What are you looking at?

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other

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

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

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

Which is exactly why I wet my pants.

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

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

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

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

In Which I Post Strictly For NaBloPoMo Purposes

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

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

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

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

Happy downloading!

Be Not Afraid

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

And The Weekend Comes Full Circle

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

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

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

 

Tragic Love Friday

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

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

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

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

-------

Love, Betrayal, and a Baby

PART I

CHAPTER ONE - JENNA

"Yeah! Alright! PARTY!!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sighed happily as Michael and I drove off.

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

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

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

"She still won’t talk to you?"

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

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

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

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

I smiled. "Yes."

"Would you change anything if you could?"

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

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

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

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

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

My own child.

-------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weight Loss Wednesday

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

Let's get down to business.

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

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

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

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

"134."

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

"135."

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Frema's Gym Shoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess size really does matter.

For more soleful goodness, see parts one and two.

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"You know...."

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

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

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

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

Romantic Comedy My Ass

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

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

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

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

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

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

But at a pretty steep price.

But the very next day, you gave it away.

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

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

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

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

"My condolences to your childhood."

Lionel Would Be So Proud

It is no secret that I love Cheesy Pop. Especially Cheesy Love Pop. There's something magical about the lyrical rehashing of separations, romance, and general spiritual demise that touches even the grinchiest Grinch, whether it's Whitney Houston saving all her love for a married man, Eric Carmen losing control in his girlfriend's convertible, or Celine Dion convincing herself Jack's untimely death in the middle of the ocean (because Rose was too self-absorbed to scoot her @$$ over a few inches and GIVE HIM A CHANCE AT LIFE, YOU LAZY BITCH) doesn't provide sufficient grounds for her heart not to go on. At twelve years old, a.k.a. the height of my parents' anti-rap campaign, I sought refuge from the trials and tribulations of middle-school hell by falling asleep to mixed tapes of my favorite ballads, providing a soundtrack to the tears I shed over Randy Wooten never liking me in "that" way. Five years, four crushes, and one boyfriend later (who wasn't, unfortunately, Randy Wooten), my collection had grown from one to four.

Last spring, Sarah of Misanthropic-Tendencies decided that bloggers around the world needed to come together and share the music that saw them through their high school years, and really, don't we owe it to Cheesy Love Pop to do the same?

I think we do.

So, without further adieu, Dawnie and I proudly present the

Internet Swap.

Are you psyched? Because we are SO PSYCHED.

Here's the low-down:

Anybody residing in the United States or Canada is welcome to participate. And I hope you do. Not only does this swap allow you to make public your unexplainable attraction to Phil Collins's groovy kind of love, it also provides a way to make new friends and advertise your own blog (though it's not required that you have one to join in the fun). All you have to do is send an e-mail to me with your name and mailing address by Friday, November 17, to reserve your place. All participants will be randomly matched into groups of four, which means you'll be committing yourself to burning CDs for three other people. (To make sure everyone's playing nice and mailing their CDs on time, either Dawn or myself will be one of your three.) Assignments will be distributed that following Monday. All CDs should be mailed on Friday, December 1.

Your CD package should include the CD (duh), which should be protected in some kind of plastic disc case or sleeve, and either a list of the songs or a URL where the list can be found. I did both.

Please include at least sixty minutes' worth of music. To quote Sarah, "Don't be stingy."

Please don't sign up if you can't follow through. The process will involve selecting your songs, buying some CDs from Target or wherever, burning the song list three times, and surrendering six or seven dollars to the post office for mailing. Not a big deal by any means, and I had an absolute blast doing it for Sarah's swap, but Dawn and I were both shortchanged one CD from one of our group members. That sucks. Don't be a party-pooper.

Spread the word! The Lionel button in my sidebar will link back to this post until November 17 so potential Cheesers have easy access to the swap guidelines. Whether you sign up or not, feel free to add it to your own blog with a little linky-link back here so others can get in on the Cheesy Love Song action. (Just be sure to save it to your desktop first. Something about bandwidth?)

Once the CDs are mailed and the song lists have been shared with the masses, maybe we can vote on the Cheesiest Love Song as a fun way to give the whole thing some closure.

What are you waiting for? Lionel's waiting for your iTunes download today!

This Is Strictly Hypothetical, Of Course

Does polishing off a bag of Rold Gold pretzel rods in two days count as an inappropriate serving size? A...um...friend wants to know.

Stay tuned tomorrow for a post consisting of more than two sentences and a topic other than my fat @$$. And it's a good one. I promise.

Weight! Loss! Wednesday!

When read with the exclamation points, it sounds just like the opening shout-out for Wheel of Fortune, doesn't it? Which is good, because I like Wheel of Fortune, and I want to learn to love Weight Loss Wednesday, a day that'll inspire healthy eating and fitness habits all the live-long week.

Since this is my first post, there are a number of topics that need my attention. But first things first.

CURRENT WEIGHT: 139

For the first time since I left my parents' house for greener, more independent pastures, there is a scale in my bathroom. I went to Super Target last night and grabbed one for six dollars, and I did it all for you, dear Internet, because I despise the idea of having a scale in my bathroom. I don't want to become one of Those People who weighs herself every time she sits on the toilet, or after every meal, or before she breaks the container of Edy's calling to her from the freezer. (I wasn't kidding about the raspberry sherbet.) However, in order to accurately track my progress, I need to utilize some sort of pound detecter, and since I don't know how to use the doctor's-style one in the locker room at the Y, the decision was practically made for me.

Anyway, 139. Seeing as I'm normally one pound heavier, not a bad weight to start out with. According to my (admittedly older) Weight Watchers materials, adults with my height (5'2") between the ages of 25 and 45 should fall somewhere between 125 and 131 pounds. The maximum weight is 136. Last time, I got as low as 122, but that lasted for all of one week, so my goal will be a more realistic number of...

(Drum roll, please)

125. A collective loss of fourteen pounds. That would very much rock the house.

GYM PLAN

I have to admit, when I decided to implement a gym routine into my pre-work morning, there were a lot of things I didn't take into account. Like missing both of Pam the Vietnam Vet Instructor's step-aerobics classes, or dealing with a husband who isn't always in love with leaving the house at ten after five. What happens if one day he just doesn't want to go? The idea of walking to and from my car alone that early in the morning, when it's still dark outside, freaks me out more than a little bit. I also never considered how often I wanted to go in the first place. So, now there's an updated but still very cool plan, one that goes a little somethin' like this:

Monday: morning work-out; treadmill, strength-training
Tuesday: afternoon work-out; step class
Wednesday: free day (which I happen to be implementing today! Coincidence?)
Thursday: morning work-out; treadmill, strength-training
Friday: morning work-out; treadmill
Saturday/Sunday: optional

I went to the gym five days last month and now I'm aiming for four days a week. I'm nothing if not ambitious. However, it's working out splendidly so far; I've already followed it to the letter. Luke wasn't feeling well yesterday, so he skipped exercising altogether while I went to Pam's class after work. This morning we unanimously agreed on sleeping in, although I still jumped out of bed at six to begin this entry. I was a tad worn out from yesterday's work-out, anyway, so running back to the gym after a ten-hour break didn't sound the like the most loving thing to do to my body.

FOOD 'TUDE

Despite Lost A Sock's amazing progress and my own successful track record, I just don't have it in me to do the point-counting thing. That's not to say I won't keep an eye on what I eat. Just today I was on my own for lunch, and instead of running to Chi-Town Dogs and Beef for a hamburger and fries, I opted for the Jared-approved Subway, where I devoured a deli-sized roast beef and a bottle of orange juice. One thing I will have to commit to is water consumption. I've never been a particularly thirty person, so it's not unusual for me to go the entire course of the work day without ingesting a single liquid. I know water intake can be critical to weight loss, though, so my goal is to down the recommended 32 ounces a day and pray I don't wet myself when running to the bathroom every eight minutes.

Also, as a way to goad me into making healthier choices, I vow to record every "bad" food I eat on this blog, including but not limited to inappropriate serving sizes, Steak 'N Shake milkshakes, candy, fried chicken, cookies, etc., the logic being that I'll eventually embarrass myself into subscribing to a cholesterol-friendly diet. That being said, if I'm doing well, I will not vow to avoid them altogether.

As a visual motivator (and also part of the embarrassment-submission psychology), I've decided to post a picture on the first WLW of each month.

Please don't laugh. My fat rolls are doing that already.

The Road Less Traveled Just Might Lead To Frema

Before NaBloPoMo, one of the reasons I didn't post very often was for fear that the proposed entry's topic wouldn't be substantial enough to justify my absence. In my mind, every day I went without posting was another paragraph's worth of content I owed to my wee readership; then, suddenly, a whole week had gone by, and I still didn't have anything pretty to show for my hiatus, but I would force myself to post about something, anything, so that you all wouldn't think I'd gone and died from Baby Envy disease.

It's only day seven of my month-long posting marathon and I'm already worried that I'm boring you. I mean, the last really juicy post I had was on Friday, and since then I've given you a few sentences about Internet love and the status on my weight condition. Surely you deserve better than that?

Yes, you do. But today is not the day for making it up to you.

Instead, I'm going to steal Beth's idea and ask how in the world you stumbled across this blog. When answering in the comments section, I was surprised to realize I remembered EXACTLY how I found her. It all started in 2004, months after I had completed an autobiography class for my graduate degree, and I was surfing the Web to find blogs I could relate to on a personal level. I came across Blogger and its handy dandy, will-probably-score-you-a-virus "Random Blog" feature, and after an hour of incessant clicking, found The New Jan Brady, where this post knocked my socks off. It wasn't long before Jan posted about a new site she was writing for, a site where she and a couple of friends would snark on pictures of batshit-crazy celebrities, which I also visited, and which is also how I found Amalah. I followed her on and off for a month or two until this post earned her a permanent spot on my blogroll.

After reading through all of Amalah's archives, I was still bored at work, still hungry for more of The Funny, so I rummaged through her recommended links and found Rockstar Mommy. Then I perused her blogroll, found a link to So The Fish Said, thought, "Hey, that's a weird title," clicked, and the rest is history.

Your story doesn't have to be as detailed (mine sure wasn't on Beth's blog), but if you could play along and explain how you found me, I will eat a bowl of raspberry sherbet in your honor.

Thanks.

Because Stepping On The Scale Isn't Embarrassing Enough

You people will be delighted to learn that Luke and I were pounding on the treadmills at the Y by five-thirty this morning, thank you very much. The alarm went off at five, as expected, and I did hit the "Snooze" button, as expected, but I was up and in the shower when it rang nine minutes later, so I'm still calling it a success.

Lizzie of Margarita Madness holds Weight Loss Wednesdays at her domain, and in keeping with my new quest to hold myself accountable for poor health choices, I've asked for and received permission to do the same here. This means you'll be treated with updates regarding the current tonnage attached to my @$$, a full gym report, and my thoughts on both. Judy, my Internet Exercise Buddy, is on board to do the same, as we are committed to holding each other accountable for achieving our fitness goals, which at this point seem to be simply placing ourselves in the vicinity of aerobics classes and strength-training equipment three to four times a week.

I'm very excited about this new feature, partly because I've been wanting to post a regular feature on this site forever, just like Amalah's Wednesday Advice Smackdown, Isabel's King Fridays, and Luke's old "Are You Gonna Eat That?" column. It's not original on my part by any means, but it's something.

In other news, today I saw the very hairy buttcrack of a man installing walls for a new office at work. You're jealous, I know.

Motivation

This picture was taken in the fall of 2003, at the height of my first round with Weight Watchers and in my second year of grad school. Notice the thinner face? Smaller boobs? Longer hair? I want it back, dammit: the size eight jeans, B-cup bra, every single bit of it. (Except the bangs. Luke asks me to let them go, for the sake of all that is good and holy.) I realize the gym can only do so much, but I'm optimistic nonetheless.

This picture is tacked to my refrigerator as an ode to healthier days. I can do this. I've done it before. I can lose this weight.

My alarm is set for five o'clock in the morning to begin day one of my new fitness regimen. I'm hitting "Snooze" already.

Whew!

You have no idea how happy I am to be writing this post. Luke and I are in Lexington, Kentucky, this weekend, visiting friends, and for the last three days I've been stressing about my ability to post away from home. Not that I don't do that on a regular basis already, but it's usually when we're staying with Luke's parents or my sister; I've never posted at a friend's before, so I was a little afraid to ask, not to mention I imagined horrible scenarios where Tom and Justine's Internet connection would be down or their electricity would go out before I had a chance to publish my required entry for the day and my time would be over before I really had a chance to begin. Luckily, the power is working just fine, and Tom and Justine own three computers, so my fears were ill-founded.

Even though NaBloPoMo just started on Wednesday, I'm already patting myself on the back, because for the first time in my blogging history, I posted every day of the work week. I'm happy with the entries and even happier with the number of comments. Thank you so much for supporting me through this! I'm having a ton of fun so far, and Mrs. Kennedy's vision is gradually starting to take hold; writing is slowly becoming an integral part of my day, and knowing I have to post has forced me to concentrate, allowed the words to come quicker, trumped the inner voice inside my head that discourages me from hitting the "Publish" button because my ideas aren't good enough yet.

This week alone has made the whole month worthwhile.

If Only Chandler Bing Were As Smart As Me

Remember that episode of Friends where Chandler laments having a gym membership he never uses? And he tries to quit but is persuaded by some chesty trainer to give it another go? And Joey tries to help Chandler stick to his guns but ends up registering for a membership of his own?

Yeah. The YMCA may not employ booby women, and I don't have a friend named Joey, but I do have a gym membership collecting dust as we speak.

When Luke and I jumped on the fitness bandwagon in July, never had I been more excited about commiting to a monthly sixty-nine-dollar payment. I outlined a four-day regimen that involved strength-training, brisk walks on the treadmill, and one or two step classes taught by a fifty-three-year-old Vietnam Vet who's entire fat index is probably equal to the flab parked in my left buttock. I enjoyed exercising; I'd go right after work and it raised my energy level for the rest of the night. It encouraged me to monitor my food intake and buy cute little ankle socks at Target. High off the fumes of athleticism, I estimated the extra pounds plaguing my mid-section would melt away by fall, bidding a fond farewell along with seventy-degree weather, campfires, and snow cones.

But soon there were problems. Exercising at the Y means sweating at the Y, and by the time I reached home my armpits were emitting a distinct odor not unlike a banana peel that's been sitting in the trash for two days. Luke would say, "Why don't you shower?" So I would shower, but then I was faced with the chore of styling my hair, which requires about twenty minutes of wrapping one-inch sections around my index finger, furious scrunching, and blow-drying with a diffuser. The first time I did it, I thought, "Great! One less thing to do in the morning!" But then I'd wake up to find the left side matted to my ear in a such a way that no amount of fluffing or spritzing or any other -ings could overcome.

This might seem trivial, but it presented a huge problem for me. The only person excited about styling my hair for forty minutes is my stylist, and that's only because I tip thirty percent. So, my options were to a) shower without washing my hair, b) shower, wash hair, allow hair to air dry, and shower and style for real in the morning, thus allowing me to eliminate the stink with little extra effort, or c) not shower at all, light a candle, and hope for the best. None of these solutions were particularly appealing, seeing as the first still left me with sweaty hair, the second put a damper (quite literally) on any activities that required leaving the house, and the third stuck Luke with a smelly wife.

Other excuses to avoid the gym included not wanting to revolve all our week nights around going to and recovering from the gym and my intense digust at the notion of primping for an hour and a half every day just to undo it all before Luke had a chance to fully appreciate my hotness. Yesterday I felt like quite the sass in my New York and Company outfit, complete with f-me boots, and the thought of greeting him after work in a bare face and cross-trainers made me want to cry. The things I do for the sake of my marriage.

There are thirty-one days in October, and I spent maybe five of them at the gym. It was getting to the point where I started to question whether or not it made sense to throw in the towel and give up on the Y altogether. Luke and I are not rich by any means, and we can't afford to throw away almost a hundred dollars a month for a service we're not using. On the other hand, once I get myself there, I love the Y passionately and vow to decimate anybody who even hints that we're no longer meant to be. There's also that pesky thorn in my side called high cholesterol I can't ignore any longer. It's not bad right now, but if it continues to climb, I'll have to take medication, and if I take medication, I can't get pregnant. Which is kind of critical to Luke and I having a baby.

Anyway, to make a long story a tad shorter, Luke and I talked it over last night, and we've decided the best way to overcome all these issues is to hit the gym before we hit the office, which will sadly involve adhering to a strict bed time and calling it quits with the alarm clock's snooze button, but it'll allow us to maintain our health and control our water supply in one fell swoop. Monday will mark the first day of our latest attempt at an active and healthy lifestyle. Wish us luck.

Sharing The Secrets Of The Online Sisterhood

For the first time since I began working for the lab last June, I've been invited out to lunch with a coworker, our quality assurance director, one of the guys who accompanied me to the chemistry conference I attended in Chicago over the summer. He's a very nice guy, someone with whom I've since held interesting talks about Indy's real estate market, office gossip, and the conundrums of everyday life. This is very exciting, because while there are several coworkers I interact with on a daily basis, none of them have attempted to engage a relationship with me outside the confines of the company break room. I'm not sure where we'll go, or if he'll attempt to pay, or if we'll have the ability to maintain a conversation for sixty minutes, but I'm thankful for the opportunity to try.

As I contemplate the possibility of becoming friends with someone who shares my place of employment, I also wonder about this blog; mainly, whether or not this person can ever be trusted to know about it, and if so, when? It's like I'm a single mother who can't decide if telling a potential suitor about the two children I have parked in front of the TV at the babysitter's house while I'm on the prowl for a bit o' nookie. Will he use this information to advance his own sinister agenda? Inform his QA buddies I'm only in it for the blog content? Send an anonymous e-mail to my boss warning him to keep an eye on the communications girl, who parked her car directly behind the window to his office last week and subsequently discovered his fancy for online solitaire, a fancy she almost exposed on the World Wide Web?

(A fancy she just exposed on the World Wide Web?)

When I worked at the college, this wasn't an issue. I was so new to the blogging world that I saw no reason to hide this link from my buddies in institutional advancement. That was before I learned about the possibility of getting dooced; now, only one person here knows about my alter ego, and that's only because she was a student at Saint Joe who interned for my office.

At point can you consider a coworker a friend? And when should that friend be privy to the fact that you post more than press releases and test announcements on the Internet?

A Domain By Any Other Name...

Well, the name. my. BLOG! contest is officially over, and now I'm left with the momentous task of selecting a winner, eventually dumping Blogger, and moving on with the rest of my online life. It was so awesome of you guys to step up to the plate; put your best foot forward; give it the old college try (insert additional cheesy phrases here) on an issue that has turned out to be a very big deal for me. I wish I could present each and every one of you with a Sweet Valley High book for all your efforts, but as it is I've wiped out Half-Priced Books's entire library and you'll have to deplete my current collection by ripping each volume from my cold, dead hands. But you really are the best.

Here are the suggestions I've received since last Sunday:

www.fremaeatscheese.com
www.FREMMMMMMMAAAAAAA.com
www.fremadonna.com
www.fremafremafrema.com
www.fremagonewild.com
www.fremasworld.com
www.fremawashere.com
www.fremayomama.com
www.heyyou.com
www.iamfrema.com
www.iamfremaandyouarenot.com
www.iamfremahearmeroar.com
www.lookingatfrema.com
www.lookingatme.com
www.lookingforward.net
www.lookylooky.com
www.passthedip.com
www.primafrema.com
www.thelegendoffrema.com
www.willworkforspinachdip.com

(Note: This list is not comprehensive. Domain names already registered were not included.)

Not bad, eh? There are several I really like, several that seem to reflect the persona I try to consistently portray on this blog, which I attempted to outline here a while back:

Part of the reason I love "What're you lookin' at?" so much is the attitude it conveys, one of curiosity and defensiveness, skepticism and embarrassment. One that, under the surface, seems to say, "I want to know what you're lookin' at because I wish you were looking at me." I can think of no better way to encapsulate my awkward, B-list, Internet self.

I'm going to seriously consider each domain name in comparison to the above paragraph--my vision statement, if you will--to see which one best fits the bill. Or maybe I'll write each one on an index card, lay them out on the carpet Memory-style, close my eyes, and point.

If that fails, there's always www.fremaandkiefersittinginatree.com.