papers and windexing my computer monitor and wondering when the hell I can GET OUT OF HERE ALREADY MY GOD IT'S BEEN SEVEN YEARS AND I HAVE TO GO RIGHT THIS MINUTE TO MY FABULOUS NEW LIFE. Hopefully a replacement is hired before I leave so that I don't lay awake at night wondering if the alumni magazine and Web site will fall to pieces because no capable soul is at the helm. But as Luke very wisely reminded me, I'm the one who was shouting from the rooftops just months ago, when the college had to hire a new graphic designer, that nobody is indespensable. And while the idea was depressing before, now it comes as a great relief. Such is life.

Lydia Beatrice

This is the latest name for my first daughter, who has yet to be conceived. One of my Valentine's Day presents was the centennial anniversary edition of the complete tales of Beatrix Potter, and while I'm not crazy about having the letter X in my child's name, a prettier version is Beatrice, though Luke and I both agree that it's much better as a middle name than a first. (Well, Luke thinks so, and I'm reasonable enough to see he may be right. Plus, I'm not crazy about the possibility of "Bea" as a nickname. But I digress.) Lydia comes from a book I read when I was little, about a rich girl who bestows that name upon a porcelain doll she received from her grandmother, a name I then used for the first porcelain doll I received from MY grandmother. (I swear, once they were all the rage.) She lived a long and happy life until I brought her to college and my sister Samantha accidentally dropped her off my bed. So. Lydia Beatrice. Yeah.

Once she does materialize, how on earth will we pay for her? In between car payments, student loans, a mortgage, utilities, short-term savings, IRAs, 401ks, emergency funds, grocery bills, and if The Powers That Be see fit, a road trip or two?

Maybe I'm freaking out because nobody's responded to my resumes - all two of them. Maybe because I just received my first Cobalt payment that's 60 dollars more than the one for the Cavalier. Maybe because I see Samantha and her fiancé worrying about the exact same things as they plan their own future together, which officially begins next July.

I normally don't get caught up in things like this. I look at how my parents scrimped and saved and had five(!) children in between. They didn't worry about eating out or taking vacations. They didn't care about the year their car was manufactured in or whether or not they could afford name-brand groceries. I remember that, and I think, Of course it can be done. There's always a way.

Sigh.

I think I have properly regained control of my senses. A normal woman might worry that her boyfriend will read an entry like this and take it as some sort of hint. But not mine. He knows I'm a loon. He also knows I'm not getting any younger. Not that anyone's counting.

P.S. If anyone in my circle produces a princess named Lydia Beatrice, there will be blood. I've already lost Elaine.

The New 'Do

And the best boyfriend a Frema could ask for.

Happy Birthday, Frema!

Lots of people think that, no matter what a baby looks like, he/she automatically qualifies as "cute" simply because of said baby status. I'm not so sure I agree. And when I look at this picture, I bet most others wouldn't, either. For though my dress is quite frilly and my booties quite fluffy, I clearly bear the face of a 50-year-old man.

This is me now:

All likeness to the 50-year-old man is gone, though this hat gives my noggin the shape of a conehead. I wanted to post a picture from today, the day of my birthday extravaganza, but it's late and I'm tired and my smiles are coming out kind of forced. Sometime soon, I'll show off my new 'do, sans hat.

It really was an awesome day. Luke made banana pancakes for breakfast and gave me some very thoughtful presents, my favorite being the complete collection of Winnie-the-Pooh's stories and poems. Then we went to Chicago, where my I-love-them-so-much family had cake and presents and signs announcing that I am "da bomb." All of my siblings were there, a special treat since we scatter around as we age, and I cried when I opened my mother's gift: my baby book, jam-packed with pictures, cards, letters, and descriptions of my earlier years. We stopped by my friend Brooke's house, who herself recently celebrated a 21st birthday, and was having a party for her little son, Matthew, who turns one tomorrow. After a home-cooked dinner back at home, Luke and I were off to Merrillville, where we had a nice visit with his parents. It was a wonderfully relaxing, slow-paced day, filled with the people I care about. And, may I just say, I was having an awesome hair day, making it even more depressing that my photo shoot didn't work out.

I couldn't have asked for a better way to turn 25.

Precious and Few

Here's a picture of me feeding the ducks at a little park in Lafayette this past spring. It was a really great day. Luke and I had a little picnic, wandered the grounds, and ended the afternoon by sharing some carbs with our happy feathered friends. This is one of the nicest memories I have of 2004. It was a beautiful day, and I remember laying on a blanket in the grass with Luke and just staring at the sky, having this awesome sense of peace. I hope next year holds even more.

About an hour ago I found a surge of energy and washed down my bathroom to the tune of an old Britney CD (God forgive me, but it's catchy!), as I hope to finally, after a year's worth of procrastinating, paint over the dingy blue walls with a happy sea green. However, since "tall" is not a characteristic used to describe me, my cleaning job stops a foot or two short of the ceiling. My goal tomorrow: find a much bigger step ladder or a much taller person to help me. Any takers?

I'm feeling a little reflective, but I'll wait as long as I can to post any kind of best-of or 2005-resolutions list. However, I will say this: I think this year will end with me feeling as peaceful as I did the day I fed those ducks. Things I've been worrying about these last few months seem to be falling into place, without my help. It's nice.

Hello Procrastination, My Old Friend

For shizzle! Here I am facing a 10:00 a.m. Tuesday deadline, at which time I will hand over copy for the college's alumni magazine for layout and design, and I'm blogging. As I check the links to my friends' blogs, I mentally criticize them for not updating more consistently. But then, as I gather material for what is certain to be a very long night, I think maybe they're onto something by not blogging when they have more important things to do. For me, though, writing helps me to sort out any lingering thoughts that may interfere with said work. Also, the longer I put the work off, the better it will be, as I work best under pressure - definitely a good thing, as I finished only 5% of the work I intended to this weekend.

I did, however, manage catch up on two weeks' worth of All My Children, Scrubs, and Sex and the City. I DID eat a half a package of Oreos over the course of two days. I DID NOT put on make up, and I DID NOT wear anything dressier than a tee-shirt and jeans. All in all, a spectacular time.

P.S. Seeing The Grudge on Friday night scared the bejeezus out of me. I woke up at 6:00 a.m. the next morning having to go to the bathroom in the worst way, but I was too petrified to even let my feet touch the floor. Luke was forced to accompany me down the two-feet walk to the john. And he didn't even bitch about it; the mark of a truly wonderful man.

The Power of Peanut Butter

I'm back from another conference, and today, sitting here in my pink piggy slippers this Saturday morning, I'm excited at the prospect of spending a day in town. Who'd have thought? There will be laundry to wash, floors to clean, books to read, and manuscripts to proof. (Chris: sorry for the delay.) It's also a beautiful sunny day, so I might even walk to Brookside Park and have some fun on the swings.

In case you haven't noticed, I've been away from home a lot these last couple of weeks, and when I came home yesterday, I found the nicest surprise in my freezer: a quart of peanut butter ice cream from Busy Bee, courtesy of my sweet, wonderful boyfriend. It reminds me of one of the many reasons I love him so much: he doesn't just listen; he remembers. Last November, as Busy Bee was preparing to close up shop for the winter, the second-to-last "Flavor of the Day" was peanut butter, a flavor NOT well represented in grocery stores - or, at the very least, Pick and Save. By the time I got to Busy Bee to experience this coveted taste one more time, they'd run out. I was crushed. So when Luke saw they were stocked with it while I was in Chicago, he bought me my very own quart, just so I wouldn't miss it again.

In a world where many women measure the quality of their relationships in fancy dinners, expensive jewelry, and how successful their partners are at the art of mindreading, I don't think it's at all wrong for me to measure mine in peanut butter. I'll come out a winner every time.