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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crap. Crappity crap crap.

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

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

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

"That I'm having a baby?"

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

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

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

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

A Blush-Inducing Public Service Announcement

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until this year.

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

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

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

But do I know for sure?

No.

And my budding family deserves better.

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

Priorities

Last night Luke and I were plowing through the aisles of Super Target, accumulating items scribbled onto our first shopping list of the month, and it was within the first ten minutes of our entering the store that my loyalty to The Spreadsheet was tested.

We were strolling through the electronics section searching for possible gift ideas for my brother-in-law when, through a series of red-and-white sales tags strategically positioned at eye level, the TV kiosk announced that every season of Sex and the City was available for an impressive twenty bucks a pop. I gasped and clutched at my heart over the wool of my pea coat, so excited that I thought Luke was going to have to fetch the eyeballs that had just somersaulted out of my head. My fingers reached up to caress the case for season three, as I already have the first two and the second half of season six (purchased in a frenzy almost two years ago when Luke's VCR missed the last ten minutes of the series finale on TBS); the unedited unfolding of Big and Carrie's extramarital affair could be mine, all mine, for the price of Women and Money, Suze Orman's latest book, purchased the night before at Barnes and Noble. Ms. Orman is constantly inspiring me with her frank approach to personal finance, and the gems I gleaned from her Money Book for the Young, Fabulous & Broke helped me to choose funds for my 401(k) account at work, and their average annual rate of return seems to hover around eight percent, thank you very much, thus cinching my undying devotion. Plus, I am a woman and I have money. It's like Suze wrote it just for me!

However, making a decision about the DVD was more difficult, because you see, Luke and I only allotted fifty dollars for miscellaneous spending this month, and my upcoming hair cut in Chicago will cost exactly that much with tip, so I was already kicking myself a little for buying the book but figured the difference could be offset through thriftiness in other areas of our budget. The cost of the DVD coupled with the hair cut would definitely leave March in the red.

There was one possible solution to this dilemma that would allow me to walk away with the book, the DVD, AND the hair cut: postponing the purchase of my salon-brand shampoo and conditioner and opting for a cheap knock-off brand to tide me over until April, at which point all budget lines would be replenished and I could blow the thirty dollars with a clear conscience.

(Yes, I realize how selfish I am for hoarding our miscellaneous dollars for frivolous indulgences, but Luke made out like a bandit for his birthday last month, and I have already directed the appropriate prayers to God asking for guidance in being a better wife. Together, the three of us have it covered.)

So, there they were, my two choices, each one threatening equally horrific consequences. Do I restock my ISO products and forfeit the chance to add to my sorely lacking Sex collection when I know damn well the next big sale might not be 'til I'm thirty-eight years old, or do I subject my hair to the pooptasticness of Garnier Fructis so I can spend my free time picking apart Charlotte's first husband?

It's unfair for any woman to find herself in the throes of such polarizing circumstances, and I hope it never happens to you, Internet ladies, because either way, such a woman is going to suffer.

But I know I made the right choice.

Sarah Jessica Parker would be so proud.

Of course it was all for naught, because when I came home and examined March's budget I found that seventy-one dollars and ninety-one cents had been unaccounted for. So I hopped over to Beauty First and bought the ISO refills after all.

(J/K, peeps. Totally waiting for April.)

While I had the camera out and about, for some reason I felt it necessary to document proof that I really am trying to be more budget conscious.

See that compact? I bought a new one last October, at a point when I thought this puppy was days away from crapping out on me, so imagine my surprise that the powder is still holding its own as I rub my cotton ball in circles over the metal face for ten minutes, determined to squeeze every last drop from a foundation that costs twenty-one fifty. If I wore make-up more often, it would've been retired to the garbage can around Christmas, but as I fight with various dermatological products to finally get my acne under control and weep over the massive afro poof that has become my hair, I haven't really been in the mood to subject myself to further prettification. I'm counting on you, Brenda, is all I'm saying.

A Winter and Financial Wonderland

Indianapolis currently has its undies in a bundle over the snowfall that began late yesterday and is expected to shower the state's capitol with five to twelve inches of snow by tonight. Last week three inches of the white stuff turned my twenty-five-minute work commute into an hour-and-a-half nightmare, so I've decided to boycott the office today. Which means I can lounge around in my Peace Frog pajama bottoms, catch up on Monday's AMC, flip through the bajillion books* that have accumulated around my nightstand, and cringe over childhood and adolescent ramblings from days of old. Also possibly do The Track to "SexyBack." On a snow day, anything is possible.

I will also be recovering from Saturday's unveiling of our January Visa statement. A whopping two thousand six hundred and forty-one dollars and fifty-one cents worth of statement. Somebody grab me a bucket, because just typing this challenges my ability to keep the butter-and-jelly English muffin I just wolfed down--well, down.

Some of the charges are legitimate, like the five hundred bucks for my implant because my health savings account was short and the hundred and forty smackers I shelled out to update my plates a whopping year and a half after my move to this circular city. We also purchased a new digital camera, a camera we were eventually going to buy anyway but were "inspired" to do so last month after Luke's work one was damaged during his trip to California, because who isn't motivated by an employer's potential wrath over a cross-country business trip's lack of productivity?

These were costly necessities. However, I'm positive that the five hundred and eighty-five dollars we spent at Super Target between January 2nd and February 1st weren't all for milk, chicken, and vegetables, because otherwise I'd be much more depressed over Weight Loss Wednesday. That is the same number I write on our RENT CHECK, people. With all those "groceries" lying around the house, you'd think we avoided restaurants like the plague, but we still managed to rack up two hundred and eighty-three dollars and sixteen cents on activities of the eating-out variety. I'm truly embarrassed over how careless we've been with our money, because even though we cover our bills and remember to "pay ourselves first," that's no reason to be wasteful.

It used to be much easier to commit to a budget. Before Luke started working, I would diligently write out our expenses for each pay check two months in advance and estimate how much we'd have left for miscellaneous items like a parent's birthday or routine oil change. When Luke landed his job, we electronically deposited his entire check into savings with the hopes of paying off the Cobalt by spring. However, after penny-pinching for almost a year, we thought it might be fun to allot ourselves some play money and transferred a small portion of his take-home pay into our checking account. Then we went to the dentist and learned it would take the price of an arm and a leg to pull out Luke's wisdom teeth and accommodate some minor gum surgery and replace my extracted molar and botched crown, so we re-designated our funds to funnel half my check into the HSA and half of Luke's into checking to offset the difference. Because we're paid on alternate Fridays, we were suddenly getting checks every week, and because I'm not very smart, I stopped budgeting expenses and just paid the bills as they came in, not stressing over twenty-five dollar trips to the Original Pancake House until we had to withdraw the entire amount of this damn bill from savings. We spent that. damn. much.

On Sunday night, Luke and I sat ourselves down and, for the first time, actually did the math to figure out how much house we can afford on one income and what kind of down payment we can realistically expect to cough up by August in order to make a purchase by the end of the summer. We created a monthly spreadsheet template to track our spending and categorized our receipts into envelopes labeled for each week of the month, making them easier to record. We signed up for Blockbuster Online's ten-dollar monthly plan to provide ourselves with cheap entertainment. We're still jabbering on about buying a state park pass so we can hit the trails once all this damn snow stops falling and the long underwear can once again find a permanent home in our chest of drawers. And once again, we thanked God for being blessed with the financial means to correct our mistakes and move on with a smarter attitude.

Now, if you're so inclined, please suggest some movies we can add to our Blockbuster queue, even though we've made close to twenty selections already, because seriously, it's so much easier to pick a movie online than it is in the store. We can stand in front of the New Release section for a good half-hour, hemming and hawing over this title or that, because we so rarely rented movies before that we experienced a debilitating case of performance anxiety; who knew when we'd have another opportunity to spend four dollars on the first disc of the first season of Big Love**?

* Don't get crazy over all those pregnancy books. They've been handed down to me by Molly, who's very encouraging on the baby-making front.

** My pick, not Luke's. I'm strangely fascinated by polygamy.

*** This doesn't relate to anything, but did you know that the first season of She-Ra (Princess of Power!) is out on DVD? I'm so adding this to the queue.

Football and Churches and Ducks, Oh My!

First things first: Did anyone watch either one of the two AFC games yesterday? Because oh my God, the Midwest is having a collective heart attack: for the first time ever, the Chicago Bears and Indianapolis Colts will face off in Miami at this year's Superbowl. While I'd never describe myself as a football fan---it took me twenty minutes to figure out what the hell AFC even stands for--but as a Chi-town native and current Hoosier resident, the anticipation over "the battle of I-65" has inspired me to save both the front page and sports page of today's paper in order to document this historic moment for my future offspring. Next thing you know I'll be wearing team jerseys and chugging copious amounts of Miller Light from a plastic hat. And I don't even drink beer.

It was a good weekend. I did file my work samples into three-ring binders and plastic sleeves and tossed out two garbage bags worth of trash and dusted and vaccuumed and almost orgasmed from the cleanliness of it all. On Saturday night, Luke and I rented Little Miss Sunshine and Snakes On A Plane. One of those movies had us guffawing and crying and celebrating the acting chops of one very talented Office actor. The other also induced tears, but for vastly different reasons. I'll let you determine which is which.

We also went to church.

Since the start of the New Year, I've been thinking a lot about how it's time for us to start searching for a parish of our own, one that provides a strong foundation for the core Christian beliefs we both share. With the Frema-Useless Clutter household currently subscribing to a complicated mixture of Methodism and Catholicism, our research revealed we might both feel most comfortable in the Episcopalian faith. We visited an Episcopal church together last spring and had a good experience with the Mass, though I was intimidated by the grand scale of the architecture. This time around, we chose a church in a neighboring town a little closer to home, on a Sunday when the streets were filled with snow and the plow trucks were nowhere in sight, but we made it, and our appearance was received in a manner similar to Howie Mandel at the Golden Globes, which is to say very, very well, or at least it would have been if I'd been stalking the red carpet.

Because of the snow, there were only a handful of parishoners in attendance, so we basically stuck out like sore, spiritually lost thumbs. We were bombarded with outstretched hands during the offering of peace and personally encouraged to take communion from one of the ushers. At the end of Mass, one of the priests invited us to have coffee and doughnuts in the church's kitchen, an invitation we originally planned to decline, so overwhelmed were we with all the warm welcoming, but the song in her voice was like an imaginary hand gently guiding our footsteps to the room where lukewarm Folgers and supermarket pastries awaited consumption, and soon we were visiting with other families, making small talk about the weather and how we found ourselves in Indianapolis.

All that to say we really liked the parish and plan on visiting again, though we still might check out a few other churches before commiting ourselves to any one place. I could feel those old feelings of sadness bubbling up inside of me again as I sat next to Luke in the pew, just like last time, at the idea of saying good-bye to the faith I'd grown in for so much of my life, and once again I reminded myself that the God I talked to and prayed to and wept with and thanked in the Catholic church was the same one waiting for me in this new Episcopal one, and I wasn't saying good-bye to Him, just worshipping with a new group of people who really weren't as different as I thought they'd be. At least, not in the ways that mattered.

After church, Luke and I went for breakfast and did some shopping. When we finally came home, we noticed this sight in the pond across from our unit:

We didn't think much of it until Luke peered out the window a couple of hours later and saw that the goose was still there, perched in the exact same spot. Figuring the poor thing must be stuck, we marched outside and tossed some stale bread crumbs his way, hoping the promise of food would provide ample motivation to free himself. When that didn't do the trick, Luke hurried upstairs to grab a broom with the intention of breaking through the ice with the handle. Before he could pierce the surface, though,the goose must've questioned the validity of our plan, because he made a clean break for the sky, leaving behind chunks of Market Pantry whole wheat bread as a tribute to his courageousness.

Since we still had three or four pieces of bread left, we circled the pond looking for other feathered friends with which to share our feast, partly against my better judgement. The ducks and I, we have a history, you see.

It started out calmly enough, with the whole flock keeping a respectable distance in the pond, perfectly content to eat crumb after crumb in the water, until they decided they needed to experience their snack up close and personal.

The farther away I walked, the braver they became. Which made me quite nervous. I hastily abandoned a half-piece of bread in the snow, hoping to distract them, but it only left them hungry for more.

I thought walking in the street would instill some fear, surely put them in their place. It didn't, those brazen bastards.

At that point, after many pictures were taken to document my fear, Luke (finally) came to my rescue. Thank God.

 

He makes it look so easy, doesn't he? Not scary at all!

And then the ducks blew him kisses of gratitude, and I began to feel a little silly.

But not TOO silly. After all, I did see Snakes On A Plane. For all we know, the ducks are just biding their time.

Tragic Love Friday

I hate the Indiana BMV.

It began in July, when my ass went numb in a plastic chair after waiting ninety minutes for my number to be called, only to be informed the new computer system had a few "bugs" and couldn't perform the activities necessary to change the last name on my IDs. I went back at the beginning of December and waited another hour to be sent to the Social Security office for a numi report confirming my number, because even though I had updated my card, the number was still attached to my maiden name.

The following Friday, I sat for forty-five minutes in ANOTHER plastic chair next to a woman who smelled like toenail fungus with eight other people in for the same reason I was, eight other people who probably received the same condescending eyeroll from the clerk when requesting their numi reports because she's sick and tired of the BMV sending everybody and their taxidermist to the damn Social Security office.

Last Saturday I went to the BMV again, where thankfully there was no numbing of the ass; instead, I stood at the clerk's desk for an hour and fifteen minutes, but I was wearing my new Simple shoes, plus I left with an updated license and ID, so no worries. It was all good in the 'hood.

Today I received a letter from the BMV. It states that my driver's license application is missing a signature and sufficient proof of my Social Security number. "Please bring in your original Social Security card," it says.

You mean scribbling the information on the back of my "Get out of jail free" card wasn't good enough? The fuck?

Obviously I'm more than a little pissed, because not only will I be stepping foot into the damn BMV for the fourth time in a seven-month timespan, I also have to fit it in before my ten o'clock dentist appointment, at which time a metal post will be implanted in my gum. It will take every ounce of will power not to march into that facility, grab the receptionist by the collar, and beat her head against the countertop until she fully grasps the incompetence of her employer and sends me on my merry way. Or until she dies. Whichever comes first.

But you don't care about my BMV troubles. You want to know who died in the Dairy Queen parking lot. Some friends you are.

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CHAPTER EIGHT - JENNA

I fell to my knees trying to run out of the car's way.

At that moment, I felt David's strong arms push me towards the sidewalk. I stumbled on my feet and fell hard on my stomache. I felt something pop inside of me. In the corner of my eye, I saw the car smash into my boyfriend, throwing him into the Dairy Queen parking lot. It drove away.

"Oh God!!" I screamed. My hands grabbed my belly. It felt like my insides were oozing out of me.

Then I blacked out.

* * *

The first faces I saw when I woke up were Dr. Foremann's and my parents'. They were speaking in low voices, and my mother was crying. I tried to speak, but only a high-pitched sound came out. All 3 of them looked at me sadly.

"Oh Jenna! My poor baby!" Mom cradled me awkwardly in her arms. Dad just squeezed my hand.

"Don't try to talk," Dr. Foremann ordered. "You're very weak."

[At this point I can only assume they're in the ER. Would your ob/gyn meet you at the emergency room?]

I ignored him. "What's wrong?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "Is my baby OK? Where's David?"

"Calm down," my doctor said gently. He looked at my parents. "I'll need a minute alone with her." They nodded and hurried out. [Because in Frema, M.D.'s world, apparently physicians don't allow family members to comfort patients when hearing bad news?]

I felt empty inside. My arms tried to feel my belly, but I was too weak.

"Jenna," he began in a kindly voice, "a car hit you. You have a mild concussion, and a few cracked ribs."

[I have no idea what it means to crack a rib, but I remember hearing about those types of injuries in my Nancy Drew books. They're totally real, right?]

"My baby..."

"I'm sorry, Jenna. She's gone."

"No." I couldn't breathe. Tears instantly blinded my vision. Dr. Foremann grabbed my hand. "I'm so sorry, Jenna. The impact of the car was too much. She was killed instantly."

[Now, Doctor, don't sugarcoat the news. Be as blunt as you can--you know, REALLY rub it in.]

My head hurt, and my hands finally felt my stomache. The bulge I had loved to touch so much was gone.

[There is a double entendre here somewhere, itching to break the surface, but I'll refrain out of respect for the dead.]

"No, please not my baby," I whispered. "You're joking. Please say you're joking. Tell me Mary Katherine is OK. Tell me!!" I sobbed.

[Because healthcare professionals are famous for their fake-miscarriage pranks.]

I heard the anguish in my doctor's voice as he continued. "You could have been more seriously injured if Mr. Donovan hadn't pushed you out of the way."

For the first time I thought about David. My hero. [Actually, it's the second, but Dr. Foremann was too busy shaking with excitement over the thought of telling you about your dead baby to give your question his full attention.]

"I hate to be the bearer of even more bad news." I heard him take a shaky breath. "He was also killed instantly."

"Oh God no," I whispered.

I had ignored him for days, called him every name in the book, and he still didn't hesitate to save my life.

And now he was gone.

[Along with his Mickey D's pension. Dammit, Kayla!]

* * *

"As we lay David Anthony Donovan to rest [I actually underlined his initials on the page, just in case readers missed the connection between his name and the fatherhood role he never had a chance to fulfill. It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife!], let us remember that he is now with God, and that he will suffer no more. Amen."

"Amen," I echoed. His casket was lowered into the ground, and I felt a part of me die with him.

David's death had caught the attention of the media, so a few TV reporters were present. They were also there when a special service had been done for little Mary Katherine the day before.

A lot had happened during the four days before my loved ones' funerals.

Kayla and Cassie were caught and taken in to the station. (A witness had remembered the car and the description of the passengers in it.) They didn't deny hitting me and David, so they were charged on 2 accounts of involentary manslaughter and attempted murder. [And it's Frema, juris doctorate to the rescue! She can marry two contradictory charges in a single bound! Also makes great fries!] After the charges, they told the whole story. When Cassie realized that David had been killed, she went into a state of shock. She didn't eat, didn't speak, didn't move. She had become like a recluse, isolating herself from the rest of the world.

Kayla just cried. Whenever she was shown on TV, tears were streaming down her face, making herself look like the wounded victim.

Rot in hell, Kayla.

As for myself, I holed up in my room and grieved. Grieved for my daughter, and for David, and all that could've been. [Marriage, infidelity, Big Macs, divorce....] In one instant, everything that I loved most had been taken from my grasp.

Cassie I could understand and forgive. She had tried to save her brother, tried to protect him by trying to kill me. But Kayla was another story. She wanted David because she had no one else. She had been greedy and selfish. [OK, yes, she killed your boyfriend, but to be fair, she had him first!] Well, God had punished her for her actions. She'd lost David, too. But she hadn't been punished enough.

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And there are still fifty-three pages to go! You are so lucky.

I've Got A Food Attitude

For as long as I can remember, I've always been a picky eater. If a food possesses a smell, texture, or physical appearance that's not to my liking, it's blackballed from my palette and never thought of again. When I was a kid, this posed a lot of problems for my mother, who cooked the majority of our meals, because she often wanted to prepare something that wasn't chicken, spaghetti, tacos, or pizza, and I didn't want to eat anything other than chicken, spaghetti, tacos (on flour tortillas only), or pizza. There were a couple of times where her "You're not leaving until you eat that!" directive meant me sitting at the kitchen table for hours, staring at yellow paint and wooden panels, the antique knick-knacks perched on top of the cabinets, or updated school pictures fastened to the refrigerator because I was too stubborn to take even one bite of her refried beans and she was too stubborn to let a nine-year-old kid break her spirit. One morning she threatened bodily harm if I didn't just EAT THE DAMN SCRAMBLED EGGS, so eat them I did. And then promptly threw up.

We didn't struggle a lot over food after that.

As an adult, I've continued to sustain my body on a limited menu. I still love chicken, spaghetti, tacos (actually, most forms of beef), and pizza and eat 'em at least once a week. I love barbeque ribs and ham and bacon and cheeseburgers and potatoes in any form (read: french fries). I enjoy whole kernel corn, green beans, onions (required for Outback's Bloomin' Onion), sugarsnap peas, cheese, and various types of fruit. Dessert items rock my socks off.

The following foods will only find themselves on my plate if I'm dead:

• Seafood of any kind
• Eggs (Ah, memories)
• Macaroni and cheese (The smell is unlike anything I've ever experienced)
• Macaroni noodles (You know, because of the mac and cheese thing) and other "thick" pasta shapes
• Oatmeal (Tasty to-go bars don't count)
• Sauces with a non-tomato base
• Beans (Unless they're in chili, and even then I pick them out)
• Whole mushrooms (Chopped up on pizza is acceptable)
• Tuna (Except in tuna cassarole)
• Salami
• Burritos
• French toast
• Avocados
• Salad (Because I hate lettuce)
• Sour cream
• Mayonnaise (Except in my spinach dip receipe)
• Custard
• Cranberries
• Cottage cheese
• Tapioca (Thanks for reminding me, Bdogg!)
• Quiche
• Tiramisu
• Any sort of pot pie
• Omelets
• Indian food (Too afraid to try it)
• Most Chinese food (Though I do enjoy orange chicken)
• Most Japanese food (Unless it's beef fried rice, and I still pick out the egg chunks)
• Select meat-and-cheese combinations (Shredded cheese on tacos is delish; sausage-and-cheese croissants inspire my gagging reflex; meats with cheese stuffed inside of them are also gross. Cheese does not make everything better, people!)

I'm sure there are others, and there are a few exceptions, but them's the biggies. Any dishes outside of my love/hate radar are tolerable, I suppose, but why bother with them when I can get my taste on with something I one-hundred-percent enjoy?

My contentedness with not trying anything new never bothered anyone until I started dating, and it didn't bother ME until I started dating Luke. Our relationship has always embraced a liberal dining-out policy, meaning an oil change is reason enough to flock to the nearest Applebee's, so this topic comes up all the time. I usually go for American grill or Italian-style restaurants, while he's interested in trying out the little Thai place across the street from Wal-Mart. If I suggest a place, it's usually to satisfy a specific craving. Outback equals Bloomin' Onion. Ted's Montana Grill (my new favorite place) means a bison cheeseburger and fries. Don Pablo's? Steak quesadillas. (Another instance where I sanction the marriage of meat and cheese.) I'll go anywhere you want, but you can bet your mother's life I'll ask for a burger, ribs, or chicken strips, and that's after I guilt you into ordering the dip.

For Luke's sake, sometimes I want to throw caution to the wind and just try a crab leg already. I know he'd take greater pleasure in our meals out if I took a more open-minded approach towards food. He also gets sick of my wrinkled nose and "Oooh, I don't like that, how can you eat that?" comments every time he takes a bite of something that didn't originate from a cow.

But what if I don't like the crab leg? Am I going to shell out eleven ninety-five for another platter? Stare at my entree forlornly until it's time to pay the bill? My daredevilism could very well come back to bite me in the ass.

This evening, Luke and I are going to the Cheesecake Factory for my birthday. (Twenty-seven, thank you for asking!) It will actually be the culmination of a series of food-centric events held in the honor of my departure from my mother's uterus; the shenanigans started on Sunday, when we went to Ted's for dinner, and tonight Luke's making tacos, after which we'll visit the Factory for their to-die-for cheesecake. (I refused to try cheesecake until college because I thought it was literally a blend of cheese and cake. Like, American cheese. If that's not reason enough to loosen up, the only reason my passion for spinach dip exists is Luke's hankering for it on our first date and my unwillingness to rock the boat.) Our first visit was in December, when I feasted upon their brownie sundae concoction, a miracle because they also have banana cheesecake, and usually when I'm ordering a dessert I always go for the banana option. On that night, though, I could SEE the sigh in Luke's eyes as we considered our options, and I thought, "Oh, what the hell."

Because I subscribe to a strict "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" philosophy, I think I want the brownie sundae again. Or the banana. Or maybe I'll ask the Internets for their opinion.

Here is a link to the Factory's menu. While I wish I could say I'll go with the majority vote, I'll probably just do whatever I want. Nonetheless, feel free to de-lurk and offer a suggestion. I promise to think about it really, really hard.

Edited to add: I just re-read this entry and realized I listed my age as twenty-eight years old. I am only twenty-seven. Apparently "counting correctly" isn't on my list of ways to celebrate my birthday.

More Chances For Cheese!

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

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

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

Bringing Stupid Back

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. AFTER it's done cooking!"

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

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

Frema: Doesn't blame him.

In Which I Learn My Hairdresser Is A Racist And My Brain Isn't Worth The Paper My English Degree's Printed On

Or, I'm Not So Sure The Second One Comes Off As Well In Print

Scene 1. The Salon That Must Not Be Named Because I Don't Care to be Sued, Thursday.

After weeks of split ends, Frema chances a second visit to Magda for a simple trim. (There's also about two months and three inches' worth of outgrowth, but Frema will continue to ignorance its existence until her bank account is sufficiently funded to handle emergencies unrelated to car insurance.)

Magda: So, do you live around here?

Frema: Yes. My husband and I like this area so much we'd like to buy a house here. We've even started neighborhood-shopping.

Magda: Well, it's a great place to live, except one thing. The schools in this township are horrible.

Frema: Really? I hadn't heard that.

Magda: Oh, yes. The kids get good grades and all, but there's a lot of blacks.

Frema (eyes widening): Excuse me?

Magda: This area used to be primarily white until about fifteen or twenty years ago, when blacks and Mexicans started moving in.

Frema: Well, that doesn't sound like a good reason not to send my kids here. (Notices shears poised above her tender, Hispanic scalp and chuckles nervously). I'm from Chicago. I actually enjoy diversity.

Magda: Good for you, hon!

Frema: Head explodes.

Scene 2. Frema-Useless Clutter Apartment, Sunday.

After several hours of AMC recaps, the VCR is turned off to reveal a news report about this plane crash.

Broadcaster: Forty-nine people were killed, including a couple that was married only the night before.

Frema: Oh my God, that's horrible!

Broadcaster: Yes, isn't it? In other news, Indianapolis saw more rain than it would've liked this past weekend...

Frema: Well, that was a crappy sēgue.

Luke: What?

Frema: A sēgue. You know, a transition?

Luke: You mean segway.

Frema: No, sēgue, with a long "e" sound. People on the Internet use it when they're going from one topic to another.

Luke: The hell?

Frema: Do I need to spell it out for you? (Spells it out for him.) There is no "way" in that word.

Luke: Starts to laugh while he makes a run for the dictionary. Minutes later, Frema stares in disbelief at the pronounciation key.

Frema: Well, shit, what do you know.

Luke: You really thought there was a long "e"?

Frema: I even said it that way on the phone once. Just last week, in fact.

Luke: Clutches sides, gasps for breath.

Frema: I'm an asshole.

This One's For The Children

Lately I've gotten into the habit of thinking about my children--not children I have right now, of course, but the ones I hope to produce someday. Except less about the actual kids themselves and more about the material items I intend for them to inherit, items that will provide them with both a rich family history and tangible keepsake of A Mother's Love. In January, when Luke and I ordered pictures from Dan and Samantha's wedding, three wallet-sized orders were placed for pictures featuring the two of us, the newlyweds, and my entire family specifically for inclusion in Amelia, Lucy, and Nathan's baby books. When Luke's brother and sister-in-law offered us prints from their daughter's first-year photo shoot, I requested four; one five-by-seven for framing and three wallets for possible scrapbooking projects. In both scenarios, three seemed like a good number because that is the maximum capacity I've set for my womb, and naturally the best representation for that would be two girls and a boy because I'm better with girls' names. Even the possibility of a fourth throws all my plans out of wack, because THAT kid would have to steal my five-by-sevens and therefore come across as Mom and Dad's favorite. Perhaps the others could be appeased with Mommy's old diaries--who WOULDN'T be excited to know that the woman who gave them life used to make herself throw up?

Anyway, last night was relatively tame for Luke and me, so I figured it was about time to start filling out the engagement book we received from the wonderful Lost A Sock at the beginning of the year. I imagined myself writing pages about the start of our romance; pasting in photographs from our formative days; transcribing sage advice from family and friends who know us best. That is, until I actually put pen to paper. Then I was all, "Mommy is a freakin' idiot."

My first mistake? Messing up the "B" in my non-Internet first name. THE FIRST LETTER, people, and I had already doomed the entire book. In my signature B--as in signature standard, not signature hand-writing--the two vertical buttocks are interlocked tightly together with a perky little loop similar to that of a bunny-eared shoe lace. However, this B was wildly out of control, as if each buttock were experiencing some sort of hive-inducing allergic reaction to the other.

To make matters worse, I have the brilliant notion to fix the B by tracing over it several times, which not only doesn't bridge the gap but instead plumps up the right vertical buttock, which is just plain embarrassing to the left one. It's as if the pen was possessed with the penmanship of a nine-year-old boy who sees dead people.

Anyway, I'm disheartened but determined to press forward with the Creating of the Special Memories. The middle of the first line is divided with an "and," so I write our names in the appropriate spaces, tossing in an ampersandish symbol for good measure. I get to the second line but can't figure out what it's for, so I scribble in our wedding date. Then I get to "who were married on the ____ " and the lightbulb goes off, and I shout, "Aw, f*&^."

At this point I have a few options:

1) Invest in a bottle of white-out and get cracking so that Amelia, Lucy, and Nathan don't think their mommy is an idiot who can't follow even the simplest of instructions.

2) Buy a new copy of the journal and start over, because everyone deserves a white-out-free engagement book.

3) Leave the book as is and spend the rest of my life making it up to them.

Bahsketti

Because Luke's birthday dinner on Tuesday seemed to go well, I thought I'd go all out and play chef two days in a row. The main course? Spaghetti. I know, I know--the possibilities with my Betty Crocker cookbook are endless.

Though I've made pasta several times before, I screw it up approximately 78.6 percent of the time because of the fact that I never remember the temperature at which the noodles need to cook. I always think I'm supposed to bring the water to a boil but then reduce it to a simmer once it's time to add the actual food. In every instance I think, this time will be different, this time I've finally got the steps down, this time there's no need to verify my course of action with the back of the spaghetti box. And in every instance, I produce a lump of noodles that give the illusion of being appropriately prepared but actually bear an uncanny match in taste and texture to the individual straw units that compose a barrel of hay. We should've just thrown the stuff straight from the pot to our front lawn and raced to see who could execute the best dive.

Luke and I made it through a collective seven forkfuls before scraping our plates into the garbage disposal. Later when I inquired about the pasta's chances of making a suitable lunch, he thought there was a good chance it'd be just fine, as sitting in the sauce overnight just might be the ticket to appeasing the taste bud gods.

At 11:36 a.m. I learned that the pasta was not just fine. I learned that if it tastes like straw on Wednesday, it'll taste like straw on Thursday, too.

This time I only got through two forkfuls before I raised a white flag and clung to the nutritional value of my Fig Newton two-pack and Capri Sport Ice Berry juice box. However, I was eating at my desk and couldn't bring myself to just throw the spaghetti away, what with all the starving children in third-world countries and not wanting to be labeled Messy and Wasteful by the man who changes my trash liner. So I packed everything up again with the intention of sending all the little noodles back to that great big pasta box in the sky later that night.

And it would've worked, too, if I'd actually remembered to accompany my lunch bag to the car. I'm taking a vacation day tomorrow and shudder to think what I might return to on Monday. Mice? Mold? Place your bets and freak out accordingly.

26th Birthday Suspense

But not about my wedding dress, even though I don't have one yet, even though I had plans to get one this past weekend. Apparently, I'm an idiot to think I can have dibs on a dressing room without making an appointment. New date: January 14th. I will break down and get thee to a reputable salon before then, because when people you haven't met offer to dye your roots themselves, something's got to be done. Maybe the whole scheduling debacle was a sign from God that my hair deserves some TLC before I start squeezing into white dresses.

Also, there are no longer any surprises about my ISF fees from the bank. Apparently, I'm also an idiot who forgets to record transactions in my register. On Saturday night, after checking a voice message from one of the tellers, I went through the last three statements online and discovered about a hundred dollars' worth of missing receipts, receipts I remember vividly and just assumed I had accounted for. Debit cards and Frema do not mix as well as she previously thought. (Quick shout-out to bank branches with Sunday hours who post deposits that same day. I love you, Yolanda!)

However, there is an air of mystery surrounding today, because at 10:00 a.m., Luke will begin an interview with one of the area's weekly newspapers. His qualifications would sooo kick this position's @$$. Send positive vibes his way. And mine, because, apparently, it's my birthday.

Scream 4: Indianapolis

Time: Monday Night

Scene: Frema and Useless Clutter's Apartment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End Scene

Priceless

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

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

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

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

And suddenly, he was up.

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

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

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

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

"Thanks," he said.

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

But he's worth ten million times more.

Laughter Through Tears Is My Favorite Emotion

This week has been crazy, from proofing employee handbooks to making an ASS out of myself in front of our printer to never washing down the shower like I said I would to having a headache from staying up so late to wondering why my DSL isn't connecting to thinking about this whole moving-in business to worrying about student-loan debt to just wanting to go home and FINISH HARRY POTTER ALREADY and then take a nap.

These were the thoughts running through my head when I made a pitstop to the bathroom after lunch and discovered traces of a Hostess cupcake strategically smeared into the corners of my mouth.

I wish I could say that this was the first time I've displayed food on my face for all my coworkers to see. I really do.

I am a damn FOOL.

Not What You Think

In case you can't tell by the picture I have bravely posted, I'm no supermodel. There are the sausage legs. Breasts that only look perky when they're inside a Victoria's Secret bra. A gut. Therefore, believe me when I say I am not using this image to stir feelings of lust or desire among the Internet elite. Instead, it is proof that I have the common sense of a moose. (But please don't call me a moose or I swear to God I will cry.) That is the only way I can explain why, at 12:30 in this afternoon, I found my private parts splattered with white-out.

Thanks to Luke, I was properly armed with a Tide to-go stick, but all it did was...actually, it did nothing, so I stayed close to my desk for the rest of the afternoon, because honestly, who wants to see their flabby co-worker's nether regions marked like small countries on a world map? The few times I had to venture away from the confines of my cubicle led to what I thought was an obligatory acknowledgement of the white-out, because nobody wants to be That Girl Who Totally Pretended She Didn't Have White-Out All Over Her Damn Self.

As evidenced by this and the spaghetti sauce incident, it's probably best that I either arrive for work in a full-sized body bib or abandon office environments altogether to work at home.

Damn ALL the Peking Ducks!

Before you judge me for hating ducks, know that I do not hate ducks. I love ducks. When I was a kid, my mother would take my siblings and me to the nearby park and she would make popcorn and we would throw it in the water and the ducks would eat it. Hooray!

Peking ducks. It's the PEKING ducks I hate. Because I think they are out to kill me.

Last night, I thought for once I would get off my lazy @$$ and do something besides watch soap operas. "Feed the ducks!" thought me. "What a great idea!" So I grabbed two pieces of bread, which were sealed in an airtight plastic Ziplock bag because this gal has me terrified of these, and ran downstairs in anticipated glee. I would bond with the ducks. They would eat bread nuggets RIGHT OUT OF MY HAND and quack love ballads in my direction at night and wait patiently by my car for more bread every day. This scenario came very close to fruition until the Peking ducks charged towards me and the gourmet carbs I was tossing into the water. The last time this happened, it was with geese, and I just threw the pieces at their beaks and ran back upstairs. This time, I just threw the pieces at their beaks and ran back upstairs. But also this time, I came back. With my carscraper. For I was determined to feed the ducks. I thought I could raise the scraper, take a menacing step in their direction, and those beeotches would back the eff off.

When I actually took the menacing step, though, they continued to charge at me, and I didn't use the scraper because I was afraid it would egg them on. Plus, my neighbors might think I was trying to butcher "helpless" animals and then hold their children close whenever in my presence. So I ran back upstairs again, throwing all bread in the dump on my way to the complex. (It was getting moldy anyway. When will The-Grocery-Store-Powers-That-Be make loaves small enough for a single person to actually finish?)

I'm not sure what I'm afraid of. Brutal pecking, probably.

In other news, the magazine with my pee article came out today. So happy! If I had a scanner, I'd scan the whole article and post it here, or maybe just my byline, because, who are we kidding, nobody but your gynocologist is ever going to read it. But I am proud just the same.

What You Could Have Looked At Today

Today at work, my boss provided Fazoli's catering for all 58 members of his staff, as a thank-you for some great specimen counts these last few weeks. While I was digging into my lasagna and breadsticks, he stopped by for a chat. Just chit-chat, no big deal. I walked back to my desk, full and content, made a bathroom stop, went to wash my hands, and then I saw it. It. An orange dot of sauce on my forehead. And not even a section disguised by a bouncy little curl. ON MY FOREHEAD.

Looking back, I can recall a quick splatter during the digging-in process, but I thought subtly and cleverly swiping at my nose had adequately solved the problem. I mean, who has to worry about doing a food-check on their damn FOREHEAD?

On a brighter note, I just finished my first pro-science article, one that addresses the benefits of therapeutic drug monitoring in pain-management clinics and delves into the pros and cons of blood vs. urine samples. But wait! The article will be published in a national magazine! Hurrah! Who'd have thought I'd brag about a national writing sample that talked about pee? Hell, who'd have thought I'd have a national sample? I don't even care that I only have joint custody of authorship, or that Practical Pain Management will never be found at Barnes and Noble. I am now Saucy Writing Genius. Will rule the world.

Hoosier in a Strange Hoosier Land

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

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

And then the Target runs began.

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

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

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

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

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

Oops, I Did It Again

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

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

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

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

Excuse Me While I Cut Off This Dress

No typos there. Last night I had the most enjoyable experience of being trapped in a dress that a woman older than my dead great-grandmother had to CUT ME OUT OF. With scissors. With bra and dignity exposed for all of high heaven to see. And it wasn't even one of my perky Victoria's Secret push-ups.

Even before that, it was a less than fabulous time. I had no trouble locating potential buys - the problem was too big or too small or too hot pink or too flesh toned or TOO FAT because, when the only way to remove a piece of clothing is to take scissors to fabric, not a good sign.

To be fair, and to beat Luke to the punch come comments time, this particular dress fit fine; the zipper just caught itself and wouldn't go up or down, no matter how aggressively Luke, Gladys, Dorothy, and I pulled. Twenty minutes later, I offered the dress up to the cashiers like a religious sacrifice, my victim bearing a frantically cut vertical gash from breast to hip. I won't say it was exactly like the zipper scene in There's Something About Mary, but for a woman it was pretty damn close.

No Head Shaking Allowed Today