What are you looking at?

I don't think Samantha ever made it, either

At long last, it is here. The last day of NaBloPoMo.

I have to say, this year I disappointed myself. The first time around, I did a good job of writing about a variety of different things: sharing stories from my childhood, creating Tragic Love Friday, initiating the cheesy love song swap, blah blah blah. This year saw no such variety from me--it was pretty much all baby, all the time.

Then again, I'm about to have a baby. And that's what I think about. All the time. Surely you understand.

Today was one of my final days at the office, and even though I spent most of it cleaning out files and meeting with coworkers who'll be taking over my core duties while I'm on maternity leave, this whole experience still doesn't seem quite real. It reminds me of the years I spent in Girl Scouts when I was a kid, and every year our troupe visited a local pumpkin patch for a day of fright and fun. I'd never been to a pumpkin patch before, and the month leading up to the event I was always so excited I could wet myself.

(And sometimes I did.)

(Just kidding.)

Anyway, every year something happened that prevented me from going on the trip, and it was always my own fault. One time it was because I'd mouthed off to my mother the day before; the year after that, my sister and I were caught fighting in church THE MORNING OF. By the time I got my act together, I wasn't in Girl Scouts anymore. My pumpkin-patch ship had sailed.

Where am I going with all of this?

It's like the birth of this baby is some wonderful event being dangled in front of me like cheese to a mouse, an event so wonderful that it's too wonderful to actually come to fruition. Like I'm going to do something stupid--say, trip on a crack in the sidewalk or drop a coffee cup on my belly--and Freka will never be born. It's hard to comprehend that I will go into labor, that she will come out, that I will hold her in my arms and become a mother for the first time.

Her clothes are washed. Her room is ready. She has Christmas presents for her stocking and even one for under the tree. We've got enough newborn and size one diapers to last us the whole winter (or at least the first two weeks). What Luke and I don't have is a firm grasp on the notion that this baby, our baby, is actually coming.

But when she does? It'll be so much better than a romp through a pumpkin patch.

Preparing my nest; also, let's count how many variations of "damn" appear in this entry

I think depression and nesting are in the same boat. As in, they're both terms that get tossed around way too casually and far too often.

For example, a person might feel sad for a couple of days, maybe a week even, and label themselves as depressed, when really it's a condition that doesn't apply unless that sadness stretches on for weeks at a time, preventing said person from completing normal, everyday tasks. In high school, I thought listening to mix tapes of easy listening love songs and prank calling my ex-boyfriend meant I was depressed, when in reality I was just a big fat loser with no life. Sad? Yes--on many levels. But depressed? No.

Same thing with nesting. Just because a pregnant woman vaccuums her rugs or washes a sinkful of dishes doesn't mean she's nesting. Maybe she's always been a neat freak. Maybe she's releasing pent-up energy. Or maybe, just maybe, she's simply cleaning her damn house.

Lots of people think I'm nesting, but I think I'm just doing what I always do: meticulously preparing for a significant life event. I did it when Luke moved in. I did it again when we got married. And I did it once more when we upgraded our apartment. It only makes sense I'd want things in order before we introduce a new human being into our home.

That isn't to say the nesting instinct doesn't exist. One of my company VPs relayed a story about his wife pushing him out of bed at twelve-thirty in the morning during her last month of pregnancy insisting he take out the trash. Our sales director told me that days before his wife gave birth to their first child this summer, she was on her hands and knees scrubbing their floors even though she'd just mopped them the day before. To me, those are signs of nesting--irrational yet uncontrollable urges that must be satisfied NOW because OH MY GOD, THE BABY IS COMING.

I have not reached that point yet. Luke and I have made countless trips to the grocery store to stock our pantry and refrigerator, and yeah, I make sure all the dishes are washed and put away before bed every night (what woman wants to come home from the hospital to cereal bowls crudded with dried-up Raisin Bran?), but in my non-gestating state, that wouldn't be anything unusual. I'm almost hoping I do something crazy like get up at six in the morning to dust all the pages in my books, just to know what it feels like. And if I do, I promise, Internet, you'll be the first to know.

Anyway, I'm not really feeling the Q&A stuff tonight, so instead, I'll just present another round of... 

Project Freka: Prenatal Edition

• Write thank-you cards for shower gifts
• Purchase life insurance
• Create will-like document to secure guardianship and general well-being of Frema-Useless Clutter offspring
• Start Roth IRA for Luke (because if we don't now, we never will)

How naive am I for thinking there's still a chance we can fit this one in?

• Complete application for private student loan consolidation (who wouldn't mind saving thirty bucks a month? Not me, that's for damn sure!)
• Wipe down bedroom blinds (ours, baby's)
• Clean car (wash exterior, disinfect/vaccuum interior)
• Fill out engagement book (because really, enough with the procrastinating already)

I'm crossing this out because it ain't gonna happen. Handwriting anything these days requires a special focus I just don't have anymore. Maybe postpartum.

• Order wedding pictures from photographer (for reasoning, see above)

This one's off because I want to wait and see how the first couple of months of my temporary unemployment go before spending hundreds of dollars on something that isn't a breast pump or a car seat (hot damn if we don't already have to investigate the next size up). If we have money near the end, we'll place an order.

• Print recent family photos and sort them into albums, seeing as eight weeks from now I'll be mostly preoccupied with somebody else's eating, sleeping, and pooping habits

Even though it's actually doable, this bad boy's gone, too, because I don't want the pressure.

• Renew domain registration and TypePad account
• Burn TLF soundtrack for Audrey out of gratitude for her mad summarizing skillz (I totally intended to create a kick-ass play list for the sequel, but...well...I didn't)
• Organize baby's room/assemble baby gear

Our rocking chair was finally picked up by the upholstery shop owner on Wednesday morning, and after offering profuse apologies for not doing so last week, promised to have the whole thing done by this weekend. I did not complain. The stroller, play yard, and swing still need assembling, but I'm not concerned. Like I said last week, we don't plan on taking any big family outings during the first few weeks of Freka's life that would require toting her around for long periods of time (and if we did, we inherited a Baby Bjorn from my brother- and sister-in-law that'll work just fine), and the play yard isn't as necessary for the first few months, so as long as we (read: Luke) can get the swing put together this weekend, life is good.

• Research nursing bras/camis
• Prepare and freeze several meals for easy reheating during baby's first few weeks
• Explore cheap birth announcement ideas
• Purchase and wrap Christmas presents
• Find a pediatrician
• Install, inspect car seat

Done! Luke and I both visited a local fire station this week to have our car seat and bases inspected by a certified car seat technician, and all I can say is these inspections should be required of every parent with a driver's license and an automobile by law. BY LAW. It's amazing to know how easy it is to create hazardous traveling conditions for your child.

• Pack hospital bags

I can't believe how quickly time is flying by. I have a couple of work meetings tomorrow and Monday, but other than that I'll be "on call," working from home through next Friday. I've decided to begin my maternity leave on Freka's due date (December 10, if that hasn't been grilled into your brain already) whether she's here or not because dammit, I am Done, and my practice will recommend induction at week 41, anyway, and I can't imagine not taking them up on it. Even though, in my heart of hearts, I still think this girl's coming early.

Please baby girl, come early. Momma's begging you.

Unless she decides that blogs are bogus; that I CAN'T get behind.

First of all, mad props to Molly and her pinch-hitting for me yesterday when I was a mere fifty minutes away from blowing NaBloPoMo four days before crossing the finish line, thanks to a ill-timed power outage. I loved reading your guesses (though some more than others--I'm looking at those of you who chose dates AFTER December 10); keep them coming!

In the meantime, I'll keep the Q&A stuff coming with a goal of wrapping things up by Friday. Roxanne wonders:

What is one of your hopes/dreams for your new little one?

Oh, goodness, that's a biggie. There are so many things I'd love to see her do: find a passion. Excel in school. Treat her body with respect. Raise a family of her own. Give back in return for all that she's been given. Live a relatively debt-free life (though a few student loans and a reasonable mortgage won't kill her). Luke is hoping she'll attend Purdue and go on to become a marine biologist (hence the Sea Life bedding theme).

In the grand scheme of things, though, I just want her to be happy. I know she'll have hard times, I know she'll have to fall on her face every now and then, but as long as she's grateful for the path she's on, I'll do my best to be supportive and keep my mouth shut about her choices. 

What is one of your greatest fears for little Freka?

This may sound silly, and I'm sure I'll change my mind once she's here, but right now I don't have any fears. All I can think about are the various ways Luke and I hope to give her the best life possible, and how excited I am over imagining her experimenting with sports, reading her first Nancy Drew book, attending her first sleepover, and leaving out milk and cookies for Santa.

Katie asks:

If there was only one language that you could speak/write for the rest of your life, and English wasn't an option, which would you choose and why?

I took two years of Spanish in high school because everyone on my dad's side can speak Spanish and it's one of the most popular languages in the United States. However, my second choice would've been French, because how cool must it be to speak French? So yeah. French. 

What's your favorite cocktail?

I haven't indulged in alcohol since February, back when Luke and I knew we wanted to start trying for a baby, and I really haven't missed it, so my memories of drinking are distant. I do love a good amaretto stone sour, though, and red wine, mostly because it makes me feel grown up at parties.

Sorry for the brief answers, but it's hard to concentrate today, seeing as my doctor's appointment this morning revealed that I'm a centimeter and a half dilated and fifty percent effaced!

Hear that? My cervix is cooperating. Freka is showing (small) signs that she wants to ditch my uterus and meet her mom and dad. That's my girl!

Your mom has control of Frema's blog!

Howdy all! 

Molly here (ahem, shameless self plug, ahem.)  I'm taking a quick break from NaBloPaintMo over in my world to post for poor Frema, who is not only endlessly dedicated to the love of all NaBloPoMo, but also stuck at home gestating away without power, without Internet.  Thankfully, she is not without cheesecake.

At almost midnight, nearing the end of a month-long blogging spree, what's a girl to do?  Why she calls on her pal for a quick post, that's what. 

Of course, each time she calls, I answer the phone with an excited, "Areyouinlabor?"  Because friends, (I can call you that, yes?) I'm dying for that phone call already.  And I can tell that you are also.

So while Frema's in the dark, let's place a few bets.  What day and time are you calling for Freka's birth?  I'm calling December 6th, 8:19pm. 

The winner gets the baby.

Oh, wait.  She'll never agree to that. 

The winner gets the I Called It, Bitches title.  And THAT is something for your resume. 

Braxton this, Mr. Hicks; also, the episode where Brandon met Emily in San Francisco was also a Turkey Day one, right?

Long day, people. Long day. And because of it, the 38-week photo shoot is lacking, I think.

But don't worry. Frema finally found her happy face!

I'm working on it.

Tonight, Luke and I had a fun time trying to time my latest round of Braxton Hicks contractions, which were (sometimes) strong enough to inspire my breathing exercises but never regular enough to merit real concern. I did get one hell of a foot massage out of the deal, though. With lotion! Bath and Body Works lotion! Such a lucky woman, am I.

Continuing with the Q&A goodness, Jenny asks: 

Have you been watching The Office this season, and if so, what do you think so far?

Luke and I have been huge Office fans ever since we discovered the show during its season two run; every episode is guaranteed to withdraw at least one heartfelt guffaw from each of us. Michael's stupidly painful (yet unfortunately, still very boss-like) antics! Toby's depressing life! Dwight's cousin Mose! It's all too much!

At the end of season three, when it appeared that Jim and Pam were attempting to make a go of things, we both cheered. And at the beginning of season four, when we saw their relationship wasn't going to dominate the show's entire story arch, we breathed a sigh of relief. But now? Now, I'm not sure how I feel. The show is still very funny, but at this point it's kind of...I don't know...slow? The Dwight and Angela break-up is interesting, but it's not picking up fast enough for me. Jim and Pam are adorable, but I'm getting some very strong "Ross and Rachel season three" vibes--you guys know what I'm talking about, right? When Rachel went from being a waitress at Central Perk to a fashion executive at Bloomingdale's, and Ross got all iffy, and now Pam's trying to shed her receptionist shell to pursue leads in graphic design, and Jim's all iffy? Branch out a little, NBC writers, is all I'm saying.

What is your favorite Mexican food/Italian food?

This may come as a shock to you guys, but I'm a picky eater. I know! Despite the Mexican genes I've inherited from my father, it's a miracle I even eat tacos. I do, though. They're very good. But steak fajitas are the best.

As far as Italian food goes, same thing. When Luke and I go to places like Olive Garden or Macaroni Grill, I usually get either spaghetti (with sausage, yum) or pizza. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, am I right?

I think I'm right.

What is your favorite (or strangest) Thanksgiving memory?

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays because the focus is so simple: family and food. No worries about decorations or presents, and most everyone gets to enjoy a lovely four-day weekend without having to lose a vacation day. I can't ever remember having a bad time. Memories that stand out include a broccoli fight shared between my mom and one of my aunts when I was eleven and the first time Luke and I spent it together in 2005. Prior to that we were usually apart for the actual meal on the actual holiday, so finally being able to share that with him was extra special.

If it's strange you want, I also have a lingering memory of a Beverly Hills, 90210 episode that aired on Thanksgiving, probably when I was in middle school. I never did see the whole thing, but Brandon was hanging off a cliff. Anyone care to fill in the blanks for me?

I was a good kid, I swear

For a while there, it looked like today's was going to be another bullshit entry--Luke and I woke this morning to find our wireless modem had no signal, and after a phone call to AT&T's tech support line, we learned it had indeed met its maker. At first we thought we'd have to wait a few days for a replacement and made plans to crash Luke's work (which is fewer than ten minutes away) and publish obligatory placeholder entries for NaBloPoMo, but since the modem had outlived the initial one-year warranty, we were free to hit to Best Buy and spend ninety dollars on a new one instead. Which we did, which is why I'm able to type at you from the work computer in my living room sated with Oreo pudding and Sara Lee cheesecake instead of an empty office building with no windows and probably no snacks.

Anyway, today was busier than yesterday--there was church to attend, Mexican food to feast on, errands to run, computers to reconfigure, and a little napping on the couch to do in between reading pages from The Big Book of Birth, a book I've really come to enjoy. It was tempting to post another quickie update, but you guys have been very patient and deserve better than the crap I've been slinging lately. It still might be crap, but at least not for a lack of trying.

...And on with the Q&A. Wilddreemer wants to know:

What is one thing you did as a child you hope your child doesn't do?

Take one of my shitty diapers and wipe the contents on the walls. Scoop handfuls of applesauce from the jar and eat it with my bare hands. Wet my pants during fourth grade math. "Accidentally" poke my sister with a nail file. Prank toll-free mental support hotlines under the guise that I was a thirty-something corporate professional whose husband just had been caught in an affair with his administrative assistant. Kiss boyfriends in deserted alleys to avoid getting caught by my parents. Scribble in library books. But the worst thing I ever done--I mixed a pot of fake puke at home, and then I went to this movie theater, hid the puke in my jacket, climbed up to the balcony and then, I made a noise like this: hua-hua-hua-huaaaaaaa--and then I dumped it over the side, all over the people in the audience. And then, all the people started getting sick and throwing up all over each other. I never felt so bad in my entire life.

Wait, that last one was Chunk. My bad.

What is the one thing you are looking forward to doing most after finally having the baby, ie. drinking coffee, touching your toes, shaving your legs?

I've never been fond of coffee, I don't care much for my toes, and with careful (albeit uncomfortable) manuvering, I've been able to maintain normal leg-shaving activity, so those are out. So what I do miss? Sleeping on my back. Grooming my lady parts; hell, being able to see my lady parts without assistance from a mirror. Eating cold lunchmeat without fear of poisoning my unborn child. "Enjoying" my husband. Wearing clothes from New York and Company instead of Motherhood Maternity. I'm so excited about banishing my maternity wardrobe to a tupperware bin in our storage unit until it's time to do this all over again.

As much I as look forward to those things, though, I've surprised myself with the realization that, once this is over, I'll actually miss being pregnant. The first trimester sucked major ass--just thinking about all that morning sickness makes me nauseous--and with the exception of our ultrasound and some moderate fetal activity, the second one wasn't much to write home about, either. But the third trimester.... This is where I feel like I've really come to know my baby, experiencing her sharp jabs and gentle, wave-like rolls, rubbing my hands over the protuding shoulder or elbow or whatever the hell happens to be poking me at the moment. This is where Luke and I can talk to her and she can recognize our voices. This is where I know she's safe all the time, where nobody can get to her without my permission.

This is my first real glimpse at motherhood, and I cannot wait for the rest. 

This is what happens when you wait until an hour before midnight to post for NaBloPoMo

You skip out on writing a legitimate blog post two days in a row. Three if you're not into baby pictures.

I swear, I didn't intend for this to happen. I had great plans to answer questions from my Q&A--questions I bugged you for almost two weeks ago to help me provide fresh content in spite of the writer's block I knew would eventually plague my brain. But alas, it's been a lazy day, what with it being the day after the day after Thanksgiving, and Luke is sick with a cold, so we've spent the entire afternoon glued to the couch, which doesn't exactly get the creative juices going. Plus, I didn't publish my first Parents entry until Thursday, which meant I had to post yesterday and today to meet my three-updates-per-week requirement, and I hate to sound like a sell-out, but since that blog can pay for insurance premiums and eye exams, that one gets first dibs on any quality content I may produce these days. Lucky for all of us, tomorrow is another day.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a husband in my living room in dire need of some TLC. Also, possibly ice cream.

Will be even more thankful when NaBloPoMo is over

...because tonight? I've got nothin'. At least, not for this site. I do mention a fun birth story contest on my other blog, though. Go read that one.

Thankful, so thankful

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

NaBloSickofthisO

OK, is it just me, or is the Internet not as enthusiastic about NaBloPoMo this year? Last November, everyone seemed more inspired to write; now, it's often just an obligation, something to do when we'd rather be lying on the couch waiting for the two-hour, sure-to-be-awesome episode of Deal or No Deal. (Or is that just me?) Plus, the tingling in my left hand has become so bothersome that I'm now sporting a wrist brace, which makes typing extra fun.

In other words, let's just get this entry over with.

Project Freka: Prenatal Edition

• Write thank-you cards for shower gifts
• Purchase life insurance
• Create will-like document to secure guardianship and general well-being of Frema-Useless Clutter offspring

Like I said a few days ago, on Sunday night I finally purchased Suze Orman's will and trust kit, even going so far as to complete a durable power of attorney for health care form that only needs a few signatures to be official. The kit is easy to use and designed to make sure you're meeting the legal guidelines required by your particular state, Suze herself walks you through each process with her lawyer (the one who helped her create the kit), and the documents can be updated any time. However, I'll be holding off on finalizing anything until after Freka's born. There are two reasons for this:

- The will template asks several questions about children that we can't answer properly until the baby is actually here, and I don't care to create a document that'll outdate itself in just a couple of weeks (or days, dear God please let it be days).

- All of these things specifically ask for the mailing address that appears on my driver's license, which still features info on our old pad next door. I would've have it changed it by now except I'm terrified the Bureau of Motor Vehicles will require me to list the current amount of tonnage attached to my belly, which is thirty pounds heavier than my pre-pregnancy weight. Again, I'd rather wait and do this stuff until our official documentation can feature up-to-date information (not to mention a weight that wouldn't make me cry under non-gestating circumstances).

So, because there's nothing else I can really do at this time, I'm crossing this bad boy off my list. Go me.

• Start Roth IRA for Luke (because if we don't now, we never will)
• Complete application for private student loan consolidation (who wouldn't mind saving thirty bucks a month? Not me, that's for damn sure!)
• Wipe down bedroom blinds (ours, baby's)
• Clean car (wash exterior, disinfect/vaccuum interior)
• Fill out engagement book (because really, enough with the procrastinating already)
• Order wedding pictures from photographer (for reasoning, see above)
• Print recent family photos and sort them into albums, seeing as eight weeks from now I'll be mostly preoccupied with somebody else's eating, sleeping, and pooping habits
• Renew domain registration and TypePad account
• Burn TLF soundtrack for Audrey out of gratitude for her mad summarizing skillz (I totally intended to create a kick-ass play list for the sequel, but...well...I didn't)
• Organize baby's room/assemble baby gear

Our rocking chair is presently awaiting pick-up from a local upholstery shop owner, who's confident he can have it ready for us by my December 10 due date. Other than that, all we have to do is assemble the stroller, play yard, and swing, and of the three, the swing is probably the one I'm most concerned about, seeing as we don't plan on taking any big family outings during the first few weeks she's here and we already have the crib and bassinet ready to go, so the play yard isn't as necessary right now.

• Research nursing bras/camis
• Prepare and freeze several meals for easy reheating during baby's first few weeks

OK, we didn't actually prepare anything yet, but we did stock up on some frozen pizzas and crock pot dinners to have on hand for those times when we're too tired to do anything more complicated than turn on the oven or plug in an appliance.

• Explore cheap birth announcement ideas
• Purchase and wrap Christmas presents
• Find a pediatrician
• Install, inspect car seat

I seem to be playing phone tag with someone from our local fire department, but at least we're making progress.

• Pack hospital bags

Last time I provided an update, Molly left a comment asking if I thought we'd be able to get to any of the photo projects on my list. Honestly? I don't know. The wedding photo ordering may have to wait since that'll likely involve a couple of hundred dollars, but printing out our favorite family and friends pictures from the last few years shouldn't be that big a deal. I also hope to fill out our engagement book, but with my new hand problem, all that writing might be too much for me right now. I'm already worried about Monday, when I'm supposed to transcribe notes for a story at work, so I'll just take it one day at a time and see how it goes.

These things aren't on the list, but I'm pleased to say that Luke finally got his flu shot, I've completed all grading duties for my adjunct teaching gig, and the two of us have a meeting scheduled for this Friday at eleven o'clock with the pastor of the church we've been going to so we can talk about Freka's baptism. Things are really coming along, and I feel like I can finally start to relax.

Which I will do in exactly twenty-four minutes with Howie Mandel.

...And now I hate Chase

Luke and I were in Target tonight, cart filled with various household and grocery items, when our credit card was declined. Twice. In a store we drop money in almost every freaking day. After almost four years of being a faithful card carrier. Two days after receiving a bank statement that confirmed our most recent Chase payment had cleared just fine.

Man, was I pissed.

The first thing I did when I got home was call the customer service line, which put me on hold for about fifteen minutes before spending another ten verifying my last five purchases. When I finally got a hold of a "customer service advisor," I was told that an Internet charge of $52.99 had been randomly flagged as suspicious activity, so Chase decided to decline it and all other purchases until they could be verified by the primary card owner.

Apparently embarrassing said card owner when she's trying to pay for frozen pizzas, cough drops, and Raisin Bran is considered a more humanistic approach for handling such matters than, say, CALLING THE DAMN CARD OWNER.

Of course, when I tried explaining this to my "advisor," all she could do was run circles around her script, apologizing for the inconvenience and informing me the card could now be used freely.

"I'm not sure I want to use the card anymore," I said. "My husband and I are lucky we had another one on hand or we would've had to leave more than a hundred dollars worth of groceries behind."

"I'm very sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am. But let me reassure you that the card has been reactivated and is now available for use."

"But the purchase you declined was legitimate and no different from any other charge we've made in the last few months. That was a charge meant to keep our anti-virus software up-to-date, and you just told me that we now have to set up that account all over again. My computer could already be vulnerable because of this."

"Yes, ma'am, and I'm very sorry. But let me reassure you that the card has been reactivated and is now available for use."

"But I'm not sure I want to use it. How can I be sure that Chase will honor my purchases?"

"Let me reassure you that the card has been reactivated and is now available for use."

"I hear that, but I'm not sure I want to use it."

"Well, ma'am, that is another matter."

"...."

"Thank you, ma'am, for calling Chase. Have a nice day."

Click.

Yeah, you, too, effing bastards.

At least Sallie Mae.... Aw, hell, she sucks, too, because I received a letter on Monday stating the paperwork I faxed in for my private loan consolidation application was incomplete, but when I placed a call to customer service, my records were completely up-to-date and my application was pending approval. I will say, though, that the woman who took my call was nice enough to place me on hold while she contacted the processing department personally to make sure everything was OK instead of passing me off to someone else.

The only thing worse than a pissed-off customer is a pissed-off customer who's too pregnant to see her own crotch. The next corporate giant to ruffle my feathers will be in for a real treat. That I can promise you.

If this baby were a turkey, she could feed the whole Brady clan. I'm sure of it.

Seriously. Spouses, kids--the whole shebang. Lucky for me they're not into cannibalism. Also, that they're fictional characters who don't celebrate Thanksgiving together in real life. Or possibly at all. Really, who's to say?

I'll stop blabbering now and just show you the damn belly shot already.

I'm trying to maintain a zen-like attitude regarding Freka's due date, trying to convince God and myself that I'm perfectly OK with the baby deciding on her own when it's time to join the mother and father who have so earnestly prepared for her arrival, but my hands are starting to go numb. Climbing in and out of bed is no smaller a feat than nabbing a gold medal in the Olympics, and a full bladder reduces my stride to an off-kilter duck waddle while en route to the john. Sugary drinks and cereals aren't as easy to digest anymore (though that hasn't stopped me from eating all the Smarties I can get my hands on), and it only takes about twenty minutes of activity for massive swelling to attack my legs and feet.

When I dwell on all of that, I pray my daughter has mercy on her poor momma's physique and makes her debut on December 1. This will allow me to finish out one more full week of work and also keep the inscription featured on the stuffed elephant gifted by my sister and her husband--"Baby Dunscombe December 2007"--nice and relevant. Plus, it's a Saturday, so people would be able to visit us without sacrificing their vacation time.

See how thoughtful I am? Hopefully, Freka will follow suit.

Even though there are several items on my prenatal to-do list that are far from being crossed off, I feel closer and closer to being as ready as I can be for this baby to come. I graded the majority of my students' final papers tonight (only stopping because I lost most of the feeling in my left hand) and plan to do the rest tomorrow. I'll also tally their final letter grades and mail them to the registrar's office on Wednesday so that I'm free and clear of all academic responsibility come Turkey Day. Luke and I have been pretty good about keeping the apartment in order so that we're not faced with a sinkful of dishes in the event that labor takes us completely by surprise, and except for a few family-style frozen dinners, our fridge and pantry are pretty well stocked. Pretty soon, there'll be nothing to distract me from willing this child out of my body.

In church yesterday, when revealing my due date to a well-meaning parishoner, she laughed a little and said, "That was my due date with my first. She didn't come until December 19."

At this point, I hate those remarks even more than ones about my belly. Another month of no baby? Of heavy panting just from rolling over in bed? Another month of WORK?

Somebody, ANYBODY, hand me a tissue.

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

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

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

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

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

I wanna rock with you, baby

Seeing as this baby is just about three weeks away from her scheduled arrival, I've been starting to panic a bit over all the things Luke and I still have yet to do. My biggest priority of late: reupholstering the rocking chair my mother gave me years ago, the same rocking chair she used to lull me (and eventually my four siblings) to sleep. I can also remember being thirteen and sitting in this chair when my youngest sister, Donna, was born, pushing my feet against the carpet and moving in time with her breaths for hours.

To say this chair has special meaning to me is a gross understatement.

Another thing that can't be underestimated? The horridness of the fabric.

Here's the front, in all its mismatched-patterned glory:

The brown plaid is what initially covered the chair almost twenty-eight years ago. The questionable green-pink-blue concoction is thanks to my mom, who swears this once complimented the rest of our living room furniture. I wish I could believe her.

Here's the back:

I think we can all agree, it's time for a change.

For months, I've planned on doing this. I've had visions of reupholstering this precious childhood heirloom with a rich, creamy, neutral fabric, allowing the chair to match the decor of any room it might find itself in, which right now happens to be the baby's room. I knew it could be done--after all, my mother had the same itch herself once (probably in the mid-eighties, judging by her color choices). Her solution? Nail the fabric to the frame for the front and back and sew up the cushion. I figured I could do at least that much and didn't give it another thought until fall, when I realized this project wasn't going to complete itself.

The nails didn't seem like such a good idea then.

But staples! We could staple the fabric and thus avoid bludgeoning our fingers. Problem solved (read: problem shelved for another couple of months).

Which brings us to the present time.

Every weekend for the past three weeks, I've expressed to Luke my desire to PLEASE LET'S GET THIS CHAIR DONE, OH MY GOD, and every weekend it slips off the radar as we wash dishes, fold clothes, and make yet another mad dash to Babies R Us. Finally, this morning, I told him enough already. This baby, she could come any time she wants, and it would be more helpful to finish this off before I'm breathing through contractions on the way to the hospital.

This afternoon Luke removed the second layer of fabric from the front of the chair, after which he realized that staples might not be the smartest solution, either, as they might be just as hard to hide as the nails were. Carpenters we are not, people.

We first googled "upholstery shops Indianapolis" with the intention of purchasing better materials with which to attach new fabric. Then I was calling businesses and requesting quotes and suddenly we were driving through downtown to meet with the only shop owner with Saturday operating hours. It's all a blur now, but the bottom line is that handing the problem off to a professional will ensure us a quality job, not to mention completion before Freka's due date, so that's what we're going to do. If I were even half as crafty and resourceful as a certain domestic goddess I know, I'd vow to save the money and find a way to do this ourselves. But you know what? I'm not that crafty. I'm not that resourceful. I'm almost thirty-seven weeks pregnant, is what I am, and holy cow, do I not want to deal with this damn chair anymore.

Now I can finally dedicate my time to finishing a project more up my alley. Like wills! The fun, it never ends around here.

OK, so maybe I'm a little sad

So I went to class last night and accomplished everything I set out to do: return old papers, collect new ones, take a vote for the top three student blogs (winners got extra credit), touch on money-making opportunities available in the blogosphere, and wrap things up with a discussion about blogging overall.

Except that last one happened not so much seeing as my students just wanted to get the hell out of there. I dismissed them after forty-two minutes.

I'm sure this makes me a big dork, but I was really hoping to facilitate a thought-provoking dialogue about what they gleaned from blogging, info they were most surprised to learn, their guestimates on how the medium will (continue to) affect other societal niches, and what they hoped to do with their own blogs long term. And there was a little of that, but getting my questions answered was not unlike pulling teeth, which, I'm not stupid, it was the last day, they knew they could end class faster by keeping quiet, but still. I've really liked having flesh-and-blood individuals in my life to jabber on about the Internet phenomenon that's had such a huge impact on my life. I'll miss that.

And I'll miss them. Some of these guys really were a lot of fun to have in class, and most of them were quite gracious to me while I struggled to find my academic groove. Knowing I may never see them again tugged on my heartstrings a bit.

Luckily, afterwards I was able to console myself at Maia's, where we feasted on two servings of chocolate fudge pudding apiece. That was definitely a good thing.

You know it's a good day when Frema busts out the liquid foundation

Tonight is the last session for my blogging class at Saint Joe. Thirteen weeks have passed since the first time I took my place behind the front desk and wondered how in the hell I was going to fill up two and a half hours when all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and die. I was nervous about not sounding smart, afraid that either my students would withdraw upon hearing the logistics or stick it out and laugh behind my back. To be honest, I suspect a few of them actually do that, but I did it to some of my professors, too , so I guess it's just par for the course.

When I first learned I was pregnant, one of the first things that came to mind was this class. I knew I'd be cutting it close in terms of my due date, and I worried it would be too much for me to handle. Now that I'm on the other side, though, I'm so happy I stuck with it, because even though it's been time consuming and hard and more than a little frustrating at times, it's also been a lot of fun. My students are very interesting people, and I've loved discussing their views on all the different blogging topics we've covered--when they actually decide to talk. It was also a great distraction when the less-than-stellar aspects of gestation started to take its toll and all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and die. Again.

Teaching has taught me a lot of things; I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up learning more than my students. Did you know that sitting in the back of the room doesn't make you're invisible? And those "discreet" eye rolls we used to share with our buddies when we thought the prof wasn't looking? Turns out, not so discreet after all, and boy, I bet that made the poor guy feel like an asshole.

Not that anything like that's happened to me. And if it did, I'm certainly not bitter.

Also, grading can be really, really hard, especially when the point total is low and the student is a pleasure to have in class.

In the long run, I know my sensitive nature is probably not cut out for teaching. However, I'd love to one day have a job that involves more interaction with young people. I'd laugh a lot more and waste a lot less time in meetings where my behavior consists mostly of nodding and smiling and feigning interest in the latest company PowerPoint.

I really enjoyed this experience, and I'm proud of myself for trying something new. I'll miss my students and my weekly sleepover at my friend Maia's house. But I'd be lying if I said I was sad. I've had an extra skip in my step all day long, because tonight is the last night Luke has to tape The Office for me. It's the last night I have to spend away from him before the baby comes. It's the last time I have to force myself to stay alert for the ninety-minute drive to Rensselaer. And tomorrow morning will be the last time I have to pull myself out of bed before seven o'clock to get started on the drive home.

I'm happy, and I know it. Clap your hands.

Soon to be listless?

Glory be, the end is near.

Work has finally slowed down, my Saint Joe class meets for the last time tomorrow, and this list feels much more managable. It's been two weeks since I last posted an update, and though I think I should have more to show for my lengthy hiatus, I'm still proud of myself for being able to wrap up a couple of the biggies.

Project Freka: Prenatal Edition

• Write thank-you cards for shower gifts
• Purchase life insurance
• Create will-like document to secure guardianship and general well-being of Frema-Useless Clutter offspring
• Start Roth IRA for Luke (because if we don't now, we never will)
• Complete application for private student loan consolidation (who wouldn't mind saving thirty bucks a month? Not me, that's for damn sure!)

I'm cheating just a little bit, crossing this one off, but all I have to do is fax some supporting documentation to Sallie Mae's main office, so I'm marking this puppy DONE. After playing phone tag for almost an hour with the automated Fembot on Saturday, I finally reached a real, live person who walked me through the pre-approval process (again), and today I received an e-mail confirming my status. I've already signed the application electronically, so once I fax the paperwork, I'll finally be on my way to saving that blasted thirty bucks a month. This was a huge pain in the ass, but it's oh, so worth it to owe that much less to Sallie Mae.

• Wipe down bedroom blinds (ours, baby's)
• Clean car (wash exterior, disinfect/vaccuum interior)
• Fill out engagement book (because really, enough with the procrastinating already)
• Order wedding pictures from photographer (for reasoning, see above)
• Print recent family photos and sort them into albums, seeing as eight weeks from now I'll be mostly preoccupied with somebody else's eating, sleeping, and pooping habits
• Renew domain registration and TypePad account
• Burn TLF soundtrack for Audrey out of gratitude for her mad summarizing skillz (I totally intended to create a kick-ass play list for the sequel, but...well...I didn't)
• Organize baby's room/assemble baby gear

There's a few reasons this item is still considered active; while all of the initial baby essentials (bassinet, crib, changing table) are ready to go, we still have the baby swing, play yard, and stroller to deal with. Plus, I'd like to replace the fabric on the rocking chair my mom and dad gave me a few years ago because the fifteen-years-old pink-and-green pattern is totally freaking me out. We have the fabric; we just need the time. And the motivation. I hope both will come into play this weekend; otherwise, I just might succumb to a two-day sob fest over missing my sister's post-wedding wedding shower on Sunday.

• Research nursing bras/camis
• Prepare and freeze several meals for easy reheating during baby's first few weeks
• Explore cheap birth announcement ideas
• Purchase and wrap Christmas presents

Done. Done done done done DONE. Every present purchased, every present wrapped while feasting on back-to-back episodes of Murder, She Wrote. I snagged the first season more than two years ago and still have yet to make it through all three discs, but I'm OK with that. Jessica Fletcher's wiley antics deserve to be savored.

• Find a pediatrician

Also done. Over the last two weeks, Luke and I interviewed four pediatricians and have decided to go with doc number three. It feels good to know we made a conscious effort to find the best physician for our baby--someone who'll look out for her best interests and respect our wishes the best he can.

• Install, inspect car seat
• Pack hospital bags

There are a few things not this list that really should've been added--contacting the church where we plan to have Freka baptised, buying and addressing Christmas cards so all that's left is to stuff them with birth announcements--but rather then overwhelm myself, I'm just going to keep chipping away at what's here until every single item's been dealt with. At this point, though, I'm most concerned with drafting our will and inspecting the car seat bases currently strapped into our back seats. Everything else can be dealt with postpartum.

Holy shit, we're having a baby.

One little story before I sign off: I was interviewing a new hire this afternoon, and we chatted a bit about my upcoming maternity leave and Luke's stay-at-home dad plans. The employee was an older man, so it threw me off when, at the end of our conversation, he said, "So, I guess that means you'll be bottle feeding?"

"No," I replied, but then I stopped, not knowing how to finish my thought. I couldn't bring myself use the word "breast" around a man I'd just met twenty minutes ago, no matter how innocent the context. "Well, since I'm going back to work, we'll eventually be using a bottle to feed her, but..." And my voice trailed off, hoping he'd get the point.

So, to answer TasterSpoon's question from yesterday, the mix of busy bodies ranges from repeat offenders to those who haven't even received their first paycheck yet. Lucky me.

Drop it like it's hot? Not yet.

So I had my 36-week check-up today, and things are peachy keen. My overall weight gain currently stands at twenty-seven pounds (speaking of which, a woman at work actually had the gall to ASK for my "number," how ballsy is that?!), Freka measures in at around 37 centimeters, and my blood pressure, sugar, and protein levels are marvelous. I told my doctor about the intermittent cramping I experience in my fingers throughout the day, and she attributed it to swelling, which she noticed slight traces of in my face, hands, and legs--totally normal at this stage in the game. We discussed the logistics of my birth plan, talked shop about pediatricians, and laughed over all the conflicting advice I've received about the baby's gender and positioning of my uterus. Which means that no, I've not dropped yet, and in fact, I may not drop until right before I go into labor, but either way, it'd be a better use of my time to pay attention to the irregular contractions I've been having as of late. Good call, Doc.

In other news, a big thanks to all who took the bait for my Q&A teaser. Here's a burning question from The Ambitious Mrs:

Are there any traits about yourself or your husband that you're hoping your baby really will or will not inherit?

If we're talking physical traits, Luke and I are both plagued with poor vision and temperamental complexions, and I'd love it if Freka didn't have to bother with contacts, eyeglasses, and routine visits to the dermatologist. When I was a kid, my poor mother, who was blessed with beautiful skin, didn't know what to do with me; I often received instructions to lay off the candy and chips, and she wasn't above steaming my face with a hot wash cloth and squeezing out the blackheads herself to ward off my acne (are you gagging yet? Because I sooo was just typing that, God bless my mom's dedication) (your mom's dedicated!). It wasn't until years later that she recognized I could've used some medical attention, but at least my siblings have had a much easier time of things. Luckily, I'll be prepared to handle this with my own children, but if they could skip that trauma altogether, that would be fabulous, thank you very much.

By comparison, dealing with glasses and contacts isn't nearly as big of a deal, but I remember the types of frames I was drawn to a kid, so all I can do is pray that little Freka demonstrates better taste if she's subjected to the fate of her parents. Seriously, have you seen my blog banner? It was bad, folks. Really bad. But as Luke pointed out, my father--the one who took me to all of my appointments--was brave enough to let me choose my eye wear, and lil' Frema liked having that say. After all, it was my damn face. Doing the same thing for Freka is the least I can do, if it comes down to that.

Physical traits I hope she does inherit? My thick hair and Luke's ridiculously long lashes. A few inches of her dad's height wouldn't hurt, either. Man, would she be a knock-out.

In regards to intellectual traits, we plan to do everything in our power to encourage a love of reading in our children. I also hope they have a passion for education. And blogging, but all in good time, my pretties. All in good time.

Could I BE any more unattractive?

What can I say? Frema and 36 weeks pregnant are like oil and vinegar--they just don't mix.

The comments continue to come at me from all sides. All I can do is grit my teeth and plaster a clearly forced smile on my face.

Random Bitch at Mimi Maternity, Who's Obviously Still in the "Cute" Stage of Pregnancy: "Is that one in there or two?"

Sales Clerk at Finish Line, Who Felt the Need to Shout This at Me From Halfway Across the Mall: "You're due any day now, right? With a boy?"

Overly Perky Mall Cop: "Four weeks to go? Are you sure?"

Waitress at Squealers: "You've got to be having a boy."

Client Services Manager at Work: "Oh, no, that's a girl, alright. And she's definitely dropped."

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow morning, so we'll soon see about that last one.

Also, is now too early to start taking bets on when Freka's going to come? Because I am SO done with this gestating thing.

Coffee talk, revisited

Except I don't drink coffee, and we don't talk. It's more of a read-and-type relationship we've got going on here. But whatever.

To help pass the time during NaBloPoMo, Jessica of Kerflop is hosting a Q&A series over at her place, and seeing as it's been almost a year and a half since I've done anything similar, I thought it'd be fun to see what my readers are curious about these days. But please, nothing of the "If you were a crayon, what color would you be?" variety, because those types of questions kind of make me want to pull my hair out strand by strand, and I can't imagine you guys would be terribly interested in the answer, either. On the flip side, remember that my parents-in-law read this blog; in other words, tread lightly with the sex stuff. Not that I'm saying it's off limits. Just use common sense, is all.

(Because women entering their ninth month of pregnancy are all about the marital love. Ha!)

Anyway, to avoid repeats, here are links to all the Q&A entries I've written:

Stripped, Part 1

Stripped, Part 2

In which I talk about my favorite childhood book

In which I touch briefly on past relationships

In which I blabber on about birth control and religion

In which I share my spinach dip recipe

In which I'm forced to contemplate a childless life

In which I reminisce about college

In which I reflect on my family

In which I'm given two reasons to babble about All My Children (with pictures!)

I'll accept questions until Tuesday before lunchtime and hopefully post answers to the first couple during lunch. Remember, the quality of this Q&A lies with you! Do not disappoint a very pregnant Frema!

Why I hate Sallie Mae: A play in one act

Setting: Saturday afternoon, Frema-Useless Clutter household. Frema decides to get all ambitious and FINALLY tackle the dreaded private loan consolidation application currently plaguing her prenatal to-do list (for which an update will definitely be provided tomorrow, in case anyone cares).

Frema logs on to Sallie Mae's Web site. Learns her application has been withdrawn due to inactivity. This makes sense, seeing as she hasn't touched the damn thing since September.

Frema: Ah, fuck.

Visits the Mae's Contact Us page to locate the phone number reserved for private loan consolidations. Calls number.

Sallie Mae Fembot: Welcome to Sallie Mae, champion of higher education! To request a new loan, please press one. For information about your account, please press two. To report trouble accessing our Web site or to request a paper application, please press three. Para mas informacion en espanol...

Frema: presses two.

Sallie Mae Fembot: Thank you! Please enter your account number.

Frema: enters account number.

Sallie Mae Fembot: Thank you! For security purposes, please enter your five-digit zip code.

Frema: enters five-digit zip code.

Sallie Mae Fembot: Thank you! One of our representatives will be with you shortly.

A few seconds pass.

Sallie Mae Fembot: I'm sorry, all of our representatives are currently assisting other customers. Please wait on the line and someone will be with you shortly.

A few more seconds pass.

Sallie Mae Fembot: Let Sallie Mae call you back in approximately six. To. Eight. Minutes with our call-back feature. You won't lose your place in line! To learn more about this feature, please press one. For other options, please press two.

Frema: doesn't trust that she won't lose her place in line. Presses two.

Sallie Mae Fembot: To hear a description of a call back, please press one.

Frema: waits to receive other options.

Sallie Mae Fembot: I'm sorry! Your response was invalid. Please try again. To hear a description of a call back, please press one.

Frema: REALLY does not want to hear a description of a service she has no desire to use. Presses zero in an attempt to reach operator.

Sallie Mae Fembot: I'm sorry! Your response was invalid. Please try again. To hear a description of a call back, please press one.

Frema: ...

Sallie Mae Fembot: I'm sorry! You've reached the maximum number of invalid responses. Please try your call again later. Good-bye!

Frema: Noooo!

Dials number again, a little too roughly for her index finger's liking.

Sallie Mae Fembot: Welcome to Sallie Mae, champion of higher education! To request a new loan, please press one. For information about your account, please pr--

Frema: presses two.

Sallie Mae Fembot: Thank you! Please enter your account number.

Frema: enters account number (again).

Sallie Mae Fembot: Thank you! For security purposes, please enter your five-digit zip code.

Frema: enters five-digit zip code (again).

Sallie Mae Fembot: Thank you! One of our representatives will be with you shortly.

A few seconds pass.

Sallie Mae Fembot: I'm sorry, all of our representatives are currently assisting other customers. Please wait on the line and someone will be with you shortly.

A few more seconds pass.

Sallie Mae Fembot: Let Sallie Mae call you back in approximately two. To. Three. Minutes with our call-back feature. You won't lose your place in line! To learn more about this feature, please press one. For other options, please press two.

Frema: is pleased to learn her wait time has been cut in half since her last phone call but still refuses to press one. Does nothing.

Sallie Mae Fembot: I'm sorry! Your response was invalid. Please try again. To learn more about our call-back feature, please press one. For other options, please press two.

Frema: prays for a representative to interrupt her interchange with the automated voice-message system from Hell.

Sallie Mae Fembot: I'm sorry! Your response was invalid. Please try again. To learn more about our call-back feature, please press one. For other options, please press two.

Frema: presses two to stall for time.

Sallie Mae Fembot: Thank you! Let Sallie Mae call you back--without losing your place in line. Sallie Mae--

Frema: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Sallie Mae Fembot: To take advantage of our call-back feature, please press one.

Frema: realizes her only "choice" is to take advantage of the freaking call-back feature if she ever wants to make any headway with this stupid application. Presses one. Provides name and phone number for Fembot, who assures Frema she won't lose her place in line. Adds the finishing touches on her latest entry for Parents.

True to Fembot's word, the phone rings two. To. Three. Minutes later.

Frema: Hello?

Sallie Mae Fembot: Hello! This call is in response to a request from Brea.In. Dun.scom.be. You are the next person in line. Please hold.

Frema: holds.

Sallie Mae Fembot: You are the next person in line. Please hold.

Frema: Yes, I see.

Sallie Mae Fembot: You are the next person in line. Please hold.

Frema: Got it.

Sallie Mae Fembot: You are the next person in line. Please hold.

Frema: Motherfu--

Sallie Mae Actual Real-Live Person, It's About Damn Time: Hello, thank you for calling Sallie Mae, this is Kim, how can I help you?

Frema: Hi, Kim. I tried to finish my private loan consolidation application this morning online and was told my request had been withdrawn. I'd like to get things started again, please.

Kim: Can I have your confirmation number?

Frema: gives confirmation number.

Kim: I'm sorry, I'm going to have to transfer you to our customer relations department. Please stay on the line and I'll transfer you right away.

Frema: No, wait, I--

Sallie Mae Fembot: Welcome to Sallie Mae, champion of higher education! To request a new loan, please press one. For information about your account, please press two. To report trouble accessing our Web site or to request a paper application, please press three. Para mas informacion en espanol...

Frema: bangs head against desk, explodes.

'Cuz I'm the queen of wishful thinking

FYI: Today's post is dedicated to Isabel, who's always on the ball when it comes to updating her many blogs. Isabel, you have my blessing to take the day off. I hear eating spinach dip can be a fulfilling way to pass the time.

Over the last few months, I've found myself constantly thanking God for all the good things in my life. Marrying Luke was one of the best decisions I ever made, and I'm reminded of that every day when he kneels down to tie my shoes, refills the prescription for my prenatal vitamins, flips load after load of dirty laundry, and understands when stress and fatigue wreck our weekend plans yet again. I can't remember the last time we took a walk through the park or visited an orchard or even did anything that wasn't related to preparing for this baby. Still, he refuses to complain. I think the man's incapable.

I'm thankful for a day job that allows me the option to work from home so I don't have to spend ten minutes rummaging through my closet for an ensemble that doesn't expose my belly. I have generous benefits and paid time off. And while I won't see a dime from my boss during my maternity leave, he's been completely supportive of me taking the maximum FMLA time in order to spend a few months focusing solely on motherhood. I'm thankful I earn enough to support my family so that Luke can be with our daughter full time.

I've been lucky to find additional work freelancing for Parents and adjunct teaching for my alma mater, which has allowed us to enjoy one last pre-baby vacation (a vacation that took place a lifetime ago, it seems), upgrade our living room furniture (my sister Samantha and her husband, Dan, can personally attest to the quality of our sleeper sofa), move into a two-bedroom apartment, pay off my car, and purchase hundreds of dollars worth of "must haves" for little Freka, all without running up our Visa bill.

I feel blessed to have such a supportive network of family and friends. I say prayers of gratitude for being able to conceive so quickly, sustain a healthy pregnancy, and receive quality medical care. I praise my daughter's insightfulness at arranging her birth to take place before the end of the year. Hello, tax credit!

It would be pretty hard for my life to get any better. I know this.

Yet, I see Samantha bask in the glory that comes along with thriving in a new work environment and I'm jealous. I watch my sister Ryan prepare to move to Germany with her new husband, imagine the adventures they'll have exploring a new country, and I foam at the mouth. I see my good friend delight in the comforts of her new home and succumb to violent bouts of house fever.

Luke and I are about to experience the biggest change of our lives. So why am I craving even more?

Maybe because it feels like I've been pregnant and anchored to this apartment for thirty-seven years. Maybe because the changes that accompany new jobs, new continents, and new houses seem easier to handle than those associated with a new baby. Maybe because all those things would have less of an affect on my identity than becoming a mom. I don't know.

Please tell me I'm not the only one to feel this way sometimes.

Nothing tragic about this!

People, I have an announcement to make.

Lil' Frema is finally going to have her day in the sun.

Yesterday I received an e-mail from Sarah Brown, creator of Cringe Book, (finally!) informing me that one of my submissions had been accepted for publication. The cringe-filled masterpiece is currently slated for a March 2008 release date.

My winning literary donation?

Randy would be so proud. Or totally creeped out. Or maybe he'd just feel sorry for the little girl inside of me whose rejected heart never completely healed.

That last one is the most likely scenario, seeing as last month somebody found my blog by searching for "Randy Wooten" in Google. Whoops.

Anyway, while the contributors won't see a dime of the advance money, Sarah did say she could snag me a copy of the book, and if the book tour stops through my city, she'd love for me to participate in the reading, so that's pretty cool. It figures, though, that my first published work would be written by my childhood counterpart. After all, she was the true brains behind Tragic Love Friday. What will part three be like without her "e" after "stomach" and her intuitive medical expertise?

(Speaking of TLF, are any of you still chomping at the bit about doing a part three after the New Year? Do you have ideas for potential storylines? I actually have something in mind for Jenna, who I just realized went through the entire sequel without getting any nooky at all. That will SOOO change for part three.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was wonderful.

Another crappy post

All day I couldn't wait to update this blog. I planned to talk about my impending excitement over the Christmas holiday, how relieved I am that Parents.com wants to extend my contract, and the fact that my nose has totally grown two sizes too big for my face. All very important things.

But now they have to wait since it's four minutes 'til midnight so I have to hit "publish" even though I haven't said anything about anything at all but I WILL NOT ABANDON NABLOPOMO THIS EARLY. Hell, the least I can do is make it to the double digits.

You'll get a real post tomorrow. Pinky swear.

35 weeks

To date, I've gained about twenty-five pounds, an inability to lay on my back AT ALL, symptoms of arthritis in my hands, and an aversion to sugary juices in the evening. Braxton Hicks contractions are all the rage around here, to the point that I'm often benched for the majority of our shopping trips because the tightness in my uterus directly correlates to the amount of time I'm on my feet. This baby is zapping every ounce of energy I have.

God help me and my husband if I actually make it the full forty weeks.

Day four of NaBloPoMo...

...and I'm already questioning my commitment. Luke woke me up from a delicious cat nap to make sure I had enough time to post today's entry. I almost said "To hell with it" and went back to sleep, but I didn't because I'm...dedicated? Just plain stupid? Only time will tell.

I know my half-hearted attitude towards blogging these days comes from the numerous to-dos already competing for my time. Today was another action-packed day, filled with more family visiting, more apartment cleaning, more Christmas shopping, and even more maternity clothes shopping, seeing as most of the items I received in my last Gap order are already too snug, and also seeing as it's unacceptable to attend professional work functions in a shirt that constantly threatens to expose the mass of purple stretch marks hiding underneath.

(As I'm typing this, Luke is giving me a wonderful massage with one of those hand-held contraptions you can get at Bed Bath & Beyond for like, ten bucks. So good, and so worth it.)

Anyway, for those of you wondering, Tori's concert on Friday was wonderful, and I'm so glad I decided to go, even though I felt like a senior citizen in my black pants and sneakers compared to the college-aged grungies in ripped tights and brightly dyed hair and the savvier gals who donned heels, jeans, and jackets, jackets that wouldn't stand a chance against my plentiful waistline. I only left twice to pee--once during the opening act, and once during her second encore performance, after listening long enough to make sure the song wasn't one I would kick myself for missing. Freka liked it, too; for at least half of the show, she couldn't stay still.

Speaking of Freka (ha! Like there's anything else I talk about these days), tomorrow I'll be thirty-five weeks, and I'm genuinely amazed at how quickly this last stretch is slipping through my fingers. Instead of constantly devising new ways to relieve my back pain, my thoughts are now centered around delivery and postpartum: preparing my birth plan, coming up with questions to ask potential pediatricians, whether or not I'll labor in my own things or the hospital's poor excuse for a gown, and how in the world I'll manage breastfeeding around my family during the first month when I'll have to whip out a boob every two hours. My mother formula-fed all five of us, and though she's supportive of my desire to nurse, she's already said something along the lines of "You're not going to do that in front of your father, are you?" As if feeding my child were on par with pole dancing in an x-rated night club, even though I've seen more breast at work parading under the guise of business casual than I have from nursing mothers in all those parenting magazines I skim at the doctor's office.

I picked up two nursing camis and one nursing bra from Target this afternoon, so at least I've got some clothing that'll keep the quote-unquote indecent exposure down to a minimum, and I'm not against using a blanket around those who are truly uncomfortable with watching a woman breastfeed, but I hate being made to feel like I'm doing something that needs to be covered up in the first place.

I also think about how long I'm going to make it in my current ginormous state before I either abandon work for early FMLA leave or demand the doctor induce me.

Yes, I admit it. I am big. Huge. The belly, it is gargantuan.

I know this because Luke and I attended a labor support class at our hospital last week, and despite all six of us having due dates ranging within one week of each other, I was the only mom-to-be who looked like the simple act of breaking wind would be enough to bring her baby into the world.

If only it were that simple.

Placeholder

What happens when your day consists of grocery shopping, apartment cleaning, writing and addressing wedding shower invitations, spending an hour and a half in Bed Bath and Beyond to purchase gifts for said shower, updating the blog you actually get paid for, and visiting with the wonderful sister and brother-in-law who were cool enough to drop in for a weekend visit?

You publish a really crappy post for NaBloPoMo, that's what.

Hang in there, peeps. The content will get better, I promise!

And I don't even watch the damn show anymore

Luke and I will be leaving for the much-anticipated Tori Amos concert in three hours, and I've been sitting in front of the computer all day, half working from home, half indulging on clips from General Hospital that highlight the tumultuous love triangle between Jason, Liz, and Lucky, and Liz's giving birth via emergency c-section to Jason's baby but passing him off as Lucky's, and then the baby being kidnapped, and then Liz and Lucky getting in the middle of a nasty divorce, and Lucky trying to take Jake away from Elizabeth under the guise of "custody strategy," and I've cried three times because I keep thinking about what would happen if I had an emergency c-section and died and Luke and the baby had to be without me. I haven't even showered yet.

It's just one of those days.

It's the most blogiful time of the year

First off, I totally had plans to blog yesterday, because the list, she is on FIYAH. I was also going to talk about how Halloween is the one time of year where I truly miss cable, because slasher films from the mid-eighties just aren't meant to be rented. You're supposed to stumble upon them while aimlessly flipping through stations, gasp in delight, and quickly grab a blanket so you can cover your eyes when Gage is hit by the highway truck and again when his aunt Zelda screams "You'll never get out of bed again!" into the camera.

Oh, well. It's not like I would've had time to watch anything, anyway. I was too busy preparing for class and contemplating my own demise as a result of signing up for life insurance.

The fun, it is non-stop in the Frema-Useless Clutter household.

Anyway, I didn't blog, and you knew that, but now you know it wasn't an attempt to make sure I had something to write about for this year's very first NaBloPoMo post. Also, it looks like our computer is going to see DOUBLE the posting action, seeing as Luke has decided to hop on the blogosphere bandwagon. Be sure to show him some love this month, will you?

Enough overexplaining. On with the list.

Project Freka: Prenatal Edition

• Write thank-you cards for shower gifts
• Purchase life insurance
• Create will-like document to secure guardianship and general well-being of Frema-Useless Clutter offspring
• Start Roth IRA for Luke (because if we don't now, we never will)
• Complete application for private student loan consolidation (who wouldn't mind saving thirty bucks a month? Not me, that's for damn sure!)

I seriously think about this one every day, and most certainly every time I write a damn check to Sallie Mae. Until I fill out the application, it's like I'm throwing money away. This does not please me, but neither does the idea of having to wade through screenshot after screenshot of my thirty-year financial servitude.

• Wipe down bedroom blinds (ours, baby's)

Here is where I brag about the awesomeness of Luke's parents, as they came to Indy last weekend to help us get things ready for Freka's arrival. My mother-in-law was concerned about the possibility of lead paint being in our mini-blinds, so she graciously offered to replace the ones we had hanging in our bedroooms. Which means our lungs safe and our hands were saved from the tedious task of cleaning each blade individually, which is exactly what I would've done otherwise. I had two containers of disinfectant wipes just for that purpose.

• Clean car (wash exterior, disinfect/vaccuum interior)

Luke and his dad did such a great job of cleaning out BOTH of our cars that I'm crossing this one off the list, even though the exterior wasn't touched on either one of them. If we can make it through a car wash on the next warm day, great, but who cares, I no longer have crusted up juice stains in my cup holder. 

• Fill out engagement book (because really, enough with the procrastinating already)
• Order wedding pictures from photographer (for reasoning, see above)
• Print recent family photos and sort them into albums, seeing as eight weeks from now I'll be mostly preoccupied with somebody else's eating, sleeping, and pooping habits
• Renew domain registration and TypePad account

One down, one to go. I actually tried to renew my TypePad account, but I think I've got it set to do that automatically? I can't tell, but I suppose I'll find out come December 10th, won't I?

(Also, December 10th? Shit. I should be in labor on December 10th!)

• Burn TLF soundtrack for Audrey out of gratitude for her mad summarizing skillz (I totally intended to create a kick-ass play list for the sequel, but...well...I didn't)

Not only did I burn said CD, I also threw in a copy of my Lionel Richie-approved* cheesy love songs mix just to reward her patience. They were mailed off yesterday morning, so Audrey, you can expect them either tomorrow or Saturday. Enjoy.

• Organize baby's room/assemble baby gear

Every stitch of baby fabric--bedding, clothes, changing table pads, socks (little baby socks!), hats, bibs--all of it has been washed, dried, folded, and put away in little baby drawers. The first three activities weren't so bad, but I nearly gave myself a heart attack trying to organize the drawers. I knew I wanted to sort each one by age, but should I group together the onesies and sleepers or the onesies and pants? Should I separate the short-sleeved onesies from the long-sleeved onesies? Is it appropriate to toss the socks in the drawer with the wash cloths?

Final answers: Onesies and sleepers, I certainly tried, and most definitely, especially when there's no other alternative and I wasn't about to run to Target a third time for a yet another set of plastic drawers.

We also prepared the crib, fooled around with the changing table some more, and assembled a TV cart to place next to the rocker, resulting in a lovely feeding station for the baby. This TV cart was insanely important to me; I don't know why, except the books talk about having a feeding station and where else would I put my glass of water while my boobs are busy sustaining our child's livelihood and please don't argue JUST GET ME THE DAMN CART.

• Research nursing bras/camis
• Prepare and freeze several meals for easy reheating during baby's first few weeks
• Explore cheap birth announcement ideas
• Purchase and wrap Christmas presents

The shopping is on, folks! Three gifts have already been taken care of.

• Find a pediatrician

We have two consults scheduled with area pediatricians featured on a list provided by my ob/gyn's office. By Tuesday afternoon, we'll know if one of them's a keeper.

• Install, inspect car seat

It took the strength and patience of three grown men, but the car seat bases are locked in and ready to go. Now all that's left are the inspections.

• Pack hospital bags

Words can't express how happy I am to report that in case of emergency, we have four--yes, FOUR--bags packed with essentials like pillows, blankets, bed clothes, nursing pads, slippers, and rations for our stay in the hospital. The only things keeping me from throwing them in my trunk are that I still have to pick up a nursing cami and select Freka's going-home outfit. Everything else? Done.

Now go ahead and tell me I'm awesome.

* OK, it's not really Lionel Richie-approved. But it so would be if he knew it existed.

But If The Third-Party-Billing Specialist Hadn't Seen Me, I Totally Would Have Fished It Out

When I went to use the bathroom after lunch this afternoon, I headed straight for the first stall, my stall, my favorite stall, the one where the majority of my corporate ones and twos take place. Before I could unsnap my corduroys, something shiny caught my eye, and what did I see but a quarter and a nickel nestled comfortably at the bottom of the toilet bowl.

Unfortunate events can take place in the john. The heels of my shoes catch on the hem of my dress slacks all the freakin' time, so often in fact that last week I shelled out four seventy-five at the local alternations joint just to restore their wearability. However, I'm having a hard time imagining the circumstances under which a lavatory might be transformed into a wishing well. Was the owner of the coins holding on to them while taking care of business? Did they fall out of her pockets when she pulled up her pants? But how is that possible, unless you're the sort of woman who puts your pants back on with your @$$ hanging over the toilet seat? And if you ARE that sort of woman, why? Why do you do that? Don't you know that's a great way to lose thirty cents?

Rather than contemplate the mental state of my female coworkers, I just backed the hell out of there and made myself comfortable in the second stall. Ain't no way I'm gonna be the one responsible for sending THAT through the waste pipe.

...And so concludes NaBloPoMo! May she rest in peace. Until next year.

Aren't you so proud of me you could spit?

P.S. A friendly reminder that all swap participants are to mail their cheddar-cheesy love song CDs tomorrow, although it's probably unnecessary, seeing as I received my first one yesterday. YESTERDAY, people. Are y'all trying to make me look bad?

Weight Loss Wednesday

Let's just get this over with.

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

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

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

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

The Reason For The Season

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

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

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

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

What do you think?

Time Won't Give Me Time

Today I've come to the full realization of just how much there is to do before the end of 2006. Though the family Christmas shopping is done (and I didn't step foot in a store at all on Black Friday, making this feat even more admirable), there's a mountain of other goodies on my plate, professionally and personally. For example, all projects that need completing before I take my last four PTO days of the year, including a client newsletter, employee newsletter, forensic proposal, Web site updating, and the revising of several marketing pieces. I chose this afternoon to search through my insurance provider's online directory, locate a dermatologist and new optometrist, and make appointments with both. Add those to the joint dental visits Luke and I will take part in this Wednesday and the "annual exam" I scheduled for the eighteenth (during which my doctor will probably check my cholesterol levels, which means oh my God, I've seriously got to get cracking on this whole eating right thing), and I will be poked and prodded by medical professionals sporting white gloves and blue coats no fewer than four times this month. Not to mention there's this shiny new Web site I'm trying to put together while hopping from store to store (because I still have a husband to shop for, don't I?) and highway to highway and house to house. It's fun, yes, but also exhausting. The parties haven't even started and I'm already missing what it feels like to wake up in my own bed on the weekends without the vocal pestering of an alarm.

But then I imagine a future in which Luke and I have spawned mini Fremas and Useless Clutters and we're no longer able to travel as freely or as frequently and I think, hell yes, let's do this while we can.

As a belated blessing, I'm giving thanks that NaBloPoMo will draw to a close this Thursday. As much as I love all the posting and caring and Internet sharing, I'm ready to have my life back. I've written several posts just for updating's sake, something that doesn't exactly thrill me, but I'm not complaining, either, seeing as I've also written posts I would've normally given up on AND given birth to my first weekly features, so that "What're you lookin' at?" readers are guaranteed at least two entries a week. That's pretty exciting, don't you think?

I'm also thankful I went with a December 1st deadline for the CD swap. Any earlier and I may have chewed off my own arm.

Yes, We Are Insane

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

Ho freakin' ho ho ho.

Now I Can Sleep At Night

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

My groups members are so lucky to have me.

Tragic Love Friday

People, I am stuffed. Two Thanksgiving dinners in two days! Stuffed. And tired. Zzzzz.

Before I veg in front of the boob tube, though, it's time to share the second installment of Tragic Love Friday. Last week, we learned about Jenna's knack for seducing her best friend's boyfriend and becoming pregnant with his illegitimate child. Now it's time to tell you (wait for it) the rest of the story.

As before, personal commentary appears in brackets.

-------

CHAPTER ONE - JENNA (CONTINUED)

When I was younger, I often thought about the time I would become a mother. Now in a few months, I'd be holding my baby, touching her, loving her. The doctor who was taking care of me hadn't said so, but I was positive that David and I had created a daughter.

"Mommy," I whispered. The word rolled off my lips, and I smiled. "Jenna Meddows is a mommy-to-be." [Do pregnant women actually talk like this? Please hit me upside the head if I ever talk like this.]

Somehow, my mind drifted off to Kayla. My smiled faded into a frown. Boy, I thought. I sure messed things up with her.

We used to share everything, and do everything together. Hours were spent talking about nothing.

Since my parents were away so much, I was always at Kayla's house. Her family was like the one I'd always wanted. Besides Michael, she was someone I felt I could always trust. [Does this mean you'll screw him over, too?] That started to change when she started having problems with David.

Kayla would tell me that David told her that he felt the two of them weren't the same, and that he wasn't happy in the relationship. They were on the verge of breaking up, and my friend was desperate. So she asked me to talk to David.

It hurts me still when I remember how heartbroken Kayla was. "Please! Won't you talk to him for me?" she'd pleaded. "He'll listen to you. You guys are friends. Please, Jenna, I couldn't stand it if I lost him." Then she'd cry helplessly, and I'd feel guilty that I didn't want to do it. I hadn't wanted to get in the middle of everything. In the end, though, I gave in. "Thank you so much. You're a real friend," she'd said.

Some friend. I did meet with David. He told me that he and Kayla had lost that spark that kept love alive. [What does that even mean? My inner V.C. Andrews is, like, totally taking over here.] A few days later, he broke up with her. The next few weeks were spent handing Kayla Kleenex and helping David get over the guilt of leaving my friend. After a while, though, the sparks that left Kayla's and David's romance came into our friendship. [Obviously that's not the only thing that "came."] [Ba dum bum ching!] We had a few dates without Kayla's knowledge, and that was all it took. We were falling in love.

Then, somehow, she found out. I will never forget that day. She looked so angry, so hurt. "You back-stabbing lying little bitch!" she'd screamed. "How could you go after my ex-boyfriend? As soon as he dumped me, did he go to you? Did you both laugh at me?"

"It wasn't like that!" I tried to tell her, but she refused to listen. "Liar! You betrayed me! I hate you, Jenna! You hurt me. Thanks for being such a GREAT best friend."

I felt tears slide down my cheeks and I shut my eyes, trying to block the memories, but there was so much to remember, too much to forget. [So deep!]

Cassie slowly became cool towards me and became better friends wth Kayla. Michael was great, though. He supported me, and didn't judge me harshly when I told him I was expecting. He's truly my best friend. [That's cuz he knows you're easy!] I've told him things that even David doesn't know. [Like how to wear a condom?]

I finally calmed myself down. Stop thinking about your mistakes, I told myself, and focus on the future you'll have with David and your baby.

That thought put me in a deep sleep later that night.

CHAPTER TWO - DAVID

The sunlight that came streaming through my window woke me from a deep sleep. "No," I moaned, pulling my blanket over my head. I didn't want to get out of bed. The past few weeks had been so crazy, and it would stay that way till the baby was born. Now that school was out, I would be able to work full time. I'm a cashier at McDonald's. I know it's not the best job in the world, but all the money I make is put into an account. That way, when Jenna and I are married and are living with the baby, we'll have some money to start us off with. And since Jenna didn't work, I provided our money. That was why I often worked overtime and was always available, just in case my boss called and offered me a few hours of work. I took whatever I got. [You got that right, buddy!]

I yawned, stretched, and slowly got out of bed. As I entered the kitchen, I saw Cassie sitting at the table, flipping through the paper and drinking coffee. She looked up as I sat down. "Hey. What time did you get home from work? I didn't hear you come in."

I raised an eyebrow. "Good morning to you, too, sis." I tapped her coffee cup. "I sure could go for some of that right now." [Am Mickey D's overlord! Do my bidding!] My sister rolled her eyes. "How could I turn down such a charming invitation?" But she still poured me some. "You never answered my question. How late did you stay out?"

"I sipped my coffee. "My shift ended at 12:00, and then I went drivin' around."

Cassie sighed. "You work too hard, David. Mom's always complaining that it's like she doesn't even have a son." I laughed. "Doesn't she wish!"

Our mom is a social butterfly. She flits here and there, makes an obligatory appearance at home, and then she's off again. It's no secret that she sleeps around. She's been like that ever since our dad died of a heart attack 3 years ago. [Is David's life story tugging at your heartstrings yet? Because he's one of my favorite characters. That's exactly what I was aiming for.]

Cassie looked sad. "You don't need her. You have Jenna, and you have a baby on the way. You'll be leaving soon, and I'll be stuck at home with dear old Mom."

I smiled and grabbed her hand, giving it a good squeeze. "Don't worry, sis. One day you'll find someone who you'll love forever." [I think I meant to say, "who'll love you forever," but I was too lazy to white it out and redo it.] I laughed. "You've got a lot of time to find him, though. There's no rush."

She rolled her eyes. [Eye rolling is to chapter two what sighing was to chapter one.] "Right. And this is coming from a guy who's expecting a baby in 3 months, AND is engaged!" She stood up and grinned. "Mr. Donovan, I didn't catch your age," she boomed in a deep voice.

I also got to my feet. "Cut it out, Cassie. I've got to get ready for work."

"She wiggled her ear with her fingers. "I didn't hear your age?"

"So I'm only 17. Jenna is, too. We're expecting a child. I think it's only logical we get married."

"Logical?" My sister playfully whacked me in my forehead with the palm of her hand. "You get married for love, silly, not logic." Her tone was gentle. "David, do you love Jenna?"

"That's a stupid question! Of course I do."

"Don't marry her because she's got your bun in her oven. Do it because you'd do it no matter what." [And don't you want to hang this gem as a cross-stitch over the fireplace?]

I laughed at her choice of words. "Nice language." I grew serious. "I don't know what you're talking about, though. I'm with Jenna because I want to be, not 'cause I have to." My sister looked skeptical.

"I know you don't like Jenna because of ... what happened with her, me, and Kayla--"

"You're right," she snapped, cutting me off. "I would never do that to a friend."

"Let it go, Cassie."

"I don't want you to make a mistake. You'd hurt too many people." A tear slid down her cheek. "I can't let go because your my BROTHER, and I care about what happens to you."

"Oh, don't cry, Cassie." I hugged her. "I'm a big boy. If I make a mistake, I can pick up the pieces."

"I guess." She gave me a push. "Go get ready for work."

"OK. I'll talk to you later."

-------

Tune in next week when I'm not on the verge of passing out at the keyboard. Plus, baby names, coveting, and underage drinking! Who could ask for anything more?

Also, a little belated, but I'd like to dedicate the typing of this story to my sister, Samantha. Partly because she asked me to, and partly because she lists it on her blog as one of her favorite books of all time. Oh yes she does.

I Am Thankful

So thankful, for a lot of things.

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

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

The roof over our heads.

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

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

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

Strengthened friendships.

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

Finding peace with God.

Having the financial means to help others.

My parents.

My in-laws.

Blogging.

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

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

The Office on NBC.

Lowered gas prices.

Siblings.

Your mom.

Gobble Gobble, everyone!

Weight Loss Wednesday

Even after taking yesterday off to tinker with my soon-to-be-released TypePad blog, today was still the longest work day of my life. I am ready to sleep in, get my hair cut (because it's been six weeks already and my bangs are on the verge of poking out my eyeballs, OMG), and just generally enjoy time away from a professional corporate environment.

Before I start packing my bags for our trip north, though, I suppose I should 'fess up that on Frema's third Weight Loss Wednesday, there was no actual weight loss involved.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 135
CURRENT WEIGHT: 136
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 11

I wish I could say I was surprised, but I ate a ton of crap over the weekend and I figured it was bound to manifest itself on the scale. Alcohol on Friday, brats and burgers and fries and shakes on Saturday, pancakes and burgers (but it was made from bison!) and fries and half a chocolate kaluha brownie from my new favorite restaurant on Sunday. You see, food and I, we share an unbreakable bond. It's impossible to just remain friends.

I will say, though, my gain probably would've measured out to more than one measly pound had I not adhered to my exercise routine. I continue to make it to the gym according to schedule, except for a tiny glitch on Monday in which I found myself unable to get out of bed before six-thirty, but I made up for it with an hour's worth of quality treadmilling later that evening, so I'm calling it even. Of greater concern is that Luke and I will be breaking bread with my family in Chicago tomorrow and his in Merrillville the following day, meaning we won't be in the vicinity of our gym until we return to Indianapolis, meaning I'll miss the final two days of this week's work out. I hope to get my flabby self to the Y over the weekend to compensate, but it's Thanksgiving, people. I'm not making any promises.

I will also add that committing to Weight Loss Wednesdays has provided ample motivation to meet my fitness goals. Yesterday I was in no mood to tear myself away from the computer just to trip over my own two feet in step class, but I did it, simply because I couldn't imagine "facing" my Internet Exercise Buddy and the rest of you guys after blatantly disrespecting everyone's encouragement and support. I'll try to keep that in mind when seated at both dinner tables, in an effort to prevent bearing bad news two WLWs in a row.

On that note, sensible meal portions to all, and to all a very happy Thanksgiving!

(I don't know why I wrote that last line, as if you don't know I'll be posting tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and the day after that and then five more times after that. NaBloPoMos of the world, unite! Plus, somebody's got to post the second installment of Tragic Love Friday, right?)

(Also also, how crazy am I to even think about participating in this?)

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?

In Which I Post Strictly For NaBloPoMo Purposes

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

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

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

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

Happy downloading!

Be Not Afraid

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

And The Weekend Comes Full Circle

Friday: The Truth or Dare Jenga box speaks for itself.

Boy, the manufacturer sure called it on those facial expressions!

Saturday: IU versus Purdue (aka The Old Oaken Bucket Game), Lafayette, Indiana.

 

Tragic Love Friday

It's the end of the work week. It's not raining. Lionel Richie's Definitive Collection is in my disc player and "Penny Lover" is gently caressing the speakers. Life, she is good.

If you were intimately familiar with my 100 things list, you would know that the three-part hint I included in yesterday's post actually contains the words to a two-part, soap-style fictional series I wrote at the tender and boyfriend-starved age of fourteen, at which time I was caught in the throes of daytime's "love in the afternoon." I wrote both parts between the months of May and October, and I delighted in passing the notebooks off to my friends as I went along, relishing in the attention for the one thing I could do really well.

With all the talk of cheesy love goin' 'round these parts lately, there is no better time to implement Tragic Love Fridays, which I will use as a means to share the saga of five teenagers from Somewhere, Illinois, and their dabbles in lust, heartbreak, death, and of course, babies. It's no Flower in the Attic, but there's a little bit of sex and a whole lot of clichéd dialogue, so it's not a complete waste of your time. Plus, my adolescent self is peeing in her pants now that her momma-drama masterpiece is finally being published for the masses. (And if anyone tries to claim any part of it as their own, I will HUNT. THEM. DOWN.)

For your amusement, spelling and grammar errors remain intact. Current musings appear in brackets.

-------

Love, Betrayal, and a Baby

PART I

CHAPTER ONE - JENNA

"Yeah! Alright! PARTY!!"

As the final bell rang, crowds of kids rushed out of Roosevelt High. Everyone was yelling and jumping around. My friends and I almost lost each other in the crowd. We managed to get away and settle down under a tree not too far away from the school. I sat down slowly. My boyfriend David Donovan let out a loud whoop. "Finally! The last day of school is OVER! Summer vacation is here!" I smiled at his enthusiasm. "Now we can make some official plans," I said softly, patting my round belly. [Slut!] His eyes glowed.

"That's right," said Michael Spencer. "In 3 more months, you two will be the proud parents of a little boy or girl."

David's sister Cassie cried, "I'm going to be an aunt! I can't wait!" She sighed. "You guys are so lucky. Having a baby has got to be the most wonderful thing in the world."

I nodded and glanced at Kayla Evans [first name totally stolen from Days of Our Lives], the only one who didn't join in on the conversation. But I understood. David was Kayla's boyfriend for a year and a half before he dumped her and started dating me. I was pregnant 3 months later. I could see why she wasn't exactly jumping for joy about the baby that would soon be born.

"So," Michael observed. "We finished up our Junior year." [Way to go, random!]

Kayla spoke up. "This has been one year that I could've lived without."

Everyone knew what she meant. For a while there was silence. [Couldn't you totally see this happening at the Peach Pit? Let's pretend it is.]

"I don't know about the rest of you guys, but I'm leavin'. Anyone need a lift?" Michael asked.

"I do." I stood up and kissed David. "Call me later." He grinned. "OK, momma."

I smiled back. He'd been calling me that ever since I told him I was pregnant.

I sighed happily as Michael and I drove off.

"Have you two picked out any baby names yet?" Michael inquired. I shook my head. "We can’t agree on anything. David actually thought I'd let him name the baby Horace for a boy, or Candy for a girl!"

He laughed. "Whatever name the kid ends up with, I'm sure it'll be as beautiful as its mother."

"Thanks." I stared into space. "The only thing that's keeping me from being 100% happy is Kayla."

"She still won’t talk to you?"

"No. If I call she hangs up, and if I come near her she pretends I'm not there." I ran my fingers through my hair nervously. "I still feel guilty, Mike."

"You shouldn't." [The hell she shouldn't!] His voice was firm. "You and David fell in love. It's no one's fault."

"But she was my best friend. Aside from you," I said quickly. "Kayla hates me, and I don't blame her." I sighed again. "I betrayed her in the worst way." [Just like Kelly and Dylan betrayed Brenda when she was in Paris!]

"Stop it right now," Michael ordered. "That was 6 months ago. Forget about the past. You've got a baby on the way, and didn't you say David proposed?"

I smiled. "Yes."

"Would you change anything if you could?"

"No." [Apparently you're not that racked with guilt, then, are you, sweetie?]

"Well then. Stop worrying about Kayla. She'll come around." He stopped the car in front of my house and helped me out. I hugged him tight. "I needed to hear that. Thanks for being there, Mike."

"Anything for you, doll," he replied. "I'll see ya later."

Nobody was home. There was a note from my parents saying they would be visiting friends out of town for a couple of days. I wasn't surprised. They were often gone for long periods of time. I was mostly alone. [Where did I get the idea that a seventeen-year-old girl's parents would just randomly take off like that? My mother had anxiety attacks leaving the zip code.]

I went into their bedroom and stretched out on their bed. My hands kept caressing my belly. It was a wonderful feeling, to know that only a few layers of skin kept me from my unborn child.

My own child.

-------

Tune in next week to find out how Jenna became a man-stealing ho. Also, today's your last chance to sign up for the "Hello? Is It My Cheesy Love Song CD You're Looking For?" Internet Swap. Lionel thanks you in advance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weight Loss Wednesday

Welcome to our second installment of Weight! Loss! Wednesday!, where exclamation points run amuck and strangers around the world come to witness Frema blab about the junk in her trunk and pose for "before" pictures modeling generic aerobic gear and black dress socks. If you're looking for HOTT, my friends, you've come to the right place.

Let's get down to business.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 139 137 (?)
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135

Remember when I said I bought a cheapy scale from Target to monitor my progress? Well, I neglected to mention it was an analog scale, a contraption that abandons state-of-the-art digital technology in favor of the traditional white reading window, black number wheel, and little red arrow. It didn't bother me too much because it was only six dollars, and the digital scales were twenty dollars, and I liked that I could own a scale I never wanted to own in the first place and still have fourteen dollars in my wallet. Hypothetical dollars, as the total was charged to my credit card, but still. A smart purchase nonetheless.

For the inaugural WLW edition, I weighed myself in the privacy of Luke's and my bathroom wearing nothing but the skin I was born in, and according to the scale, I weighed 139 pounds. Since the scale is mechanical and therefore All Knowing, I took it at its word and scheduled my goals accordingly.

This morning, I had a hard time reading the scale and requested Luke's assistance. "137," he reported at first but frowned when my Big Foots reconnected with the tile floor. Together we peered at the reading window and noticed the little red arrow was leaning two pounds toward the right. He made some adjustments and told me to try again.

"134."

As much as I wanted it to be true, I knew that was wrong, too. Such a significant weight loss would've been much more noticeable, and yeah, my slacks were a little loose, but they weren't falling off the ass or anything, you know? So he did some more adjusting and told me to try once more.

"135."

I still wasn't convinced until he explained that if the scale was effing up today, it most likely effed up last week, too, which means my weight was closer to 137, which means I've lost two pounds up through today. Not too shabby for a girl who digested the following health hazards over the course of three days:

- Chocolate cake
- Baker's Square banana cream pie
- Steak tacos
- Tortilla chips
- A Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey milkshake (Like their half-cup, eighteen-grams-of-fat ice cream wasn't evil enough? Why does God hate me so?)
- Butterburger, fries, and chocolate-chip cookie dough concrete mixer courtesy of Culvers

My saving grace has been the pre-work fitness routine, which I've continued to follow to the letter. I never thought I'd enjoy exercising in the morning as much as I do. It's painful for the first three minutes after the alarm rings, but by the time I've turned on the Cobalt's ignition, visions of the treadmill's mile counter increasing in point-one increments are dancing in my head, and I can't get to the Y fast enough.

My downfall has been the fatigue, which hits right after lunch time every day without fail, even on the non-morning-work-out days. This could possibly be attributed to the fact that I'm still not slipping under the covers until midnight, leaving me with roughly five hours of sleep on which to function.

H2O intake has been decent. I don't meet my goal every day, but based on the water jug I suck on during work hours, the various juices I drink at night, and the percentage of my afternoons spent in the company john, it's safe to say I'm sufficiently hydrated.

So, overall, things are going well. The biggest challenge will be to cut back on the amount of fatty foods I continue to gravitate to, a challenge I've struggled with my entire life. When you grow up with four other kids in a house where money and treats are often scarce, there's no such thing as restraint. Restraint means your siblings scarfing down five of the six fruit snacks packets, half the Oreos, and all of the drum sticks, and you'll be left with nothing, so you better eat it while you can. Why I continue to have this mindset ten years later, when the only other person occupying my living space is a man who could go an entire month abstaining from all three of those "nutritional" groups, is a mystery to me. Much like America's obsession with MySpace and James Blunt.

In Frema's Gym Shoes

I worked in a shoe store once. It was my sophomore year in college, and I was looking for another job to supplement my part-time position at the local Sam Goody. (Actually, it was On Cue, a franchise of the Musicland Corporation specially designed for small-town populations, but my discount was applicable towards Sam Goody, and I was transferred to Chicagoland Sam Goodys for summer and Christmas vacations, so it may as well have been.) It was a pretty boring job, as my routine consisted of aligning the sole of each left shoe toward the inside of the box, gossiping with the assistant manager over bad Chinese food, and alternating my Dixie Chicks and Faith Hill CDs in the disc player. Rensselaer has no more than seven thousand residents, and for six thousand nine hundred and eighty-three of them, their daily agendas did not include updating their edition of the little black heel or pimping out their eight-month-old baby with fifty-dollar Nikes. When the remaining seven did grace us with their presence, they didn't ask a lot of questions, opting instead to pull box after box off the shelf to play Cinderella with pair after pair of Carhart steel-toe boots. We had those silver insert-your-heel-here foot measurements seen in department stores and reruns of Married, With Children, gathering dust behind the cash register, but nobody requested such service, and I never thought to offer.

I mention this because I was in a shoe store last weekend, and for the first time since my age could be expressed in single digits, both of my feet were examined by an industry professional.

At first I thought the visit was pretty self-indulgent, having purchased a pair of cross-trainers two months ago specifically for exercising at the Y, a pair Luke argued were eerily similar to the ones I was already sporting, but I think he exaggerated. See for yourself.

See the thicker blue zig-zag, the extra mesh on the new shoe? Totally different!

While the shoes cast a lean look on my ginormous nine-and-a-half stompers, after ten minutes of wear my baby piggies were pushing against the outer walls much like the way a quarterback charges through an opposing team's defensive line. (I said that correctly, didn't I?) Not exactly inspiring for a health-resistant twenty-something who doesn't need any more excuses to pull off the road to wellness. Turns out the problem's been related to my shoe size this whole time, and was only resolved due to the clerk's insistence that I try on a ten. A TEN, people. I've worn a size nine dress shoe since high school and eventually upgraded my gym shoe to a nine and a half to allow a bit of breathing room for my toes, which never seemed to be comfortable, but I had refused to entertain the possibility that my feet were as big as my waistline. So I couldn't remember what it felt like to wiggle my big toe. Who needs the damn things anyway?

Now, thanks to my SIZE TEN SHOES, OH MY HOLY GOD, I offer humble apologies to the largest little piggies of the bunch. They've been quite useful during our fitness excursions, stabilizing my balance on the treadmill and in step class, blissfully unaware of the swelling, crushing, and crippling pain that once dominated their past. How my heart sings for all three of us! Behold the monsters that made this new courtship possible.

On first glance, these were my least favorite pair, and the last ones I tried, because for some reason my subconscious associates pink sneakers with nineteen eighties L.A. Gear. However, they were the only ones narrow enough to support my arch and long enough to bestow upon my toes some much needed personal space. So far I've worn them twice, and each time I fall a little more in love. I even like the pink. When I'm grunting like a dog in heat and sweat is coagulating in the crevices of my sports bra, their implied femininity couldn't be more appreciated.

I guess size really does matter.

For more soleful goodness, see parts one and two.

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"You know...."

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

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

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

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

Romantic Comedy My Ass

A few weeks ago, Luke and I rented The Break-Up. And to my surprise, it was actually about a break-up. Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn played a couple who'd been together for a couple of years, bought a townhouse, and communicated so badly they were ready to call it quits.

The movie sat with me for a couple of days in an uncomfortable sort of way, like I'd just removed my glass from the adjoining wall of my neighbor's bedroom, listening to intimate conversations not meant for a stranger's ear drums. I've always been bothered by couples who argue in public, because those arguments are just that--intimate. They provoke frustrations and anger, assign hurt and blame, raise every doubt you've ever had to the surface. It's a miracle anyone ever makes it to the altar.

Luke and I are married six months today, and I think a lot about what it takes to make a relationship work. Who could blame me? Not a day goes by that somebody isn't breaking up, in Hollywood, at work, even in my own circle of friends. Each pairing starts out in faith, with hope, in love, and yet they allow one of those emotions to die in its sleep.

I think a lot of it is due to laziness, simply because it's so easy to be selfish. I've exnayed walks in the park to catch up on soap operas; frowned upon one of Luke's video game purchases after spending a hundred dollars on new clothes; ditched Victoria's Secret lingerie for the comfortable fabric of an oversized tee shirt. I'll let the entire evening pass in a quiet stew, answer "Nothing" when he asks what's wrong, only to unveil my anger at the exact moment he wants to turn off the lights for bed. I'm often guilty of neglecting and disrespecting the very union I swore to God in front of family and friends I'd put above everything else.

But God understands I'm not perfect, and so does Luke. He sees past my shortcomings in the same way I overlook his (most of the time--I'm still not a fan of the water puddles that form around the bathroom sink after he washes his face). In this first year of marriage, I believe we're learning how to see the forest for the trees, realizing no matter how bad a situation might seem in the moment, it'll only count for a small part of our life together, and each bad spot has to be approached with the confidence that it's going to get better. No more peeking over the fence for greener pastures, no more entertaining the "what ifs." On our wedding day, we promised not to give up on each other, and that means having the guts to answer tough questions, to rise above the monotony of the day-to-day, to cop to all of your hang-ups and admit you can't always be right. I'm sure many people who get married are incompatible from the very beginning but are too proud to admit it until later, while others could've made it but were too intimidated by all the work they'd have to do to fix their problems.

In The Break-Up, I'm not sure what kind of couple Gary and Brooke were, but I know it broke my heart to watch them fight, because their issues were so real, because they never took a step back to examine the big picture. What was probably a good thing ultimately failed because they were each too concerned with proving their point. Which they did.

But at a pretty steep price.

But the very next day, you gave it away.

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

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

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

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

"My condolences to your childhood."