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

Good-bye, cold lunchmeat. See you in February 2009.

So, over the last couple of weeks, I've kind of been making a big deal over the possibility of being pregnant (again). At first it was fun, something to blog about for Parents that didn't make me out to be an angry dog hater, but I didn't really think it was true. Apparently nobody else did, either. I heard the DUH in comments from some of my readers. "You KNOW your cycle can take a while to get back on track, right?" they said. Which, hey, I'm with you. Surely FIVE negative pregnancy tests can't be wrong.

Except they totally can, because according to my blood test? I'm having a baby.

It's probably safe to assume Luke will never touch me again. No need to worry about number three.

Kara is unimpressed.

Silly Mommy. You've really gone and done it now.

It's going to be OK, right? I mean, I KNOW it's going to be OK, birthing two children fourteen months apart and having to buy a house and upgrade our car and save for doctor's visits and hospital bills and maternity leave (oh, my God, my boss is totally going to think I'm a nympho) and recover from two c-sections in two years and deal with morning sickness and round ligament pain and breastfeeding AGAIN. I know people do more with less. And really, I am so happy. So very, very happy.

But still.

Tell me it's going to be OK.

More options than an Old Country Buffet

While I was busy debating how to address my high school reunion, surprisingly, life carried on. Here's just a sampling of what's been occupying my time:

Great Aunt Flo Watch of 2008
Geez, you might be thinking, is she really still talking about this? Hell, yes, I'm still talking about this, today is day 55 of my cycle and still not a word from that bitch Aunt Flo. I took another test when I came home from work this afternoon because my stomach felt jittery before lunch, but alas, still negative, my fourth one since Mother's Day weekend. It's not so much that I'm freaked out about maybe having children THIRTEEN MONTHS APART, HOLY CRAP, but more like dying of curiosity; however, even that attitude isn't doing me any good, so I've decided to just sit tight until I'm presented with either two pink lines or a bloodbath in my underwear. I've been cramping on and off for days, and my gut feeling is that I'm not pregnant, but my gut also told me I would deliver Kara before her due date, possibly without drugs, and we all know how that went down.

While waiting for the latest test to register, Luke jokingly asked if there was a way to jumpstart my period. "If you can speed up labor, why not this?" he said.

Indeed.

Weight Watchers
Today marks week three of Weight Watchers 2.0, and things are going...okay. I've not been as dedicated as I was the first time around, so there were several incidents involving pancakes, bacon, and chicken strips, but I've lost 4.2 pounds to date--almost two pounds since last week--and that's not a bad thing. I've really enjoyed the ability to track my eating habits and calculate Points values online; it was through the Web site that I learned one point plus one point doesn't necessarily equal two. As in, three of the Weight Watchers one-point chocolate chip cookies are five points, not three, and I'm not sure why that is, exactly, but being off by a couple of points each day definitely makes a difference on the scale. I just discovered this gem a few days ago, and my newfound knowledge is bound to make a positive impact on next week's weigh-in.

I will say that I participated in a free health risk assessment at work the other day, and baby weight aside, I'm much healthier than I originally thought. In 2005 I was diagnosed with high cholesterol, and my efforts to bring it down were half-hearted at best. I was pregnant for most of 2007, and pregnancy raises cholesterol, so it wasn't until now that I was in a position to retest. I'm happy to report that all of my levels are in the optimal or near-optimal range, and I can breathe a little easier knowing I've reduced my risk for heart disease. It was in taking that test that I realized I'm doing Weight Watchers for more than just the weight loss. I've had an effed-up mentality regarding food for years, and I want to put my best foot forward and engage in a healthier lifestyle. I want Kara to look at me and see a strong role model for making good choices about food and exercise, and I want her to think that it's easy. I don't want her to use food to get attention, like I did when I made myself throw up for three weeks in junior high. I don't want her to obsess over supposed imperfections or compare herself to peers with drastically different body types or run to food whenever she needs comfort. But if I want that for her, I have to want it for me, too. And I do.

But hot damn, do I miss my spinach dip.

It's not all bad, though. I've been doing a little more in the kitchen, and on Tuesday night I used my Take Five! cookbook, a collection of Weight Watchers recipes with only five main ingredients, to make Pita Pizzas for five points a piece. And they were delicious. Isabel, you bonafide pizza lover you, they will not disappoint. I promise.

House
After months of hemming and hawing and pouring over Excel spreadsheets to make sure we are really in a financial position to do this, Luke and I took our first major step in becoming homeowners and mailed off an application to the Indianapolis Neighborhood Housing Partnership, a non-profit that helps first-time owners secure their first house. Now, Luke and I both have excellent credit (quick shout-out to myfico.com, where we purchased our credit reports and Fico scores from all three bureaus for forty-five bucks a piece), so we don't need to go through an agency to make this happen, but the INHP has relationships with banks throughout the city that will offer loans without requiring a down payment OR private mortgage insurance to qualified buyers. Plus, I took a (free!) intro-to-home-buying class last spring that they sponsored at a local university, and it was very infomative. It certainly couldn't hurt to see what they can offer us.

Our lease on this apartment is up at the end of July, but we'll definitely need more time then that to get our act together, so the plan is to switch to a month-to-month lease and close on a property sometime in September. We won't start looking until we've been pre-approved by a lender, which should allow us to move forward relatively quickly once we've found the house of our dreams. Luke and I are beyond excited about being able to do this and STILL have someone home with Kara. I know how lucky we are and I thank God every night for it.

My Gorgeous Baby
Kara turned five months old on Saturday, and she is taking the world by storm: scooting backwards, becoming more vocal, and as of Sunday, experimenting with rice cereal. She won't entertain more than a few spoonfuls before she's pushing away the spoon, but she's extremely interested in everything on our plates, so this is a good place to start.

Plus, she looks absolutely adorable in her high chair.

She continues to hold herself up really well and can sit unsupported for about ten minutes before toppling over like a house of cards.

She's also still snacking on her fingers and toes with passionate abandon.

So, to sum up, things are going really well right now, even if I feel a little like I'm burning the candle at both ends. Work is extremely busy, and I'm helping with a baby shower for my sister Samantha in June, which means invites needed to go out like, yesterday, and writing for Parents always keeps me on my toes. (Not sure why me wanting to clean my daughter's toes from a strange dog's germs is basis for telling me to relax, as if I couldn't wait to dip her foot in bleach or something, or why not wanting my five-month-old baby to be approached by a dog I don't know means I'm afraid of all dogs all the time, but whatever.) Sure, there are times I'm afraid of passing out behind the wheel, but really, what's a good night's sleep, anyway?

I can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

Eavesdropping

You guys! You'll never guess what I heard the other day...

Scene: How should I know, I'm only three months old; Momma and Daddy staring at a big black box while Momma crazily waves a hand in front of my face:

Momma: Hey, look! Twelve Angry Men is in town! You know I did that play in high school? I was the guard.

Daddy: We can go, if you want.

Momma: That would be fun. Oh, yay! I haven't seen a play in forever.

Daddy: We'll have to get a sitter, you know.

Momma: Huh?

Daddy: You know, for Kara. You can't bring a baby to a play.

Momma: Oh. Right. Nevermind.

Daddy: Did you forget we have a child?

Momma: No?

Daddy: ....

Mommy! I am the love of your life! How could you blank on my smashing good looks?

Secret But Awesome Freelancing Gig Revealed

Last night I was finally given permission to unleash my Secret But Awesome Freelancing Gig to the Internet masses, so unleash it I will. Yippee!

Remember back in April when Amalah mentioned my pregnancy on Mom's Daily Dose? Well, my readership increased a bit because of that, and one of those readers just so happened to be an editor for www.parents.com, the Web site for Parents, American Baby, and Family Circle magazines. She approached me about writing a pregnancy blog (and when appropriate, possibly a mom blog) for their site, which was set to relaunch with a new format sometime in July. After some back and forth, the deal was sealed, and as of July 1st, I can officially call myself a freelance writer.

I will be posting three times a week at Parental Discretion Advised about the nitty-gritty details of my gestating experience, most likely on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday because I'm anal like that. There's five posts up there right now, the latest one published just last night, which is perfect, because while you're getting acclimated to the new blog, I'm going to take a few days to speed-read the second book I need to finish for my class, which will hopefully allow me to jump on Harry Potter's book seven bandwagon before any spoilers are revealed. Everybody wins!

Some notes to keep in mind for the new site:

• Parents.com relaunched with a new format last Thursday, and there are still various formatting kinks to work out. The color scheme is wonderful, but the blog headers won't be ready until next week, and right now the text margins are non-existent; things like that. So please bear with us as we work through those issues. If you yourself experience any problems, feel free to let me know and I'll pass them along to my editor.
• Since I plan on featuring this gig on my resume, I've ditched the Frema alias and decided to use my full name. I'm also attempting to keep Parental Discretion Advised free from any mention of my personal blog, so I ask that you please do the same. I'm sure eventually the two will formalize their commitment to each other, but until then, they're perfectly comfortable with an occasional romp in the sack over here.
• In order to leave a comment, you must register with Parents.com. I know it's an extra step, but if you enjoy commenting here, I would encourage you to do so "over there." We've had some great discussions about various topics on "What're you lookin' at?" The new blog wouldn't be the same without the benefit of your experiences.

And the most important one (to me, anyway):

• I am not shutting down this blog. I will continue to update this blog on a regular basis. I will continue to talk about pregnancy. TLF will continue to rock the house.

I don't think I can adequately communicate to you how important this silly little Web site is to me. I've spent the last three years fighting writer's block, hammering out my feelings on a wide range of issues, and building up a readership that I love and respect (yes, you). I have no intentions of abandoning everything I've created here. Last week I wrote four entries for Parents.com and five for this site. While not indicative of my future posting schedule, I hope it shows you that my dedication to one blog will not affect my passion for the other.

So far, the Parents.com blogs are amazing. The roster includes published authors, travel writers, and magazine editors (and one gal I already list on my blogroll; congrats, Emily!), and I'm really glad I didn't know that before I started writing, because crafting the new material would've been even more nervewracking than it already was. But I think I've found my voice, and I'll continue to finetune it, just like I do here. In the meantime, thank you all so much for listening to what I have to say, and being so supportive, and helping me to create an atmosphere that made it possible for me to expand my professional horizons.

Especially your mom. I couldn't have done this without her.

"Your World Delivered" My Ass

This afternoon I spent 169 minutes on hold for AT&T, wanting either an explanation as to why we never received phone service in our new apartment on Saturday or a report on when to expect access. One hundred and sixty-nine minutes. Almost three hours. I could've watched one of the Lord of the Rings sequels. I could've driven to Chicago and back. I could've had a V-8!

After 169 minutes on hold, I received the following automated message:

"Due to technical problems, we are unable to take your call at this time."

Busy signal follows, and then a dial tone. Motherfucking AT&T bastards.

(Although I did quite enjoy their instrumental renditions of Boyz II Men's "Water Runs Dry" and the Spice Girls' "Two Become One." And I was able to complete three-fourths of a feature story for the lab's employee newsletter. But I really had to pee.)

-------

The move went off without a hitch, and I didn't lift a damn thing, so imagine my surprise when I woke up Sunday morning with shooting pain in both my arms and legs. Apparently bleaching sinks is more strenuous work than I give myself credit for.

Except for a sharing a sentimental Moment with Luke about walking away from a place that's housed so many important milestones for us over the last two years, we survived the transition unscathed and are eighty-six percent unpacked. All that's pretty much left is adding those finishing touches to truly make it feel like home. Then I can dedicate my time to catching up on AMC and freaking out over how exposed we are living on the first floor.

Frumpelstiltskin

As a child growing up fifteen minutes from downtown Chicago, I had a certain image of what I would look like when it was time to tackle the corporate world. For the last two summers of high school, while riding the 65 State Street bus from my el train stop to Navy Pier, home to the now-deceased Pretzelmaker, I was fascinated by the women sporting crisp, white shirts, pencil skirts with hems ending just above the knee, professionally blown-out hair, and carefully applied eyeliner on their powdered lids. They always carried some sort of savvy bag that held their hundred-dollar heels so they could pound the pavement with the Nikes usually reserved for their Crunch gym membership, allowing them to manuever through the crowds without breaking a leg. I imagined they all had cornerstone offices overlooking the skyline and assistants who brought them coffee and petty cash funds they could draw from for lunch, just like Christina Applegate's character in Don't Tell Mom the Baby-sitter's Dead. It was a lifestyle I couldn't wait to be a part of.

And then I graduated from college.

The circumstances surrounding how I landed my three-year stint as publications and media relations director for my undergraduate alma mater really just kind of fell into place. I'd been interning for the office for the duration of my senior year, writing feature stories and press releases under the supervision of my professor (and now good friend) Maia, who was rationing her time between the English department and college's PR division; eventually she needed to commit to teaching full-time and her boss needed to find a replacement, thus seamlessly opening the door for me without so much as an interview. I jumped into the swing of things two days after my commencement ceremony and smack-dab in the middle of the production schedule for the alumni magazine's summer edition.

To say I was absolutely terrified of fucking up is a gross understatement; I was a recent graduate with no money to burn, no time to catch my breath, no knowledge on the concept of "business casual." I was hired for a job, and I did my job, period, which means I did nothing for my appearance. (In that last link, you're looking for the photo of me in a Relay for Life tee shirt and gray sweatpants. BOTH OF WHICH I WORE TO WORK. Yes, you are allowed to gasp at the horror of it all.)

It wasn't until late fall of that year that I discovered the sassy affordability of my beloved New York and Company, whose very name screams sophistication but whose display racks boast work-appropriate blouses for twenty bucks a pop. Jack pot, baby! I salivated over khaki pants and collar shirts and kicky red skirts with little conch shells on them, and soon I was averaging two hundred bucks a visit every couple of months. I had to go in that often because for every five pieces I brought home, at least one ended up in my sisters' closets during my next visit home, since in my haste to own the perfect wardrobe, I had set unrealistic expectations for just how well I could pull off a horizontal-striped sweater with 36B breasts. (How well? you ask. Not at all well, thank you very much.)

By the time I had tendered my resignation and accepted my next job offer (also obtained without a formal interview, I am such a lucky duckie), I was making slightly smarter choices and holding on to pieces longer than eight seconds. I'd chopped off most of my hair, visited a Clinique counter for the first time thanks to my co-worker Kendra (hi, Kendra!), and become intimately familiar with the inside of a Baker's. My shopping preferences weren't as fancy as Bloomingdale's or Sephora, but just like Mary Tyler Moore, I was making it after all.

For the first year of my new job, I pulled off looks like the one above about three days a week, the rest of the time pairing Payless Sherpa flip-flops with capris and cotton tees announcing my alumni status with various post-secondary institutions. (OK, just two, but "various" flowed better.) Then, somehow, after gaining a bit of weight, I started feeling less confident, and the cute ensembles whittled down to twice every five days. Now, I've been reduced to this.

In all fairness, I've SEEN classier women pull off the always-tricky red, blue, and brown combination, but they probably included at least one form-fitting piece to tie the whole look together. Making matters worse is the fact that I've decided to grow out my hair, which is now in that awful in-between phase where the locks lose their shape four minutes after stepping out of my stylist's chair, and my refusal to wear make-up unless I'm sporting particularly high self-esteem. That last part is really a shame, since my break-outs have only gotten worse and my cheeks could really benefit from the neutral coverage of a pressed powder.

But hey, this picture was taken when I was five weeks' pregnant. That cuts me some slack, right?

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.

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.

Questions Regarding Corporate John Etiquette

Say you're on day two of your recommitment to the Weight Watchers bandwagon, and you've consumed an amount of water identical in volume to what park supervisors use to replenish the community pool because it's all you can do not to "accidentally" remove a bite-sized Snickers from Betty's candy bowl. Say you've just taken care of business when another employee makes her way to the adjoining stall and strikes up a conversation to learn if the new business polos have made a positive impression on the masses. Say she continues to talk as you hear the sound of her urine splashing into the commode.

Do you keep talking? If the billing specialist doesn't mind chatting it up mid-pee, should you? What about when the situation's reversed? Is it considered rude to zip your lip once your arse hits the porcelain throne? At what point is bodily function allowed to trump witty banter?

For me, it's after the locking of the stall door, the equivalent to shutting the door to my office; if I was up for a dialogue, I'd leave the damn thing open and invite you to pull up a chair. Otherwise? Let me one and two in peace.

What say you, Internet?

In Which God Swaps My Dreams For A Baby With Free Quesadillas And I Accept With Open Arms

Things Frema Has Done Today

1. Splashed around in the pool
2. Enjoyed a refreshing walk at the nearby park
3. Caught up on three episodes of AMC
4. Indulged in a complimentary lunch from Don Pablo's that actually started out as a complimentary dinner

Yeah, you read that right. Yesterday Luke and I decided to have a gloriously greasy "last-hurrah" meal out on the town in order to celebrate having the necessary funds to pop for a joint membership at the local YMCA, which we haven't done yet but will on Monday, but yesterday was when we had our tour and saw the plethora of fitness classes and machines available and there was much excitement about getting back into shape so I could stop crying about how much fuller my face looks in the picture I took for my EOM bio. I mean, we. Whatever.

Anyway, Don Pablo's. Because Luke loves Mexican food and I knew some chains offer spinach dip as cup or bowl options, and it wouldn't really count as an appetizer because cups only cost $3.79.

We arrived at the restaurant around seven and knew to expect a wait. So we sat on one of the benches near the entrance and watched hungry people harass the poor hostess, one of whom would approach her every six minutes to peer over her shoulder, showering her with man breath and spittle, to ask "How's Cal lookin'?" in such a gruff tone of voice you knew he had to be a smoker. The third time that happened took place directly before she announced our table was ready, and we took great pleasure in tossing back possible answers on behalf of the poor hostess, answers like, "Cal's lookin' to get a foot up his @$$ if he doesn't step out of my happy place!" It took all my restraint not to high-five Luke as we were seated in a booth on the outskirts of the dining area.

Two eventful things happened during the course of the evening. The first was that we got a free dinner as a result of the waitress's perception that we waited too long for our food, which, it wasn't that long, seeing as it was Friday and all, but we're not the type of people to squash an opportunity for a fellow human being to pay it forward. (Or turn down a free thirty-dollar meal.)The second was when, in all the excitement and possibly Luke's irritation that he didn't order that margarita after all, he stepped on the heel of my flip-flop and broke the strap. That's three dollars my mother will never see again. We were able to temporarily repair them with medical tape obtained from my car's first aid kit. (I knew it was good for something!)

He said he was sorry, but he didn't help his case any by admitting to his hatred for the damn things, so the jury's still out. I told him a trip to Payless may be the only way to make things right.

Apparently our good karma is sticking around for the entire weekend, as we have plans for tonight and tomorrow with friends of ours (OK, Luke's friends, but I'm working it!) to do things. In the same city we live in. That don't involve the highway or toll fees. This is the life.

In other words, I'm feeling much better.

Doesn't Your Pastor Have a Blog?

I mean, really.

Check it out, peeps.

Also, random AMC update: Dixie is alive! And Tad knows! And is engaged to her half-sister! Who's been hiding Dixie's whereabouts for months and met Tad by posing as Dixie herself! Very exciting. Know what else? Dixie's portrayer has a blog, too.

Spirituality and daytime television. I swear, if trapped in a burning building with instructions to only rescue one, I don't know what I'd do. How they speak to me!

You're Quite Welcome

When taking out the trash, do not keep your Glad bags and key carabiner in the same hand, because when you lift your arm to throw the bags into the dump, your carabiner might get tangled into the handle and thus join your garbage on its poetic and moving journey into an abyss of sour milk and uncontained dog poop. And maybe, JUST MAYBE, you will have to re-enter your (by the grace of God unlocked) apartment to obtain a step ladder usually reserved for obtaining hard-to-reach items in your pantry, not for climbing into said dumpster to retrieve your keys while wading in the glory that is your neighbors' filth.

It's just good to know.

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.

Reunited (And It Feels So Good)

I was a fool to ever leave your side

Me minus you is such a lonely ride

The break-up we had has made me lonesome and sad

I realize I love you 'cause I want you bad

I spent the ev'ning with the radio

Regret the moment that I let you go

Our quarrel was such a way of learnin' so much

I know now that I love you 'cause I need your touch

Reunited and it feels so good

Reunited 'cause we understood

There's one perfect fit

And, sugar, this one is it

We both are so excited 'cause we're reunited

Tricky Jesus

Back in January, when I had decided to begin looking for another job, I created a new Yahoo! account specifically for tracking resume responses. I mean, receiving correspondence about future employment at an address designed for current employer correspondence is not very classy. Neither is any address including the suffix "-baby." (For proof, refer to lower righthand section of sidebar.)

So. A new address. For new jobs. But I only got a whopping two e-mails the whole time, and one was from some crazy clown site that wanted me to buy a rubber nose and big fat Ronald McDonald shoes. (Well, not, really, but it was pretty pointless.) So I went from checking it once a day to once every two days to once a week to never. Until today. And now? I kind of want to kill myself, because on May 19th, I received an e-mail from this place about participating in a phone-screening interview for an associate editor/writer position. And another one on May 20. And a final follow-up on May 24th. These weren't automated messages, either. They said things like, "Good morning, Frema!" and gave an actual person's name and phone number and blood type and everything.

What did I do on May 19? Watch Melrose Place and dribble spinach dip on myself. The 20th? Post this entry about shopping for jelly beans. The 24th? Possibly wash sheets. Whatever it was, it sure wasn't tracking resume responses.

My body is juggling three different reactions. My brain is saying that I secured a job in April with a great boss and great pay and great room for growth in a great city that I now have the time to explore so FORGET ABOUT IT. My stomache is forming a softball-sized rock and telling me to make a run for the bathroom, and my lips are already practicing shouting the phrase, "I could have had a job in Chicago!" once they reach the safe confines of my rental. (Will I ever get my car back?!) Even if it's not 100 percent true.

Would Luke have had an easier time looking for jobs if I'd moved to Chicago? Would I have been happier being closer to my friends? Would I have been a bigger help to my sister, who is getting married in just two months? Would I have been a better pillar when Unspeakable Family Drama ensued?

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. There's no way to know.

I'm still thinking about all of this. Will have insightful words of wisdom tomorrow.

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.

Please Don't Stab My Pizza Boy

Apartment hunting. Easy it is not, my friends. Easy it is not. Especially when you're not from the area and must rely on advice from family and friends. The South Side is really nice. The South Side is dumpy. West is bad, but this one block's OK. North is nice but too far a drive. You're not worried about price, are you? Luke's brother was great about finding me some apartment guides, so with well-meaning but conflicting advice and a little booklet I valued like the Bible, I was determined to find The Best Place to Live.

In the beginning, I did really well, studying the little pictures that feature ducks and lakes and hot tubs and comparing prices and amenities. Then a friend who spent last summer in Indianapolis to take an internship (with my future employer, in fact) recommended comparing all of my possible picks against this site. More advice, most of it saying not to move to place A because it sits near a water treatment facility and smells like poop and not to live in place B because somebody was shot in the unit next door and to PLEASE not move to place C because the pizza boy was stabbed on his way into the complex. While good to know, it's not very encouraging to a twenty-something-year-old woman who wants to keep her insides intact.

THEN, when I finally started visiting places, I didn't realize people normally don't apply to a complex until they have actually made the decision to live there. I filled out three applications because I kept thinking this possible Best Place to Live could be snatched up tomorrow and then I would be left with nothing but the stabbed-pizza-boy unit and then I would die.

After all is said and done, I did find a space I like very much and will officially occupy on May 16th. But I spent $105 on unnecessary application fees and partial security deposits. Seventy-five of that is refundable, but I'll have to wait four to six weeks to get it back.

Apartment hunting. Easy it is not, my friends. Easy it is not.

Nothing Says Classy Like Perfume From a Stall

What a weekend! From Friday through Sunday I had something exciting to do, including occupying a restroom that featured one of the oddest contraptions I've ever seen:

I suppose if you're on a date and realize you forgot to swipe yourself with deodarent, such machines are a woman's best friend. Or maybe you could just keep a trial size of Secret in your purse? Whatever.

Anyway, exciting weekend. On Friday I took the day off and observed the highs and lows of kindergarten life in Samantha's classroom. I played sight words bingo, watched Alice in Wonderland, and sat at a desk no higher than my kneecaps. Children laughed and cried, Samantha laughed and yelled, and I was wishing I'd brought a notebook so that I could record all of the priceless gems thrown around and share them with the rest of you. But I didn't, so I can't, although I do remember the song the school counselor (an 80-year-old nun with an English accent and no understanding of childhood development) taught the kiddies as part of her weekly feelings lesson.

(To be sung to the tune of London Bridge Is Falling Down)

I am precious, so are you
So are you
So are you
I am precious, so are you
We're all precious

Since then, I've seriously been toying around with the idea of teaching. It's always been intriguing, but I've never thought I was a good enough public speaker, smart enough adult, or patient enough person to handle it. Has any of that changed? No. But I'm definitely more willing to learn. And if I continued to work for my current college, I could move through their "Transition to Teaching" program for free. Of course I'm getting all of these ideas two and a half months before I graduate with what could have been my final degree. Maybe I'm just afraid to be away from school? Or maybe I'm sick of dealing with pointless meetings and grown-up politics and want to read picture books aloud to five-year-olds all the livelong day. We'll see. In the meantime, I've just finished up my winter class and have a few weeks of "recess" until April, when my Saturday editing class in Naperville starts. I may spend that whole time doing laundry, as the pile is almost taller than me.

Anyway, exciting weekend. Saturday I marched in Chicago's St. Patrick's Day Parade (I'll save those pictures for this Thursday) and Sunday Luke and I visited his brother's family in Indianapolis, home to his new niece, who is so adorable she brings tears to my eyes and baby pangs to my heart and makes me want to abandon the idea of higher education altogether and make babies for the rest of my life. She's THAT CUTE.

A New Beginning

Well, it's official. GMAC is "totalling" my car. Even though that's what I was hoping for - the idea of driving my Cavalier again after all of this was pretty scary - it still brought tears. I didn't even get to say good-bye. I really thought I'd get it back. And the only pictures I have of my first new baby are the ones I took to document the damage. But oh, well. You live, you learn. Good news: the pay-out amount should completely cover what's left of my car loan, so I can really start from scratch with something new. I'm allowing myself to get excited and surf the Net to see what I like. (I could always get another Cavalier, but what fun would that be?) My goal is to have something by the end of next week. I'm currently driving my office's car, and while my boss's generosity has been wonderful, it feels weird to be driving something that's not mine. Plus, the disc player is broken and I want to listen to my new Kelly Clarkson CD.

Some choices I'm debating:

Pontiac Vibe - Roomier than my Cavalier and not much more expensive
Chevy Malibu - Chevy's been good to me, and there's a dealer right in town
Volkswagen Jetta - I've always thought these were cool, but they could be out of my price range

I want something that's safe, gets good gas mileage, and is comfortable for my passengers. Any ideas?

I Can Predict the Future

...because, apparently, I truly am The Accidental Student. See?

It happened on Wednesday morning, on my way back from Chicago, where I'd gone to a FUNERAL SERVICE the day before. (Of course, right?) It was my fault: I was driving too fast on slippery I-65 and drove straight into the side of a semi. Thankfully, nobody was seriously hurt - only minor aches and pains on my end - but man, that was one of the scariest moments of my life. I remember the car spinning and me holding onto the wheel and hearing the windshield crack and the air bags go off and there was nothing I could do. Thank God for seatbelts. Thank God I was alone. Thank God it was a semi and not an SUV full of babies. It makes me sick to think about the damage I could have done.

But I can't beat myself up anymore. Now, it's time for the aftermath. Insurance claims, doctor bills, scraping up money to pay a $500 deductible on a policy now certain to skyrocket, worrying that the first major purchase of my life isn't fixable - my head is still spinning. Still, I know I'm lucky.

Since then, though, there's been better news. Luke's brother and sister-in-law had their baby on Thursday at 10:39 a.m., weighing in at a super-healthy 10 pounds and 8 oz(!). The two of us and his parents made a trip to Indianapolis yesterday to see how the new family's faring. I was a little uncertain that I belonged there in that room - after all, Luke and I are not married, and Patty was really worn out from her Caesarean, so they weren't encouraging too many visitors. But it was great, really great; I even got to hold her! She was so beautiful, so small. I cried. I couldn't help it. It made me want a baby more than ever. But after hearing about what Matt and Patty went through, it also made me think that I can wait a LITTLE longer to be a mom. In the meantime, I'll focus on being the best pseudo-aunt I can.

There are lovely pictures of Luke's niece ready for the posting, but I refuse to add her image to an entry already blemished with car troubles.

Shame on Maury Povich

Here it is, Christmas Eve, and I'm in a wonderful mood. My bathroom is completely done, I'm just about finished wrapping my presents, and A Very Brady Christmas has just reached its usual sugary-satisfying conclusion. While the tape's rewinding, I decide to flip through the channels, see if anything festive is on to celebrate this blessed holiday. I turn to WGN and The Maury Povich Show. Today's topic? "My Fear of Mice and Mustard is Ruining My Life!" - helping individuals overcome irrational phobias. One woman has been afraid of mustard since she was seven years old; even seeing pictures of it slathered on a hot dog sends her into hysterics. So what does generous Maury do to help ease her fears? Brings out a big ole plate o' mustard that sends her screaming into the next room. "I can still smell it!" she screams, sans dignity, as Maury goes to fetch her. Another woman had an unnerving experience when a goldfish touched her leg as a child, and she's not been the same since. What does Maury do? Proceeds to bring in a large bowl of energetic little fishies. It is not a pretty sight on set. Other fears include peaches and frogs.

So caring. So understanding. A true showcase of all the best the world has to offer, on both sides of the microphone.

Merry Christmas, everyone!