New To It

Crossfit

2012-02-09T18:56:00.000-05:00

In my wanderings around the internet, wherein I was trying to find a local place that teaches Krav Maga, I found this list on Gawker. You'll note that Crossfit is #8 in the list of working rankings. It reminded me of a time I went to a Crossfit introductory class with Cita.

Cita is in fantastic shape, and is a certified fitness instructor. Pre-baby thoughts, pre-baby pregnancy, and not too long after the arrival of the baby, Cita teaches classes in how to kick ass. As in your own flabby one. I do not attend her classes, but should, as my flabby behind is the source of my own self-derision.

So I joined her in an hour or so of this class, taught by her good friends who do everything I don't do - eat well, work out, care about their bodies as the machines of awesome that they can be. I felt a little bit like a freak being there, as the others who were trying the class were also clearly more concerned about their health that I am. But I went.

And had my ass roundly handed to me throughout the experience. It got so I wouldn't even try the jump-on-a-board exercise. I do not jump. I routinely question the need for curbs so I don't have to raise my knees. This being said, I did manage to defeat Cita in a rowing test. People, I can row. I have alarming upper body strength, which comes from carrying six or seven grocery bags, full of two-liter bottles, into my place. For almost eight years now.

So there's that.

When Sorry Isn't Enough

2012-02-03T13:14:00.000-05:00

I'm trying, you guys. I'm trying to build again. I'm trying to remember to focus on work and to bring some interesting stories home, to be supportive, to listen, to try to remember the advice I often give others: That it's rarely about you, it's about the other person when there's unsettledness about.

But last night I found out, after doing some Inquisition-style questioning, that GPOM's been lying to me. Lying. I hate lying. And not about important things, but about small, dumb things, like where he's been eating lunch. He's been coming home and telling me about the Subway(c) sandwiches he's eaten, how he's not having cheese on them because he's watching his weight but how he just couldn't resist a meatball sub one day, about the multi-generational owners and the chit-chat they share now that he's a regular at that restaurant.

But there's one small problem: I can see all the bank accounts, and I know he's been living off of Taco Bell and Chick-Fil-A. And I don't care, you guys, I really don't. My only concern is that eating out every day gets expensive fast, and we're trying to live on a rather tight budget for a while (car insurance is due this month, on two cars). But why lie about where you're eating? Why tell me lies about conversations that never happened?

Last night he said he went out for post-work cocktails with coworkers, but he didn't tell me because he didn't want me to be mad. Why would I be mad about drinks with friends? I asked him if he ever intended to tell me, and he said no.

I don't know. I wish I understood why he feels the need to lie. Am I that scary; have I been that overbearing?

Trying Again

2012-01-24T14:28:00.000-05:00

I asked him to come home last night via text, and he said he was already settled and we really did need the break. He called a while ago and I asked him to just come home tonight, don't stay somewhere else. I don't think we can talk through what's going on with us with the distance between us.

He knows that he has to re-earn my respect and trust. I know that I have to fairly give him the opportunity to do so. We're going to try some reflective listening, where one person speaks and the other person answers back what the second party heard the first party say. We're also going to try "I" statements instead of hyperbolic blame statements.

I'm mostly to blame for those "You always" statements.

We'd love to get some couples counseling but we're not in a place where we can afford it right now. There's too many real-life problems that need tackling first. Maybe with insurance, assuming his job works out, we can get some help. In the meantime, we're going to look for some good self-help for couples books and give them a try. If you've got a recommendation, I'd love to know about it.

How long before my stomach unknots, do you think?

He's Gone

2012-01-23T20:18:00.000-05:00

After a long weekend, that seemed perfect in its perfection on Friday night, things fell apart. And more apart. And so apart that I considered intervention. Then kindness. Then the realization that my kindness toward another did nothing for the fact that I hadn't done anything wrong.

So tonight I told him to leave. He tried to tell me that he couldn't talk to me, but I couldn't listen. Because I knew. I knew we needed a break. I knew that I didn't want to tuck someone else into bed. I knew that just because it was my thought didn't mean it was wrong.

I don't know where he is tonight. He asked if he could call me over his lunch break tomorrow, and I said, "Sure."

"Sure" is his least favorite answer from me, but it was all I could give.

We hugged. We cried. I hate seeing his face when he cries, but I have to take care of me.

I don't know what will happen. I love him, but I know love isn't enough.

How To Lose Custody

2012-01-21T17:40:00.000-05:00

Since I happen to do a lot of family law work, and because my sister is an experienced family law attorney in California, she and I have had occasion to discuss the things that parents do that can really hurt their chances to either get awarded or lose custody of their children.

My sister tells me of a person who had custody of a daughter, and the battle to keep custody was quite hot. Facebook got involved, as it often does...

ASIDE: IF YOU USE SOCIAL NETWORKING, STFU ABOUT YOUR CASE, OFFSPRING, OR OPPOSING PARTY. IF YOU CAN'T STOP YOURSELF, DISABLE YOUR PROFILE.

This parent was to most a good parent, loving, kind, set appropriate boundaries, all the good stuff, but there was a fatal flaw. This parent thought it was really funny to dress the daughter up in outfits and costumes, complete with accessories, take pictures of her, and post these photos to Facebook. This parent, after a game of dress-up including "gangster attire" and an unloaded gun, no longer has custody of the child.

I'm posting the picture below as an example - this photo has nothing to do with the above case, but it was on my Facebook newsfeed. Parents, be wise about these things. Once it's on the internet, it can never be erased.

It doesn't matter if the gun is a prop, or fake, or unloaded, or even tin foil wrapped up to look like a weapon. Be smart. Don't do this.

Tears For A Stranger

2012-01-17T15:37:00.000-05:00

I am an admitted fan of Heather Armstrong, and have been for years now. Years? How did that happen? But it did, because in her writing I found an online kindred soul, someone around my age, someone who has a similar background, and someone substantially stronger than I.

You guys know how careful I am on the internet. If you read dooce, you know how careful she is not. I consider that very, very brave.

I've read her site with dedication for years, bought and devoured her books, told my friends about her site, and copied her writing style more than I like to admit. I pretend it's inspiration, and it is, but there are times I've directly taken from her. I'm not proud of that, but it's done, and unerasable on the internet.

I know of which she speaks when she talks about the depression, the overpowering Why? of everything, the desire to just call it a day. It's not a selfish act in that moment, it's not meant to hurt others, it's meant to save myself. But as she's pulled herself out, I've pulled myself out, at different times and in different manners.

I've envied her life, her sense of humor, her ability to create an empire of sorts, one that can financially protect her family. When I read of the stress it causes her to be the sole breadwinner, I understood that pressure. I know what it feels like to see that infinite crack and KNOW in that minute that everything will, in fact, fall apart, and that moment is seconds, minutes, twenty-four hours from now.

So when I read her post today, it made me cry. I know that I, a stranger, can do nothing to help her through her life right now. But the tears come anyway, as they seem to do so easily now, and all I want to do is hug GPOM and hope like hell for a future that cannot be predicted or controlled or some days, even managed.

Yes, yes, it all works out in the end. But all those letters, thoughts, words, fears, panics, smiles, uncontrolled giggles, and hugs that form the underlying 'it' take forever.

Twisted Mind

2012-01-12T17:45:00.000-05:00

I might as well tell you, me in a really good mood is a dangerous person to be around. I spent some time today reading this and then I had to tell GPOM that I'm amazed at the different ways to curse in different languages.

May you see your house on CNN!

I really hope that somewhere out there, someone in a different country is reading his version of cracked.com and learning about American curses and being thoroughly taken aback at the ways we all talk to each other.

Also, I told GPOM that I had Propellerheads stuck in my head, and it was Dawn's fault. I then said that she got sweet release and I got an earworm.

I Am A Dope

2012-01-10T17:52:00.000-05:00

So here I am, five days later, working on my restored laptop. Last Thursday, I was doing about forty things at once, including updating my antivirus software. I kept getting error messages that said that the updates couldn't complete because of my internet connectivity...

Thanks, Comcast! YOU ROCK!!

when I got an update that said that because my updates couldn't finish, I needed to download a special web-based scanner to make sure there was nothing naughty on my machine. Turns out that the only naughtiness on my machine was the web-based scanner, which, after reboot, disabled both the touchpad on my laptop and the USB wireless mouse that GPOM got me for Christmas.

Lovely.

I took the machine to Gigaparts and the technician told me, eighteen hours later, that he couldn't get a USB wireless mouse to work on my laptop.

Really? Eighteen hours later you notice that the problem for which I turned over my laptop was a problem? Gosh, thanks.

That general crankiness aside on a Friday night, I suffered through the indignity of no internet for three more days. I now offer many thanks to the technician at Gigaparts, because my computer seems faster and much happier. However, I am now about five hundred dollars lighter after paying for repairs and a product key for Microsoft Office.

Thanks bunches, Best Buy, for making me buy a new product key.

Lessons learned:
1. Don't trust a pop-up antivirus scanner, even if it LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE one you'd get from the manufacturers from whom you already get updates.
2. When your significant other is as internet/computer addicted as you, please share the joy. Otherwise, you might get a glare and a potentially passive-aggressive comment.
3. Thank the people who help you repair the problem.

Yes, I Shop

2012-01-03T23:49:00.000-05:00

Last night, indulging my insomnia (like I have a choice), I wandered around the channels.

Aside: I sleep with the TV on. I know, apparently that messes with my ability to fully fall asleep which creates the vicious insomnia. You know what else keeps me awake at night? The thoughts in my head.

Aside: I totally get the defensiveness there.

I happened to run across Henry Rollins on C-SPAN, doing a slideshow of pictures he's taken on his global journeys, and his delicious self discussing his thoughts and activities while taking the photos. I knew I had to get up in the morning, but I couldn't resist watching the entire two-hour show, just to listen and see what Hank's got going on. I even heard GPOM awake, wandering, and asked him to join me, but he decided that sleep was more important than Rollins.

How will I ever marry this man?

So this morning I got up to look up Henry's new book, called Occupants, and I ordered a copy. To which I must thank JMT and the very generous Christmas gift he gave me. I'm so looking forward to getting the book, because Rollins included both his truth and his thoughts in the captions.

I also bought The Lover's Dictionary. Check it out; it might be interesting to you.

Most importantly, I got tickets to Rollins' next tour in Birmingham. I cannot wait.

Random Memory

2012-01-02T19:40:00.000-05:00

Over a decade ago, I was engaged to a perfectly lovely young man who lived in England. As this was the late nineties, dial-up was the usual means to connect to the internet, unless you were rich or at work. Also, the time difference was a bit of a bear, so after work I would come home and block the phone line for at least a couple of hours during prime phone time.

You can imagine how pleased Momma was to have her phone busy every night until eight or so.

But we would chat using IM, and I would play solitaire while chatting because the connection was slow and because I can barely stand to do only one thing at once. One evening, the young man asked me what I was doing and I told him about my card game. He was angry that I was doing anything other than devoting my time to him.

I don't know why I just remembered this.

If Wishes Were Boar's Hair Hairbrushes

2011-12-29T17:06:00.000-05:00

So I awoke yesterday with a blistering head cold and though I know we're not supposed to bitch about minor illnesses, I'm going to do it anyway. Because there is nothing more annoying than a head cold. It doesn't hurt, doesn't cause a fever, doesn't do anything but slow me down in the rat race and speed up my sinus reactions.

I now own a new box of Puffs with Lotion. They're not nearly as quality as they were a few years ago. So in case you've been fortunate enough to not be the bearer of post-nasal drip for a few years, save your money. Or invest in something more awesome from the facial tissue industry and then let me know what you got.

Oh, and about the bitching: I don't complain very much about bigger injuries or illnesses. I harp on the small stuff. Damn. Put that on my headstone.

I went to lunch today with Date's sister, and we talked about law and children and sinuses. She's the ultimate person to hang with when you have a head cold because she has a two-year-old and apparently can no longer be grossed out. Yes, I do consider that a challenge. But she mentioned that Date's wife has a wish list on Amazon and suggested I check it out when I got home. So I did, and it's an interesting read, albeit not interesting enough to discuss. What's more interesting is that I've spent the last few hours creating my own wish list. For the time being, it's private, but I can tell you that it includes both a Wii, a Dance Party game, a boar's hair brush, and a new TV. Oh, and red-depositing shampoo.

Here's what's stuck in my head:

One Well-Timed Taco

2011-12-24T18:03:00.000-05:00

I woke up in a funk this morning. It was a special funk, the kind that gets outside of me and yells, "You suck! Everyone you care about sucks! Christmas can't be over soon enough; in fact, why don't you go take down the tree now?"

Inner cranky me is such a Grinch.

So I dragged myself out of bed after watching, at the same time, the THS - Timbaland and My Cousin Vinny, got ready, and headed out for the shops.

Aside one: I'm trying a new look with red lipstick and winged black eyeshadow. In the daytime. I know, scandalous.
Aside two: Shopping on Christmas Eve is extra-Grinchy.

But the shopping helped, and the voice from the gas pump at Kroger turned out to be a real man who waved at me when I finally realized it was a person and not a recording, plus he looked like a hat-less Santa. Add to that a pre-meal snack from Taco Bell (first, not fourth, meal) and my mood has improved quite a bit.

Merry Christmas. Remember, as always, not to kill your family as I do not practice criminal law.

One-year anniversary of official engagement!

Playlist

2011-12-21T20:41:00.000-05:00

These are the songs that I'm currently very into:

Arcade Fire - The Suburbs
Fleet Foxes - Mykonos
Band of Horses - Laredo
Bon Iver - Holocene
Civil Twilight - Letters From The Sky
Dawes - Fire Away
Memory Tapes - Yes I Know
M83 - Reunion
Beirut - Santa Fe
The Decemberists - I4U & U4ME
Purity Ring - Lofticries
Noel Gallagher - AKA What A Life!
Foster the People - Don't Stop (Color On The Walls)
Rock Mafia - The Big Bang

Selfishness

2011-12-17T11:36:00.000-05:00

This morning I woke up to watch an episode of Law & Order intertwined with an episode of Dr. Phil. (Yes, I really hate commercials.) The L&O was about a family fighting over custody of a little girl and the Dr. Phil was about a family with generations of sexual abuse and the man who married into that family.

Yuck.

Anyway, the father and grandfather of the little girl on L&O conspired to poison the new husband of the mother of that child and put him in a coma. The stepfather/husband of the woman who was not only sexually abused but had a son who was an abuser said, "I feel like I've been raped."

This got me thinking about selfishness, jealousy, ownership of another person. I completely understand the ties that bind. I love my Momma endlessly, I cannot imagine my life with GPOM in it, and I adore my friends. But here's the thing: No-one else loves them like I do, much like I do not love others like I love my nearest and dearest. And I think that's OK. No-one is supposed to have equal amounts of love for another.

(Bible aside: I regard love your neighbors as regard and respect your neighbors, not love them in the modern sense.)

So how can dad and grandpa think that their love for their grand/daughter is more important than another man's life? Particularly the life of a man who is loved by their ex-wife/daughter? That to me is so selfish and cruel. My love is not more important to yours in the grand scheme of things.

This being said, last night GPOM and I got to spend some time with Ward. This is an annual treat (biannual if I'm lucky) and I was so excited to see him. GPOM and Ward met last Christmas and got on pretty well, which makes me happy too. But now...truth: Ward and GPOM spent most of the evening discussing music that they both like (at GPOM's direction). I felt ignored and it hurt my feelings. I'm OK today, I think, but Ward's been my friend for years and I wanted the face-to-face time with MY friend.

So as always, it's a work in progress. I want couple-friends. But I want to keep my friends to myself sometimes.

December Will Be Magic Again

2011-12-01T17:19:00.000-05:00

This morning I got a call from Momma asking for advice about a gift for one of my siblings, and more importantly, to tell me that Biggs wasn't doing too well. He's been relentlessly sick overnight, and was throwing up blood. Again. She says he seems five pounds skinnier and that he goes to a boutique vet where you actually have to make an appointment if your cat is THROWING UP BLOOD.

Rest in peace, Dr. McCurdy. I miss you. You were an amazing vet who never made very sick pets wait so you could look good to others. I, and my cats over the years, will continue to miss you.

So of course I got into the shower and cried and cried. You might remember this, and that was almost two years ago. I feel so badly for my almost-seventeen-year-old baby, who is supposed to be enjoying retirement and never getting older or sicker.

I cried so hard there were no tears - have you ever cried like that? Like the wound is so deep and open that even your tearducts can't see it? Like you can barely stay upright from the sheer force of pain? I've not felt that kind of physical weight from the shear force of feelings in a long time.

But I'm trying to think on the more positive side, and I'm trying to accept help the way it's given and not the way I wish it were given.

But I will continue to worry about Biggs.

I Don't Want To Be In Charge

2011-11-28T13:38:00.000-05:00

I must have been exhausted, because I went to bed around 11 last night and woke up at 10:30 this morning, with only a short layover for some diet Mt. Dew in the middle of the night. I decided that I don't want to be an adult today. I don't want to be in charge, I don't want to worry, and I don't want to think.

So I considered some New Year's resolutions. So far, they are:

1. Get a new car.
2. Get a Wii and dance my ass off to silly songs on video games. Maybe I can update my dance moves to approximately 2007. Considering they're currently from 1999, that'd be a total upgrade.

I also thought about Christian Death, a goth band (deathmetal?) I liked when I was a teenager. So I read its Wikipedia entry and listened to some songs on Youtube and remembered that I liked slower goth more than the psychobilly goth.

Then I looked at list of songs I remembered when reading GPOM's Encyclopedia of Punk, and looked up this song. There is nothing punk about it, except maybe the male chanting. Maybe.

Today's awesome phrase is: Irrepressibly untalented. It was a descriptor for Sid Vicious. Apt.

Political Malaise

2011-11-20T15:32:00.000-05:00

For the past few days my Facebook, Twitter, and TV news feed have been full of the "atrocities" being committed all over the state, country, and world. I gotta tell you, I am so exhausted of it. I don't know what to believe, what it true, how much is slant, and I might be becoming a bit of a Republican.

I kinda tore into a few people last night, so much was my incredible disinterest in what's going on far outside my door. This morning I felt guilty about being so direct in my attempts to just get people to stop already, but even the guilt didn't make me feel badly for my strong reactions.

I spent my early afternoon looking through an heirloom birthday book. (It provides proof that my family really is Prussian! Woot!) I felt closer to my mother's family and got to add entries into my own family tree. Still, I didn't quite put my finger on the problem.

GPOM just got a text from an acquaintance of his in Seattle, who wished him a happy Thanksgiving and who told GPOM that he's planning a holiday dinner for the homeless and the people who use the dog park outside of GPOM's former place.

That. That. THAT was what was missing. I needed a reminder that what can be fixed nearby carries more weight than links from websites hosted in places I know nothing about. I told GPOM that the world needs more Patricks. Not more screamers about links. Patricks.

We're sending a donation to Patrick's homeless and dog-park family.

Waiting For Bar Results

2011-11-18T16:14:00.000-05:00

I don't think I've discussed this before, as I'm generally reticent to talk about my work or work history here. But today I was read Carolyn Hax's weekly live advice chat, and I read a question from someone who is getting ready to sit for the bar again (best of luck to you!) and wondered how to answer the inevitable, "What do you do?" question.

Here's what I did while I studied for the bar and waited for results: I worked a series of contract jobs. I worked for MDA on its fundraising campaign for a brief period of time. Man, did I hate that job. I fully support the cause, but I didn't like the efforts to get donations, and as I am a terrible salesperson, I hated cold-calling people for more support. Took me about five weeks before I called the agency to beg for a new assignment.

(Psst - the MDA website has music. Who does that anymore?)

After that I went to work for a mortgage broker at what was then Wachovia. That was an interesting experience - this was summer 2008, and I could see her selling those Pic-A-Payment mortgages to customers and thinking what a terrible idea this all was. Now, don't assume that all the buyers were dopes - many were engineers and scientists. I think so many were taken it because of either naivete or extremely high self-esteem.

The point of this is to remember that I've learned a lot about the nature of business and the nature of myself from contract jobs. So, to that young person who's waiting, I say, learn as much as you can, because it will come in handy. I can do real estate work much more readily because I've built mortgage application submission packets and I've reviewed the closings that returned from the brokers. I can work with all kinds of people on both sides of the "cash register". So study hard, don't freak out, and learn what you can. You'll use it, I promise.

Post-Bake, Pre-Wash

2011-11-15T18:52:00.000-05:00

The chaos I had anticipated for the rest of the week has turned into a different kind of chaos. As you know, I am quite the creature of habit, so even subtle changes throw me off. I intended to spend the end of the week at a conference in Montgomery with GPOM, because who doesn't love a legal conference? And by that I mean, who doesn't want to get out of town?

GPOM, apparently, when he told me today that he might not want to go. OK, you don't have to, I said, but I was disappointed.

Yet, we got home and I got a call from a potential client and also was reminded that my motion does not yet have a ruling, and I decided that I also would not attend the conference. I wish I could - there's going to be some very interesting speakers, plus the governor and the attorney general, but these things can't be helped and I am reminded that an attorney's day can be difficult to schedule.

Yeah. Like everyone else's day runs like clockwork.

So I baked (cookies!) and am about to start laundry and more than anything, I'm so very tired.

Back From The Midwest

2011-11-12T12:41:00.000-05:00

The rest of the trip was really fast. By that I mean that Momma and I stayed nowhere very long, but drove very long hours to at least get cursory glances of her cousins, graveyards, my great aunt, my aunt and cousin, and Momma's best friend. We made it home three days early, and I am ever so grateful because I think Momma and I would have killed each other had we spent too much more time together. We get along famously, but eight days in a car with anyone would drive you to distraction.

Pun.

So, instead of giving you the blow-by-blow of the trip, I'll instead let you look at pretty pictures. I've got a true story of a sad crime to tell you in the days to come, but I have more research to do. This story has fascinated me since my grandfather told me about it years ago, as he remembered the event, and I want to share it with you. Later.

My grandfather retired from here.

Homage to Eminem. No, I did not take this picture while driving eighty miles an hour in fairly heavy traffic outside of Detroit. That's crazy talk!*

Waves breaking on the shore of Lake Huron. If Alpena, Michigan needs a marketing person, it should really come to me. I'm making the place look a lot better than it does in person.

Golden sunset on Lake Huron in Alpena.

I climbed out past the walkway onto the rocks to get closer to the water. This is, of course, more of Lake Huron. Walking on the rocks gave me a peaceful feeling; one I rarely have because it required all of my concentration not to fall. Maybe I should climb rocks more often.

My grandmother's maiden name. Her family owned a farm and apparently got street naming rights. I've tried to track down more of the family history, but it gets tricky when the Wagners and the Wegners intermarried, and the spelling of Diemond changed.

See what I mean? This is the original spelling, and if I can track down the story of Urs Joseph Diemand, I will and I will share it with you, because he was one scary motherfucker. We're talkin' Original Gangsta here.

This lady is my namesake. Not that I use that name, but she was my mother's grandmother.

* I totally did that.

Pics from Day One

2011-11-04T21:24:00.000-04:00

There aren't many, I promise, nothing like those late-seventies slide show horror-fest of your youth.

Kids, ask your parents.

This is proof that I was in Ohio. You can tell I didn't steal this picture from the internet 'cos it's sideways:

And this is the juxtaposition of pretty trees at a rest stop on 271 just about fifteen miles from where we stayed. Momma and I were both amazed by the colors. We were even more stupified by the cleanliness of the bathroom at a rest stop. We recommend this rest stop.

Midwest Extravaganza - Day 2

2011-11-04T21:18:00.000-04:00

Most people would balk at spending an entire day in Cleveland. I know I used to mock endlessly this town, and thought it even lower on the food chain than Birmingham, Alabama, which is still pretty low on my food chain in terms of aesthetics.

In terms of awesome martini bars built into the sides of mountains, well, Birmingham gets the prize.

We left this morning after a restless night for me which included watching Project Runway: Behind the Seams (clever!) three times and sleeping through all three viewings of Project Accessory. I guess this is because I wanted to see Project Accessory. Alas.

Anyhoo.. we went first to my old apartment building:

It was a nice place to live, and if you'd like to live there, here's the number:

But before you decide for sure, let me show you the driveway of doom. Once you're headed in or out, you cannot exit the car until you either are in the garage or at the street. This doesn't seem like a big deal until the driveway is covered with snow and ice and you're sliding and there's no escape and oh, SHIT, you forgot your phone:

That was about the time that Momma and I moved on to the law school. Since my shower this morning, I'd been building up the law school into something bigger and bigger, a giant behemoth of a school designed solely to destroy my (pitiable) self-esteem. My plan was to go in there and take a picture of the school's name, my bar card, and my middle finger. Instead, I chose this shot:

Clearly, cooler heads prevailed. So we walked around and I had my flashback moments and the school looked exactly the same and I didn't see any of my former professors so we just left. But not after noticing that the ASTOUNDING tuition that I and my former cohorts paid allowed the school to replace the nasty, termite-ridden, wasp-attracting wooden benches with these:

Money well spent.

After all this we went to Nordstrom and bought me some essentials, like three pairs of pants and four shirts and a cashmere (cashmere!) sweater and four unmentionables that were so sorely needed that I actually lost fifteen pounds once I put on my new lady necessities and three new pairs of shoes. We left only when Momma gently reminded me that we had just spent her monthly pension check on clothes for me.

Midwest Extravaganza - Day One

2011-11-03T16:52:00.000-04:00

Momma and I left yesterday morning on our trip through the midwest. Nashville wasn't too bad, traffic light, although I will never, ever figure out how to navigate the various interstate changes there. I've must've driven through one hundred times and still end up flummoxed. How did I ever survive without Mandy?

Mandy is my GPS. She's named after an article in the Washington Post from 2007. Go ahead, look it up.

We headed out toward Lexington, because my longtime internet friend JMT lives in Danville and after over ten years of online friendship, we'd never met in person. It was time to fix that. Mandy gives good directions, although she got confused in the areas where the cows outnumber the people. Well, cows, horses, and llamas.

(Trivia aside: Apparently coyotes are scared of llamas. Take that, natural selection!)

The bluegrass is very pretty and there are some astounding mansions which were probably built using horse money. Danville is a personable town - reminded me a lot of Paducah. JMT is even better!

OK. I was walking back to my car to get my phone, when I fell off a curb and landed pretty much on my right elbow and my knees. For I am a graceful ballerina. It hurt like hell, and took me about two minutes to even consider lifting my body off the pavement. During this time, Momma and JMT were kind to me and didn't laugh or anything. Finally we made it into the restaurant where I wasn't sure that I wasn't going to be sick. (Shock affects me that way.) JMT was gracious about me clearly not feeling too hot, and instead of asking over and over whether I was OK, he just ignored it and talked with Momma. I really appreciated that as I hate having any sort of weakness pointed out to me, even out of concern.

He got Momma an awesome antique book and bought us lunch, and off we headed to Cincinnati.

Cincinnati wasn't too exciting, but the pain pills, really, really good cable TV offerings, and clean bathroom were just what I needed.

Now we're in Cleveland and I'll tell you more about it tomorrow.

The Long Road Home

2011-10-20T19:28:00.000-04:00

The other day in the local paper there was an article about the increase in carjackings in my area. I read it over, looking for some kind of proof, but all that was there was information about how to avoid being car-mugged. I kinda ignored it because I spoke with a cop a few weeks ago and he told me that the only real danger in my area is gang members who are targeting the local CVS.

Who tags a drug store?

But Tuesday night my parents return from their jaunt in Vegas and I had to pick them up quite late. Like, almost the next morning late. When GPOM sent me on my way, he told me to be careful, because, "It's been raining and no-one in this town knows how to drive."

How sweet, I thought, and went along my merry way. Yet, when I was driving home from my folks' place, his words came into my mind, and I drove the freeways to get home, which takes longer, rather than taking the side streets, which are much more efficient.

Now I've got someone who cares about my safety. I owe it to him to take better care of myself.

Sittin' At The Rents

2011-10-15T16:55:00.000-04:00

So my folks are officially in Vegas, having a perfectly lovely time (I hope). They're there with my siblings to celebrate a belated fiftieth wedding anniversary, since the two siblings couldn't be arsed to get out here by the folks to do something nice, less expensive, and closer to home.

But that's just my opinion.

For a while now I've been craving some alone time. A block of time where no-one else is around, where I can hang out and watch TV and sit on the deck and not feel like I owe this time to someone else, or that I'm being watched. I've been so looking forward to this time, and have in fact brought enough clean clothes and supplies so that I could conceivably stay here until Tuesday, when they return.

So why am I so lonely? I can do what I want when I want, no-one's around to judge me, yet it's only been four hours and I've already texted GPOM to ask if I can come home tonight.

Maybe it's nostalgia for the old days, when I was alone a lot of the time, and I could sit and do whatever I wanted and could deliciously anticipate the sound of the phone when GPOM would call from Seattle.

I don't know what it is, and I don't know yet where I'll stay tonight (and the next few nights), but I guess what I'm figuring out is that I'm damn hard to please, even to myself.

Operation Get GPOM A Decent Job

2011-10-12T16:51:00.000-04:00

Jobs are scarce these days. Trust me, we know. (Paying clients are as well, but that's a sob story for another time.) While GPOM is working now, we need to find him something that has a salary, rather than an hourly, wage, benefits, and an unchanging schedule. We need this because he needs it and he's a really good person to work with, and for the most important reason of all (to me):

I want an office.

This law-in-the-clouds thing is neat, occasionally really convenient, and not necessarily the best way for me to practice law as I function much better in a more structured environment. An office would force me to work more efficiently, would create more work-life balance, and would make me feel better about myself.

So if you hear of anything good and/or interesting, do let us know.

Also, if you know of a reasonably-priced office space near the Square, preferably one stocked with attorneys already, let me know. I'd really like to start researching space.

Chocolate

2011-10-07T18:06:00.000-04:00

Today Wade and I were discussing friendships, discounts, and chocolate. Let's get to the important part.

As a person with ovaries, I have a love/hate relationship with chocolate. That being said, given the option, I prefer Nestle Milk Chocolate to Hershey's. No offense to Hershey, and I do love its as well, but Nestle's is creamier and milkier and, well, better. Even though I visited Hershey, PA, when I was a child. Even though Hershey is more ubiquitous (can something be more ubiquitous?)

There was a sale on Halloween bags of candy at the store today. I may or may not be the owner of two bags. I might've only had two Twix bars yet. So far.

Send on the Whatchamacallits!!!

Tadpole In Waiting

2011-09-24T18:47:00.000-04:00

Now that I've taken one or two or twenty deep, comforting, in-with-the-blue-out-with-the-red restorative breaths, I can talk more about the antibaby.

Maybe at some point in the future there will be a probaby, but that's not what we're going to discuss here. We're going to discuss my friends' and family's reaction to the potential tadpole.

Wade: I'm supportive, really. No. Really. I really am. I think it'd be great. (For the love of christ, do you know how much a child costs? Not just in money but in time? Do you know that with my two children, I cannot be your sole source of support while you endlessly digest every tiny damn thing that you're thinking and feeling? Also, husband. Mine needs attention too. Oh! Also! Health insurance. Better look into that, sister.)

Cita: Awww...baby! I love having mine, although I considered briefly leaving him on the side of the road for a bit as payback for all the awful things pregnancy did to my body. And mind. But he's adorable and mostly sleeps and thank goodness for family and friend support because otherwise I'd go coockoo!!

Sister: Think you are? I always wanted one. But if you get one, Momma won't move out here by me because she'll want to be around the baby and yeah, yeah, that's cool, except could you maybe consider not being so damn greedy with the Momma time? I need her too!

Momma: I'll kill you.
Me: Kill me? Why?
Momma: 'Cos you're not married yet.
Me: I think we'd take care of that problem with a quickness.
Momma: Yeah. THE NEXT DAY.

This chat with Momma was had after I told her about how late I was and how much I wondered if I were with tadpole. After that, we wandered around Target and cooed at the monkey baby clothes and toys.

So, we'll see what happens.

Not A Good Day

2011-09-18T17:48:00.002-04:00

No Tadpole. Probably for the best. Feeling the loss.

Jesus Fucking Christ, how many pictures do I need to have of GPOM's kid? I could put out a fucking FBI missing persons flyer (or seventy-five).

Like I said, not a good day. Back to my book.

Tadpole

2011-09-17T22:09:00.000-04:00

Remember that a few weeks ago I discussed symptoms? Well, if not, scroll down a bit. I can't be arsed to link to a post right now.

I still have no confirmation, but I can tell you that I reread It Sucked And I Cried by Heather Armstrong (Dooce) and now I cannot pee with anything that feels like satisfaction. And I haven't started.

If this is too much for you, apologies. Move along to something more interesting.

Nightly, I lie in the bed, pat my lower belly, and tell myself that I'm not pregnant. This internal conversation goes something like this:

I know you're not there, Tadpole, because there's no way you could be. But if you are, Hi! I think you might want to consider a different womb. Mine's messy and weird and full of gunk and goo and hopefully things that you can softly bump in to. Of course you're not there, but maybe you will be in the future when I've got my head and finances more ready to have you.

Tadpole, my belly is warm and weird and I want to pee like a normal person and why am I feeling this mix of heartburn and nausea? 'Cos that's no fun at all.

(I've got to talk about this somewhere and where else than here?)

A Day Away

2011-09-15T20:07:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, after a fascinating CLE lecture in which I believe we might have found Bernie Madoff's hidden money and a good client meeting, I returned home to a frenetic GPOM. He had spent the afternoon "fixing" our place, and to me it looked like nothing that was mine.

I had a wooden planter in my front room where I stored my frequently-worn shoes, my purse, my basket with all my keys, and my phone books. (Yes, I still use a phone book. Ain't no-one else letting their fingers doin' the walkin'.) I looked about, looked at him, muttered, "No," and went to change clothes and take off my face. I was not pleased.

Plus he put my mission side table in the same place where whenever he puts anything, I complain that I will break a toe there. Because I do. Inevitably. Break a toe. It hurts, people. It hurts a lot. I have an S-shaped left pinkie toe.

A bit later, after a breath, I was sitting in my office waiting for the internet to offer solace, when I noticed that my special secret tiny hiding space was now sitting on the floor. It was out in the open. It had been violated by eyes that weren't mine. What do I keep in said place? Well, I'll tell you, since the secret's out: The key to my safety deposit box. Spare keys with computer chips in them. My good jewelry. My savings bonds and much-loved two-dollar bills.

People, I was beyond pissed. I told GPOM he might as well read my journals now, since that's all I have left. "Your blog?" he asked. NO. I still have hand-written journals, full of piss and vinegar, from my childhood through college years.

Today I am calmer. And my special secret tiny hiding space has found a new home. And I think GPOM will never open anything of mine again.

My 9/11 Memory

2011-09-11T06:00:00.001-04:00

Why not? Everyone else, and every television station show, thought, commercial...they're all talking about it. I don't much talk about this because 1) everyone has their own story and 2) GPOM is a conspiracy theorist and I'm guessing hides his emotions more than he'll let me know.

It was a sunny Tuesday morning and for the first time in weeks, I was in no mood to listen to NPR, which I normally did. I wanted music. So I tossed a CD in Circe (m car - still is!) and car-danced all the way to Geeks-R-Us, which employed a large number of foreign nationals.

When I got to work, the receptionist said something about having heard weird news, and did I hear? No. Something about planes hitting a building in New York City? No. I went to my office and tried to pull up any news on the internet. The data stream was completely clogged and I couldn't get anything but a strange picture on the Yahoo front page.

A bit later, others came to work and starting telling me about what was happening, and then an email circulated stating that we could go home if we were concerned. I went to my boss and explained that one of my closest friends lived in the city and that my brother was (is) a pilot for United. I was excused.

At home, I turned on the TV and started to see the real destruction. I probably got home around 8:30am, and my desire to call everyone kicked in. I don't remember a lot other than pure terror. How? Why? WTF is wrong with Paula Zahn? Even in the chaos, I knew that asking someone how it felt to know a family member just died was about the worst fucking thing to be asked in the midst of all of this.

I remember talking with Lucy's mother, and we were worried about a mutual friend and her husband. They lived in Astoria, Queens, and I didn't know where that was in relation to Manhattan. Finally we got our friend's mother on the phone and they were both fine, shaken, newsless, but fine.

My brother turned out to be just fine as well - he was across the country at the time. But when I finally spoke to him, he told me that he was the pilot for United Flight 93 on September 10, 2001.

Guilt mixed with unbelievable gratitude that exists to this day. I still don't know how to put that into words.

Symptoms

2011-09-06T16:16:00.000-04:00

I am fully aware that I am thinking ahead and most likely exaggerating how I'm feeling. The fact that GPOM and I spent a good chunk of the weekend debating middle names for a potential daughter in no way influences my feelings.

Never going to name her Hurricane, GPOM. Never. It's dumb and I don't like it. I get ten months of no fun = I get total veto power.

To-wit (see how I went all contract there?):
1. My lower belly feels swollen.
2. All I want to do is hold it softly because it feels warmer and because I feel like protecting it.
3. We had pizza last night and it made me nauseous. (I ate pizza every night for about six months and never felt badly. Now, two slices of Papa Johns and I had to put the whole pizza away. Thank goodness GPOM ate the leftovers out of my sight.)
4. I'm craving light, healthy things like salads.
5. I really, really want this to be true.
6. We've been trying for a while and according to an episode of Rachel Zoe I watched last week, it takes between twelve and twenty-four months for a woman my age to get pregnant. I stopped taking birth control over a year ago.

So when again, when I start my cycle again, you'll understand when I feel a bit sad and wonder why I can't join the ranks of the sleep-deprived strangely proud women.

Random Monday Thoughts

2011-09-05T19:23:00.000-04:00

I'm really starting to suck at solitaire. And I'm really starting to resent it.
GPOM is addicted to streaming Netflix movies, which is great for him and terrible for my internet surfing.
I have a stray hair on my arm and I can't find it and it feels weird.
Maybe I'll go watch Teen Mom.
It's cold. I'm cold-natured, and this cool front is getting to me. I spend a lot of time on the deck with my feet wrapped around GPOM's legs because he's a lot warmer than I am.
I can't decide what to make for dinner but I'm getting very hungry.
I love Labor Day. It's got to be the most ironic holiday - called Labor yet we pride ourselves on doing nothing. Or maybe it's just me priding myself. And I've done nothing of value today except showering.
Yay showers!

50

2011-09-01T19:31:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow is Momma's and Dad's fiftieth wedding anniversary.

Wow. I mean, wow.

How do you manage to do that? My running joke is fifty years without a single murder.

Still, they know each other, can tolerate each other's peccadilloes, and there is love in that house.

I don't know if I'll get fifty, but I'm damn sure going to try.

I Should Probably Warn Him About My Tendency to Hit Repeat

2011-08-26T18:21:00.000-04:00

One of my clients owes money. Hell, who doesn't owe money at this point? My life is an endless weekly list of whom I owe and how much.

Each time a bill comes in, I write its due date on the calendar along with the amount and circle it. Once I'm pretty sure of how a month will go, I write the total amount due that week to the left of the Sunday box. I do this because I'm neurotic and because I want GPOM to be quite aware of where our money goes and when it goes. And it's easier than reminding him of my super-duper special-secret tough password that attaches to the bank accounts.

Today, I learned that there is an outside chance that I will have to go to Memphis and appear on behalf of my client in federal court. I haven't been to Memphis since I was eighteen and RisiMoore came to visit me and of course we had to go to Graceland.

Graceland is awesome, and Memphis is not nearly as close to Nashville as one might think. Tennessee's all scrunchy.

Since I learned about this possibility, I've had this song in my head, and I've now played the youtube video three times, and the night's still young.

So. Vegas.

2011-08-21T14:22:00.000-04:00

My parents are getting ready to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary here in a couple of weeks (September second - let me know if you need the address to send a card. Send a card, people. Seriously. Even if you don't know my folks, you know me, and don't you think they deserve some sort of kindness from strangers for putting up with me?) and while I really wanted to throw a reunion party here, that plan was summarily dismissed some time ago.

Whatever. It's only my sweet childhood memories of my grandparents' fiftieth that are being ruined by not being able to give my parents the same joy.

So my siblings decided that the best thing to do would be to go to Vegas. Yes. I still can't think of a better place for my older, seventy-ish-year-old folks to have a good time. Momma, watch that hip! No, I don't think the stripper pole revue is what's affecting your pacemaker. Dad, stop it! Seriously, STOP DROOLING. This is not The Girls Next Door.

I'm sure you can see the appeal. So, apparently the plan is to go the weekend of October 22, which is so close to the actual anniversary that it totally makes sense!

My siblings (and their respective families) both live in Southern California, which is essentially a light-beam away from Las Vegas, and the pulling tractor beam is because plane tickets are apparently $29, the drive itself is tolerable, and the discounts available online and in print papers (snicker) are even better than the plane tickets.

However, if you live substantially further east than Vegas, plane tickets about about add-a-four-to-the-front-the-California prices, the drive is unbelievable, and there are no coupons in the paper. So, no, I believe that GPOM and I will have to sit this one out.

Unless I win the Suits contest sponsored by USA. Then, maybe. I'll check with my creditors.

I Knew It, You Knew It

2011-08-18T20:51:00.000-04:00

I've been speaking, quite loudly, for years now about things that needed to change in our country and our economy. I'm going to lay those thoughts out right now in short:

Hillary should've been President.

We should've had another WPA to get people to work.

In the last few days, I've seen articles about these topics, and it frustrates me that they came years later. I'm not that smart or that quick. Nor am I a talking head, so why did to take so damn long for the pundits to figure this out?

Really, Eliot Spitzer? This is the article now? Just ask Momma, Wade, or anyone who's been subjected to my politics for about three years now, and they'll say that you're preaching to my choir.

The glory of the its-not-Hillary is that there are thoughts about how nothing would be different were she president, and now articles that things would be.

(I can't find an article supporting her were she president now. I can only find this article about Obama's lame duck presidency.)

Superwoman

2011-08-16T19:14:00.000-04:00

Let's have a bit of a rant, k? Thanks.

I'm still very used to doing everything on my own. Before GPOM move in, my most common mantra as I did the thousands of chores required to leave the house was, "I don't see anyone else racing over to help me with this." So I took out the trash. Loaded the dishwasher. Fed the cat and depooped the litter box. Grabbed the dry cleaning. Got together client files. Made sure the electronics had their power cords.

Now, I still do the same thing, but there's someone here to help me. Allegedly. Now, don't get me wrong, I absolutely know that I have big ol' control issues; to wit, I will not let anyone touch the laundry but me.

Now I resent laundry. And cooking dinner. And making the beds. And noticing that the trash is taking over the kitchen.

I resent that I get an occasional, "Thanks, honeybunney!" when I do the bulk of the work.

A while back, I learned that I am a terrible liar and can hide nothing that I think, but that these cues are not enough notice to ask for what I need.

Might be time for a chat.

The New Office

2011-08-08T19:23:00.000-04:00

We went shopping this weekend to check out new desks. Momma and I have been talking about this for a while, and the need became even stronger when my niece and I moved my old desk to exchange the carpet protector for a new one, and managed to lift the top of the desk completely off its bones.

Niece: Omigod, I'm sorry, did I do that?
Me: This desk is older than I am. And now easier to assemble!

Momma offered me the desk in her bedroom, and I really, really thought that that would be the way to go, until we went to Office Depot and I was met with this:

What could I do? I fell in love immediately, ran over, sat in the big grown-up chair, and I think Momma knew that her checkbook was doomed. The death knoll, however, was the fact that this desk has not one, not two, but THREE file drawers:

I know, only two are picture, but still! How amazing is it to get that much storage in a place that's not an industrial-looking filing cabinet?

The piece de resistance, pardon my French, was that the chair was so amazing that once I gave it up and let Momma sit in it, she blocked a vital Office Depot artery on a busy Saturday and did not give a damn. I don't have a picture of that, so you'll have to settle for the chair:

Price tag and all. Put together, this is how it looks (not yet in my office, but on display):

When all is done in my office, I'll post more pictures, and maybe even my matching diplomas!

Taylor Swift Songs Make Me Cry

2011-08-03T21:05:00.000-04:00

I was thinking about a conversation I had with my sister a while back. We were discussing our (misguided) youth, and she said, "If I knew then what I know now..."

Hmmm....

I'd thought of this before, and finally it came to me: I wouldn't want to share what I know now with the girl I was then. Because I am a logistical thinker, it occurred to me that seventeen-year-old me with thirty-eight (!) year-old me knowledge would be quite possibly the biggest buzzkill outcast that ever existed. Hell, I'm pretty sure I would've beaten up the current me, and I've never actually punched anyone in my entire life.

Think about it. Can you imagine adult you in high school? It wouldn't be pretty, despite what many bad movies, shows, and 21 Jump Street would tell you.

The Inlaws Are Here And I Don't Want To See Anyone Right Now

2011-08-01T19:02:00.000-04:00

6. Wade. Cita. GPOM.
7. The list is on the side of this blog. I do like The Help, but I don't want to see the movie.
8. Gum snapping. Cheapness. Bad breath. I could write for days about this, and if you've read this blog more than once, you know.
9. Gorgeous. Smart. Witty. Kinder than me. Driven. Patient. Brave.
10. CATS!!!!!!
11. Wade.
12. We fell in love with love and not with each other.
13. Talked with Momma, napped with GPOM, ate mini tacos, watched Family Guy and The Simpsons.
14. Passing the bar. Actually allowing someone who loves me inside. Showing up in court for the first time.
15. She's exactly like me, and that's why I dislike her.
16. Foster the Kids' Pumped Up Kicks and OneRepublic's Good Life.
17. I just kissed GPOM on the head while rubbing his shoulders.
18. What I find attractive in my preferred sex? Really, you want me to answer that?
19. Cats, dog, parakeets, hamster, fish.
20. Mint chocolate chip.
21. Next to GPOM, watching Real Housewives. He'd rather revoke his mancard than watch that show, though. (Psst...I make him watch Teen Mom.)
22. One of the deans at my law school mocked my very out-of-shape self when I went up two flights of stairs to tell her that my best friend was in the hospital and would be absent that day.
23. Illinois, Pennsylvania, Kansas, Florida, California, Alabama, Ohio, and Virginia.
24. You're kinder to me than I am to myself.

They're gone!!

Until I Get Bored

2011-07-30T16:58:00.000-04:00

I love those silly question lists, and I found this one here, so I thought, "Why not? It's been a while." So I'll play until it's not entertaining anymore.

1. Mostly straight.
2. Patience. Sports. Finding Waldo.
3. Luckily, I've got that. GPOM. And on weak days, my Momma's.
4.
5. On good days, it feels like I could take on the world. Most days, not really.

OK, bored now. I'm going to go watch GPOM play Fallout and/or watch the Evil Willow episodes from Buffy.

At Least There's No Tears

2011-07-16T11:11:00.000-04:00

I thought I had told you fine people about my crying jags. Apparently not, as a quick search through the archives of this little masterpiece assures me.

For years upon years upon years, I almost never cried. Once, maybe twice a year would something strangely wet escape my eye. I call these the over-medicated years.

Once the meds were gone and the feelings were back, I cried at every damn thing I laid eyes on. Mark Greene dies on ER? Hefty sobs. Those Hallmark commercials at Christmas? Weeping. The end of just about any chick flick? Almost inconsolable.

Finally, I've settled down to my routine, occasional wet eyes. Except. Every time I went to Seattle, I would spend at least the first two days in tears. Not because of anything, but I think because I finally felt safe and free and able to express what I was feeling. I hold a lot of what I think and feel inside of me, I guess.

(I know, what irony! And here I write about myself all the time.)

Now that GPOM's been here for a week, and there's only been one time where I welled up unexpectedly, I think we're finally home. But I'll let you in on one secret shame - I cannot get through a Taylor Swift song without crying.

An Early Morning Conversation

2011-07-15T18:54:00.002-04:00

- Are you sure about us?
- Most of the time. Yes. Yes. Are you sure about us?
- Absolutely.
- You’re sure about me?
- Yes.
- You’re a brave man.

This Should've Ended Badly

2011-07-15T18:53:00.000-04:00

Thursday morning I awoke to a strange phenomenon in my shower. No hot water! But because it’s approximately nine thousand degrees here (including humidity) the water wasn’t ice cold and more importantly, didn’t feel ice cold. So while I had to teach myself some new yoga poses to wash my hair without getting water on my back, it could’ve been a lot worse. When I left that morning, I asked GPOM to check the water to see if it was hot and to let me know so that I could call maintenance if it was not.

When I got home that night, I asked him about the status of the hot water. “Nope, still cold,” he told me, “but I think the pilot light is out. When it gets cooler, I’ll go relight it.” I didn’t think it was the pilot light – his reasoning was that a strong wind and the ENTIRE CAN OF RAID he used to kill the spider mafia in the HVAC room conspired to cut out the light. I told him that the water was cold in the morning, long before the ENTIRE CAN OF RAID was sprayed. But he was insistent, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight just yet. Later, he went outside with a flashlight and some short matches to try to relight the light. No dice – the matches were too short. So he went back outside with the flashlight and one of those kitchen blowtorches used to burn sugar on crème brulee.

A blowtorch. Yes. A BLOWTORCH.

I knew, with the surety that comes from seeing men with beer and barbeque grills and the ensuing lack of eyelashes, that this was the night I was going to die. GPOM was working off of more vodka than brains, a flashlight, and a blowtorch. And I was going to die a fiery death.

Since I’m writing this, you can be sure that I’m not dead, just as you can be sure I took another, colder, shower this morning. I haven’t decided yet what to name the yoga pose.

And maintenance is at my place right now, restoring the hot water.

D-Day

2011-07-06T12:25:00.000-04:00

Barring, well, anything, GPOM should be here no later than Friday evening. I'm spending today taking donations to the Humane Society (GPOM needs room), going to the post office (demand letters gotta mail), going to the courthouse (please let there be progress on my cases! My clients are getting nervous), visiting Cita (only nine days left until the baby, assuming he doesn't have earlier plans), and going to Target (I can't afford to eat Steak-Out every night, no matter how much I love it).

I've been so nervous about GPOM's arrival, because my grand tradition is to overthink everything and plan for the worst. Those must be the traits I have that made him fall in love with me in the first place. I mean, who isn't attracted to rampant insecurity?

Now I'm feeling better, and stronger, and honestly, I'm going to be so grateful that he's here safely and that I can finally relax and let him carry some of the weight. I'm a strong woman but I need to collapse the reins sometimes too. And since he's offered to take care of me, forever, I'd be a damn fool not to take him up on it.

Safe travels, my love. See you soon.

The Kind Of Wife I Want To Be

2011-06-29T21:59:00.001-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, near Father's Day, Momma and I went out and did our thing. By that I mean, we shopped and looked and bought and basically had a good time together. On the way to take her home, after we got all the ingredients for a slumber party I was planning, she mentioned that she was hungry. Which of course made me feel like a giant jerk, because I was buying ingredients for what turned out to be an amazingly light pesto lasagna.

Momma asked that I take her to Subway, which of course I did. I figured we were getting her dinner, so I didn't think too much of it. As I was checking where my slumber-party partner was on the road, I overheard her order dinner for my dad. That made me check back in. She listed everything he'd want on a sandwich.

Wow. She knows him so well that she knows what he wants to eat.

A day or so later, I watched a Behind The Scenes of Oprah's final season, the one where she had Barack and Michelle Obama on the show. The clip from the actual episode had to do with the (flamingly idiotic) birthers, and how the President had released his birth certificate. He said something about how he thought it was funny, the whole situation about people thinking he wasn't American.

Michelle Obama said, "I don't." The look of ferocious protectiveness was so very telling.

That's the kind of wife I want to be.

Fly Away Home

2011-06-24T22:06:00.001-04:00

For the past few weeks, we've been trying to figure out the logistics for getting GPOM's cat to me. Finally, it seemed that the cat would fly into Nashville, where I would get her at the ungodly hour of 8am. On a Sunday. You do know that I jealously guard my Sundays, right? So today when GPOM called, he told me to expect a delivery tomorrow. But then he dropped the bomb.

Hoops is flying into my town. Oh, thank christ, into my town. At a realistic hour.

Of course, this means that I had to buy litter and a box, food and treats. I did the best I could, and when I texted pictures to GPOM, he replied with, "Meow". I guess this means that she's be OK with it.

Here's the thing - up until I got that call and thought a bit, I kinda resented having to keep his cat. But once I thought about the twelve-hour journey for a seventeen-year-old cat, my stomach started knotting up, and I thought about getting her here safely, and about how we'll get to know (and tolerate) each other.

Everything's ready, finally, including me. So please get here safely and well, little Jupiter. We'll take our time to fall in love. And your boy will be here soon enough.

Lazy

2011-06-20T20:45:00.000-04:00

I am a woman of routines. If my keys don't go into the basket on top of the wicker planter that I use as a shoe tree, I'll never find them again. If I don't TiVo Judge Judy at the right time, everything falls to pieces. When I change from day to night clothes and don't set the alarm at the same time, I'll wake up late for work and the world will throw me curve balls the size of your head.

So I do laundry on Sundays. All the loads that need to be done are done on Sundays. Sunday is my day off, and I fight fight fight like hell to ensure that I do nothing on Sundays that would even mildly smell of anything.

Most of my friends know this, and a few are afraid to call me on Sunday. I'd apologize, except that I can't. I love Sundays for the time I need to be an idiot. (And talk to Momma.) (And do laundry.)

This weekend a very good friend came to visit, and we may or may not have drank a lot of delicious rum, combined with mint and club soda and no regret. Sunday morning/afternoon was spent laying on my fold-out (sideways - thanks, Ikea!) couch watching Bravo. Wondering when our heads would return, but delighting in my quippy comments (thanks for pretending I'm funny, my friend!) and thinking that maybe that last batch was the best/worst idea ever, and eating Fiber One bars. What?

This long story is to tell you that I'm finishing up laundry tonight, I have more to do tomorrow, and I think I'm doing just fine.

I Can't Count The Days

2011-06-13T21:36:00.000-04:00

GPOM leaves on the 30th of this month, and will probably arrive directly after the 4th of July. His van is booked, and the next plan is to get his cat to me as quickly as possible. They're travelling separately, you see. I am very excited to have him here, and I want his trip to be as easy and safe and beautiful and interesting in possible.

So, shall I be honest?

I haven't lived with someone since 2004, and before that, I lived with Momma in a huge house, and before that, my college roommate who lived more with her boyfriends than me. I have no idea how to do this, and I'm nervous and scared and afraid that my lifestyle, completely unobserved, is going to change in a way that I can't even fathom.

And I've been fathoming.

I want him here, I want him gone, I wonder how long it'll be before we resent each other and hopefully learn how to get over it.

It's getting real, people. I'm getting equally scared and excited. I hope you'll indulge me as I tell you all about it.

On the plus side - more "adult" interactions! I would apologize for my PG-13(?) comment, but c'mon.

We Have A Date

2011-06-04T12:44:00.003-04:00

GPOM leaves Seattle no later than 4pm on June 30. Every planning part of me is dancing, because I've hated not knowing what was going to happen when. Planning part of me now says that I should see him around the Fourth of July.

Yay! My baby's coming home!

Crap! So much for eating for the next month!

YAY!

Pretentious

2011-06-02T19:17:00.000-04:00

A million years ago, before EPCOT even existed, I lived in Florida. (Close enough to Disney that it was a daily event, but I don't want you to be jealous). I loved Florida. I loved the ability to ride bikes through orange groves, daily rain storms where I could read in the Florida room, and tangelos. I even loved the accent, and adopted it immediately.

Yes, I loved the accent.

Two years later, the family, without consulting me, decided that California would be a better place to live, so off we went, with Disney even further away, no EPCOT, and my proudly-earned Southern accent intact.

The first days of school were torture, as ten-year-old me was ridiculed for the accent. To the point where people would ask me to say certain words, just so they could laugh at me. I was so desperate for friends then that I would do almost anything for attention and maybe a real friend.

We lived in California for six years, and that accent was gone. Dead and gone. And then the best news of all - We're Moving To Alabama!

Imagine what goth, dangerous, sixteen-year-old me thought of that plan. I couldn't find Alabama on a map back then.

So we moved, and I adjusted, and I learned new turns of phrase and new meanings for words:
Pictures "made"
Hair "rolled"
"Carry you" to the store
"Bless your heart"

But I took pride in not getting the accent, and being questioned about my lineage because of it. Until I bought in, and I now have a mild accent. The problem is that lately, all I've been hearing is that screeching abortion of a redneck Southern accent, and it burns my baby sensibilities. The other problem is that I have a tendency to adopt the accent of the person closest to me. (Imagine how my British ex-fiance loved that. He thought I was mocking him.)

So please, please don't let me adopt this terrifying tone. I like the little one I have/had. I don't want it to get worse.

Addiction

2011-05-26T20:12:00.000-04:00

I love candles. Scented candles, especially. I probably could have a much stronger 401(k) if I didn't have the endless desire to have my living room smell fantastic and be prettily lit.

Wanna see?

I particularly love candles scented like any sort of water, and more than all the else, I like honeysuckle. (Thank you, niece, for my new honeysuckle-scented candle!)

There's one, though, that's the bain of my existence. When I smelled it before purchase, it was fantastic. It was other-wordly, clean, amazing...and then I lit it. It's such a pungent odor. It's not entirely bad, just very overwhelming. So because I can't throw anything away that still serves a useful purpose, I've been burning it nightly to get rid of it.

The problem is, I can't get rid of it! Each night, when the wax is liquid, I think it's finally done, and I can throw it out. Each morning when I get up, it's hardened into a form that insists that I burn it again. Argh! Will I sneeze from lotus blossoms forever?

Bridezilla

2011-05-25T21:44:00.000-04:00

Let's just call it what it is - I am self-involved. Clearly I am, or else I wouldn't post my thoughts on the internet.

Not that you're reading, but that's not the point.

Now that I am a bride-to-be (depending on the state of our relationship after an argument last night), I'm trying to figure out how to plan such an event without it becoming all-consuming. At this point, I think it is all-consuming, and I need to apologize to all my friends who have had kids and have become enraptured with them.

To fix this, this is what I'm thinking. My new friend is an event planner (I didn't choose her as a friend because of this, I promise!) and is ready, willing, and according to her, ADD-able to get this undertaking underway, no matter what sort of timeframe I give her. Momma handed me a new list of venues and said we should look, and also mentioned a trunk sale.

So...shall I let them plan the whole thing and let me focus on my business? I'm thinking yes. And then I think more yes. And then, when my moods swing, I think, why haven't they done it already? Just tell me to stop eating for a few months and make my wedding special.

(PS - I'm making ovulationPMS a thing. Just wait 'til it trends on Twitter, and remember where you heard it first.)

When I Have To Ask...

2011-05-24T19:22:00.000-04:00

The moods have been all over the board today, and I think it's because I've entered protective mothering mode. My new friend is trying to figure out how to solve a problem within her family, and I think she's being unfairly treated and more importantly, isn't standing up for herself. GPOM's father ran his inventory the other night and he's still licking his fairly substantial wounds.

Unfortunately, protective mothering mode on me looks like a battle of words, a desire to dominate with my vocabulary, a veritable inability to handle others' peccadilloes (see?), and mood swings that run the entire gamut (now I'm just showing off).

So when I get home, take off my makeup, and put on comfy house clothes, and I find myself saying (out loud), "Are you going to be this bitchy all night?" I know that I need to take a step back, drink something cooling, and watch Judge Judy to feel superior.

Speaking of which...

A Little Bit Of Ecstasy...

2011-05-16T21:01:00.001-04:00

There's so much going on here that it feels like nothing at all. There've been dreams of evil babies, a ripped-off toenail, a mini-power crisis, folks with whom I work who are either gone/crazy, and a desire to spend far too much time in the bathroom with bleach.

To clean it!

I guess this is what happens when you lie back for a bit and just let life happen. Let me tell you though, life is weird. And I'm suddenly humming Fly On The Windscreen under my breath. This is an upgrade for my neighbors, who want nothing more than to never hear me sing.

I'm dreaming of a new car. But if I can't have that, how much is a new car CD player? They still have those things, right? Remember that I do not need an iPod deck, now or ever.

Best line I heard today: You probe the crime, and then we fist it!

Bedazzled

2011-05-09T19:18:00.000-04:00

A new friend has been handling all my wedding plans, because the first time I printed out a to-do list I had a panic attack and had to leave the room. She witnessed this and just took over. She presented me with a plastic purple organizer/divider the other day, and then promptly took it from me so she could embellish it.

The purple folder now has some version of college sorority calligraphy along with colored rhinestones. It is awesome and I love it.

So how come I want to elope so badly?

The Story Of A Toe

2011-05-03T19:10:00.000-04:00

So the power went out last Wednesday afternoon. A lark, at first, until it was not, and it was pitch dark, and there were no external lights, and there were storms and storm clouds which meant there was nothing to see. I decided to enjoy my landline and then take a sleeping pill, because there was nothing.

The next night, there was no power either. Another pill put me to bed around 7:30.

Friday night I talked with GPOM, and surprisingly enough, took another pill.

At this point I felt like a pioneer and wished I could unlearn what I knew about technology so I wouldn't hate my life as much as I did by then.

And then comes Saturday night, where I made a MASSIVE error in judgment, and took the sleeping pill with some vodka.

Judge if you must, but imagine that your world is unknowable to you. And the only thing you could do is try to pass the time. So you do, in the most idiotic way possible. Then you try to go to bed, walk into a door because you're a door-closing freak, and walk into that door with your right big toe.

Fortunately, I didn't recognize the damage until the morning. I now have a teacup-sized lack of toenail. It hurt like hell, and I bandaided-it, and am now gimping around like I lost a knee.

Today Momma and I went shopping. Well, Momma, I, and the days-old band-aided toe went shopping. I knew it needed attention, but I also knew that the band-aid was attaching to the RAW OPEN WOUND ON TOP OF MY TOE WHERE A NAIL SHOULD BE, so I was afraid of the interminable pain when I ripped the band-aid off to attach gauze.

It rained today. Just what my town needs, more rain. But when off-loading my groceries, I noticed that the band-aid had come off, and I could do my own doctoring without fear or pain.

Here's hoping the new nail grows in before the wedding.

PS - Momma pointed out that I now walk worse than she does. NURSING HOME, WOMAN!

I Promise...

2011-05-02T21:39:00.000-04:00

Being away from internet has been tricky. Being away from power has been trickier. Except the part where it didn't entirely suck, because I was able to never apologize because there was no-one to question me.

I think I might be overtired, and hurting, and sad, and needy. No-one wants to deal with weak me, including me.

I have absolutely nothing to eat tonight, and I haven't eaten since about 8 this morning. I'm hungry.

I promise to tell tales, as soon as I get my head back up into its rightful place.

Encouragement

2011-04-21T22:18:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow GPOM has a tricky quiz in logic. I'll admit, I don't remember what 'if and only if' is in a symbol. I do know. In case this ever occurs in your life, it's an equals sign with a third line over the top.

The point is, I trust that he is so much better at this work than he does. I try to tell him how much of which he is capable, but he has a blind spot for anything mathematical.

Yet, he's quite good at math. He just doesn't trust himself at it yet. He should, and hopefully he will.

How did we end up with this mistrust in ourselves? If I could give us (I mean you as well) one gift, it'd be that you must trust you. Because you're awesome. Because you've survived situations that many others could not. Because you're still here, which means things CAN only get better.

Good luck tomorrow, my love.

Laundry

2011-04-20T22:34:00.000-04:00

This trip involved a lot of figuring out the details. Details such as, "You keep too much crap in my bathroom and it freaks me out." Well, GPOM, it takes a lot to look as good as I do.

Still, because I am a good person, I didn't overreact much. (Too much. OK, I grabbed everything out, threw it all into my suitcase, and screamed, "Fine! Are you happy now?" Because I never overpersonalize anything.)

I told GPOM while he was headed out the door that I would handle the laundry. Some people hate doing laundry. I kinda hate doing laundry. OK, I don't hate it, but I'd much rather check in on Real Housewives than do anything that involves domestic ~~violence~~ work.

I have a special place for the handling of the laundry. Let me explain...at some point when I was in college, I had a lovely lingerie set from Victoria's Secret. The bra and front part of the panties (you probably should've stopped reading by now) were satin, and the behind-coverage was cotton. Gorgeous. Simply gorgeous. I came home for a weekend to my parents' place, and placed my accouterments into the loving hands of my mother - she who can wash anything, and whom I think might have invented Mother Saliva as a stain remover. Unfortunately, my dad decided to help. By putting bleach into that load of laundry.

My dress-up gear was ruined, and needless to say, I was F.U.R.I.O.U.S.

I hollered at my dad, and pointed out that this was an expensive set. His response was that I shouldn't have spent so much on undergarments.

NOT. THE. POINT.

So I told GPOM that no matter what else I was willing to sacrifice in our home, I would always be in control of the laundry.

"Cool," he said.

Things I Thought Pre-, During, And After O'Hare

2011-04-06T21:41:00.000-04:00

It is 3:30am and I am awake.
It is 4am and I am building a legal argument for why the gate at my complex really is a security gate, and not a gate for "traffic control" as my landlords states. (Seriously. I thought that exact sentence. I then determined that I am a complete dork. Who thinks these things?)
It's 4:44am. Where is my ride?
It's 5am. I'm at the airport already. Damn, my ride drives fast. Bless him.
It's 5:45am. Why has the plane not taken off?
It's 5:48am. Who hired this seventeen-year-old hipster to be a flight attendant?
It's 5:49am. Dear hipster flight attendant: You are not funny. You are far too loud because the speaker is directly above my head, but you are not funny.
It's 6:01am. I just broke the overhead light above my seat and it's dark out and I can't read and Oh God Oh God Oh God what am I going to do for two hours?

We made it to O'Hare unscathed. The sun rose quickly and I was able to read. The Room is an excellent book. I will read it again because I am a speed reader so I'm sure that I missed some emotional details that haven't yet ripped out my heart.

I looked for my brother, the United pilot, all through the terminal but never saw him. I was disappointed because we had totally agreed to high-five while passing each other on the moving sidewalk. C'mon, you know that level of badassery is almost impossible to top.

There was a Pizzeria Uno stand in the terminal, but because it was 7:40am, it was not yet open. Another disappointment. I would've totally eaten uber-deep dish pizza in the morning had it been available.

I had the last seat on the left on the flight from Chicago to Seattle. I have never had that many asses (literal asses) rub my shoulder in a five-hour period. I hated that part. I finally nodded off, only to get knocked awake (not rubbed, not tapped, but KNOCKED) by a woman with an unfortunate body fat distribution system.

I've still not recovered from jet lag and being awake for twenty-four hours. But I'm here, and so is GPOM, and there have been very pleasant exchanges between us thus far.

Tomorrow Will Suck Then Not

2011-04-04T19:25:00.000-04:00

People, 3:30am is a terrible time to wake up. You know I don't sleep well anyway, so taking away any rest time is bound to make my eyeliner look more raccoon-ish than usual.

I've got three books in my backpack, five more in my suitcase, and four waiting for me in Seattle. Here's hoping I don't find anything other than another bottle of St. John to buy, or I'll have to pay another luggage fee.

Think good thoughts for me from here to Chicago to Seattle.

'Cos I once I get to Seattle there will be KISSES!

Butterflies Rising

2011-04-03T20:55:00.000-04:00

So soon, so soon I go! I'm very excited. I'm a bit nervous about the amount of nerves I'm going to have tomorrow while I pack and try to remember everything.

Yes, I worry about upcoming worries. You're suprised by this?

I just want to enjoy my time with GPOM. I want to work hard on my cases when I'm not wrapped in love bubble, so I can relax into said love bubble.

I know I'm not making much sense. I'm cool with that. I've got a suitcase and travel-sized toiletries and Tina Turner's Simply The Best to guide my way. And whatever I forget - there's stores in Seattle!

I hope to have the chance to write to you while I'm gone. Maybe something silly like this?

She Didn't Kill Me

2011-03-31T19:29:00.000-04:00

If I've not mentioned it before, Momma tends to get quite ill when I head to Seattle. She worries about me, about money, about whether I'm really going to marry this ~~loser~~ man. For the record, Momma, I am going to marry this wonderful, funny, supportive, scary, intelligent equal.

Yay!

Anyhoo, I put off telling her as long as possible before I leave for vacation. Because I'm brave that way. This time she took it with a grain of salt, only asking when I'm leaving and returning and the motive behind this trip. My answers were until and because I've saved up the money.

I do have my pound of flesh, however - I have to help her clean the third level of her house so her houseguest will be much more welcome. I'm disappointed that I won't get to see her friend, but so glad that this didn't turn into WWIII.

Nothing left to do but clean, pack, move furniture, get my jewelry cleaned (I'm marrying a man who notices things like that) and arrange for airport transportation. Keep your fingers crossed that I bring some sunshine with me to Seattle. I get weird with sunshine after about three days.

I Am Not Special

2011-03-25T19:09:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, before my personal national holiday, I was dreaming of getting an Android phone. Who doesn’t want one of those? (No comments from you Apple people, please. I am fully aware of the prior and ongoing superiority of Apple products.) I want one because I don’t have one and because it seems like everyone else I know has one and because they’re fun to play with and just because.

Currently Momma and I share a family plan, and we’ve found that the contract on it ends in April. So we went looking for what will work best for us. Of course I found a $250 phone (AFTER discount) and of course I could rationalize the $150 each month that this phone would cost not me. Momma was sitting down, letting me do my exploration, and when I went to talk about it with her, she kinda blew up.

“You know, I don’t even use this damn phone, and I’m paying for it!” Ouch. Not that a word of that isn’t true, but ouch. I asked her for a little time to explore my options, which she has granted.

GPOM and I have decided to get our own family plan, which will cut costs for both of us, and allow us to have unlimited minutes and texts. I really don’t need an Android, I don’t know how to use even the call feature on such a phone (I only recently found the ‘back’ button), and quite honestly, I can’t afford such a phone. GPOM and I will be content with calls and texts and picture messages for the time being.

To the point! I asked the sales lady at T-Mobile a quiet question about getting a new phone: There are, let’s say, ahem, uh…uh…uh…private photos on my phone that I don’t want to lose and I don’t want to be seen by the person transferring the data from the phone and SIM card to the new phone. She laughed and said, “Everyone asks that. EVERYONE. The transfer is done by computer and we never see a thing.”

I thought I was the only one!

At Least I'M Excited

2011-03-22T19:57:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow's my birthday. I like to think of it as a national holiday dedicated especially to me. I really don't like people telling me that they know someone who shares my birthday.

There is no sharing on birthdays. Because it's my national holiday, I get to make the rules.

I have cards and gifts on the mantle, and I'm excited to open them tomorrow. Yes, I am one of those people who can get gifts and save them for my special day. I don't understand those who have to open gifts immediately. What's the fun in that? What happens if nothing else comes on your national holiday and then you've got nothing new to open? You've squandered a precious opportunity to be the master of your domain for just a few minutes.

Oh, and I got some new plug-ins today. The place smells terrific!

Valentine's Day - In March?

2011-03-07T22:06:00.000-05:00

You might remember that last year, I was sorely disappointed in GPOM's and my Valentine's Day. This year, I told him well in advance that the day was coming. What I finally received, LAST FRIDAY, was a package with a couple of novelties and the stuff I'd need to do his taxes.

ROMANCE.

GPOM got me a scarf and a bracelet. I was terribly offended. Really, can you imagine me in a scarf? The bracelet I more understood, as it was hard plastic with dead bugs in it. GPOM loves that sort of thing. But, still, a scarf? I fumed for the evening, and then talked with GPOM the next day. He asked me if I liked the scarf, and I scattered around, trying to find a way to say NO NO NO while saying that yes, I did.

"Duly noted," was his reply and he sounded so disillusioned.

Later, he asked me if I sniffed the scarf. As I had not, and it never occurred to me to do such, I told him so. He told me then that he had scented it with his cologne. Yeah, right, it came in plastic wrap, I thought, and went to bed. The next morning I decided to test my theory and discovered that it smelled just as his Miracle does. Not quite the same - let's be honest - because that scent meshes with his body chemistry and creates a different aroma.

But tonight I apologized, because I should never assume. Nor should I add to those presumptions any sort of blame. Tonight we're in a better place. Honesty - scary. Tough. Sometimes too easy. Lessons - good. He loves me.

I might need your help to remind me to tread lightly, k?

Steal These, And I'll Be Quite Angry With You

2011-02-27T21:33:00.000-05:00

GPOM and I spent the afternoon talking and dreaming and planning, and then we came to names for kids. I don't know if I can have or want kids, but who doesn't want to dream?

My initial dream names:
Miranda Alexis
Robert Thomas

GPOM's opinion was that Miranda was from Miranda Sex Garden (the band) which is was, and that Alexis is a name from the 80s. (It's not, it's from a good friend from high school.) So OK, that's out. After arguments about Greek and Italian names, we finally decided on a name for a girl: Catherine. Called Cate, not at all Cathy. I like it. Middle name to be determined. (Hell, it's better than Siobhan Hurricane, don't you think? That's a stupid name.)

The boy's name I always dreamed of is Robert Thomas. Robert from The Cure. Thomas because my brother raised me. Funnily enough, the argument was much easier here. GPOM's first name is the name I've chosen, so we decided on Robert Thomas Henry. That dignifies both our families.

Here's hoping!

Free Transvestite Dating

2011-02-24T22:54:00.000-05:00

Glorious. These are now the comments I get. I mean, who doesn't love funny spam?

Me. Tonight. Because I feel like I've been run through the wringer (hey, 1900, I'm talking to you) and apparently illness means that I have absolutely no sense of humor.

Napping helped. Having to sign away my civil liberties to get some damn psuedoephedrine did not. (Thanks lots, meth heads! Enjoy gumming your food!)

I promise to come back with wit and cunning and more interesting stories. Right now, I'm just hoping my head doesn't explode.

Quick Quiz Time!

2011-02-22T19:26:00.000-05:00

I might have mentioned that GPOM is a foodie. If I haven't, then clearly I need some sort of professional help, because not even one day goes by without some conversation about food he's had, is having, or is about to make. And thank Christmas, because learning how to make a burrito in the oven rather than the microwave is stretching my culinary brains to places that involve...a whole lot of use of the trash can.

So is it any surprise that I asked him if he wanted to try out for Top Chef? We talked of it briefly over the weekend, and I just remembered rightnow (thanks, Facebook!) so I looked up the application. It's about ten pages of questions and fifteen of legalese, so clearly I felt comfortable. But there were, let's say, Quickfire Questions, ones that I wrote down to ask him, but can't seem to stop myself from answering for myself here.

Ready? Let's go!

1. Create a culinary interpretation of the lyric of "Five Golden Rings" from the song "Twelve Days of Christmas".
     I'm thinking of something served on one of those paper plates that separates the foods so that incredibly picky eaters like myself can play with the grownups too.

2. Create a dish inspired by the color blue.
     Yeah yeah seafood yeah yeah. How about some Jell-O? Everyone loves Jell-O! Maybe some Knox Blox even?

3. Recreate meatloaf into a gourmet dish.
     You should know that I initially typed "meatloaf" as "meatload". I believe that question has been answered.

4. Describe yourself in one word.
     Moody.

5. How would someone else describe you in one word?
     Moody.

6. What would someone close to you describe as your best and worst traits?
     Loyalty and neediness.

7. Describe your most embarrassing moment.
     This question requires that I rank my many and varying humiliations, and I decline to do so. I did have a tough day with a lady problem in junior high. I think you know what I mean.

8. Odd fact or talent?
     My ability to tell the internet my life story? Sheesh, I don't know. I can write in mirror writing; how's that?

9. Favorite TV shows, movies, magazines, and books?
     TV show: The entire Bravo network family of programming.
     Movies: Boring question. I did like Quills.
     Magazines: I currently subscribe to O and Glamour, so I guess they count.
     Books: I read incessantly. I read crap and literature and short stories and trade magazines when they're all I've got. It's hard to pick favorites.

There you go! A little more about your favorite _____________________.

August 11, 2009

2011-02-21T18:50:00.001-05:00

I keep all sorts of things. Notes, letters, CDs, the occasional stack of coupons I'll never use, and text and picture messages on my phone. One of life's great unfairnesses for me is that I can only keep thirty incoming texts while I can save two hundred outgoing messages. Why would I want to save messages I've sent?

Anyhoo...

I took a little trip down text message memory lane this afternoon and discovered that my first-ever text from GPOM was on July 28, 2008, the night before I started the bar exam. It said that he'd gotten a callback for a play and that this good news meant that I was due a good sign as well. I couldn't answer - I didn't know how to text back then, but I thought it was sweet and funny and very telling that his good news somehow meant mine was coming.

Years and text upon text upon picture message later - this is how we got reacquainted, as the three-thousand-mile distance made it tricky to date traditionally, we got closer and more involved. I kinda thought he might be the one - at least, I was making a strong emotional argument to myself that this was meant to be - until I got a text from him on August 11, 2009. By then I was thinking of visiting him and planning my trip and getting all excited. But this was a calming text, and this was the exact day that I knew that I wanted to be with him forever.

Ready for the missive that set this whole thing in motion?

"Cool! Want nething frm the sto?"

I knew that for the rest of my life, I could look forward to notes like those. And I fell, completely.

A Case Of First Impression

2011-02-17T18:53:00.000-05:00

I'll admit it - I've never practiced in juvenile court before, and I'm learning that the standards are different. I'm also learning not to race to judgment, pity, or any of the other gut feelings that make me feel powerful and then make me miss the point. If I can just shut up and listen to what's being said to me, I can provide much better advice than what lives in my own meandering experience.

So for the past few weeks, I've had time to run through the gamut of feelings and impressions about a recent case. I've had time to get input from others who are either directly, indirectly, or not at all involved with with the situation. And I've finally given myself time - this involves not thinking at all - to determine my own response. I'm feeling positive about chances, and I'm planning a day that will be unexpected to all involved.

Good thing I finally figured it out, since the hearing's tomorrow.

Valentine

2011-02-14T21:54:00.002-05:00

OK - let's have a talk. I might have told you that last year, I got nothing from GPOM for Valentine's Day. I knew that he didn't have any freedom to give me a gift, so I asked for story and/or for him to read to me the most romantic poetry I knew. I got none of the sort.

Instead, I got a quiet night alone and a late-night phone call about how amazing he thought I was, and what he had done to prove it. (I save that message still.)

Today I checked my mailbox twice, to find a card in a handwriting I didn't recognize. It was GPOM's mom, who sent me a sweet, kind Valentine's card to tell me that she was glad to have me in her life. I talked to GPOM's folks about all that's been happening, and I finally realized that they love me beyond GPOM.

GPOM called, and has a miserable cold, but managed to tell me that he loves me not one, not two, but three times in a five-minute conversation.

I love you too, honey. Take care of you so we can take care of each other.

Ice Day

2011-02-10T21:29:00.000-05:00

I am a very tough woman, in that I'm not afraid to face my fears or even opposing counsel.

(Shut up. I am tough!)

Today I got on the road to get to gettin' (miss you, Niecy Nash) and got just around the local ill-placed roundabout and realized that even without my foot on the gas, I was moving. Not at all in the direction I intended, but moving. I made it just over a bridge, not at all by my own volition, and then decided to head back home.

I've done my snow driving, many, many times, but ice is a whole new world of un-driving. It was interesting to blithely glide back home, hoping that my light taps at the wheel would guide me. Still, I hope to not have to do that again anytime soon.

I Hate To Get All Political...

2011-02-05T19:35:00.000-05:00

Last night GPOM and I started the discussion of timing of children for us. Needless to say, that was a tough and interesting talk and thank goodness only the first of many.

Today, I ran across this.

It reminded me of how much time I've had to spend, as an uninsured woman, getting my Depo shots from the local clinic. Each time I walked toward that place, there were abortion protesters. People dressed in Victorian dress, blocking me from walking on the sidewalk, yelling, "You don't have to kill your baby!"

I was there to prevent said baby.

I'll be honest - going there would set my nerves on fire, and it would take me ten to fifteen moments to calm down long enough to hold a pen. It was that bad - my hands would shake so badly that I couldn't even sign in for my BIRTH CONTROL appointment.

A "representative" who says such things must clearly know nothing about being a woman, about choices, about spur-of-the-moments decisions...wow, my brain is all over the place with things I want to say.

But I want to say this: You, you, and especially YOU have no right to decide what's best for me or my family. If this bill passes, I'm interested in a letter-writing campaign about chemical castration.

Sound fair?

Omigod I Want Ice Cream

2011-02-01T18:31:00.000-05:00

You know, you spend a little time on The Impulsive Buy, you're going to end up with a review of ice cream. Sweet, delicious, good in a cup or cone ice cream. Silky, smooth to the throat ice cream.

I have some in my freezer right now. It's that slow churned kind, so I can have a bowl AND chocolate syrup on top and not feel guilty. Well, not too guilty.

Speaking of guilt, I made a client cry today.

Back to the ice cream. I know it's getting colder outside again, and it's rainy, and I'll probably have to defrost my car in the morning before I can leave, but I really do think I should eat some ice cream. I mean, my throat hurts, and what's more soothing than ice cream? Especially French Silk ice cream with chocolate syrup? Nothing, I'll tell you. Nothing.

I Might Have Named Another Post Something About Balancing

2011-01-27T21:32:00.000-05:00

Ever need a world-release? Ever think you're the most important in the world?

Today I handled some not-correctly-applied passive aggression, wondering about Momma's health, thinking about supporting two households for the time being, news that a friend lost a baby, balancing that against a seventeen-year-old's need, and then finally, talking with my Great Aunt Ruth.

I can carry a whole lot - in fact, sometimes I think I excel at it until I don't, and then I fail miserably - but some days are just a reason to watch bad TV and dream of freedom.

Speaking of freedom, the other night I called GPOM and told him that sometimes I have the desire to run. Just run. Run to anywhere. Just be gone. I told him that maybe we could get a thirty-mile island, so that I'd know he was around, but far enough away that I wouldn't go the fifteen miles to meet him.

He said, "I'd walk it to get to you."

Finally, I exhaled, ready for another round.

PS - Cita's baby is well, alive, and apparently a prude. Won't show off the goods!

Yay!

2011-01-20T19:30:00.000-05:00

This is post #667. Wow.

Anyway, GPOM and I are incredibly huge silly fans of the movie Bruno, to the point where any part of it becomes a weird inside joke. So isn't it fitting that Sacha Baron Cohen's movie will be released just about one month after the wedding? Thanks, Sacha. You will make our marriage yet.

Pressure

2011-01-19T21:41:00.000-05:00

May I rant? I'm feeling quite overwhelmed. I'm working. I'm inviting new clients to decide if they want me to represent them. I'm planning a wedding, for the love of Pete. I'm dealing with other peoples' interests more than I am with mine.

It's generally what I do, until I break down and freak out and scare/alienate the piss out of people. I'm tired, as well. Have I mentioned that I'm tired? Have I mentioned how much I hate sleeping alone and not being protected from the world? Have I mentioned that if I'm lucky, I get four straight-through hours of sleep each night?

But I get up every day, like we all do, and carry on, wearing the mask (slippery) and engaging.

I know this is going to sound ultra-super-astoundingly self-centered, but the question remains:

When is it my turn?

$900

2011-01-15T21:36:00.000-05:00

Momma and I have been talking about makeovers for a while now. I'll be frank - I've not learned new tricks since 2009, just before the first time I went to visit GPOM. From that consultation, I became a devotee of both facial and eyeshadow primer - however ineffective both are in the treacherous humidity of Alabama summers. Up in the Northwest, both work great!

Aside: GPOM and I will have separate bathrooms always, because I alarm him with the vittles I bring to put on my face. I only brought a fraction!

I sat in the chair at the Chanel counter first, and Momma watched as the saleslady began to make me up/over. It wasn't long until Momma got her own sales consultant who, despite the need to cater to every wandering customer as she worked on Momma, made Momma's eyes some of the deepest blue I've ever seem.

Aside: Momma has grey eyes, and I've always been jealous.

Once I got past the weirdness of someone else drawing on my eyeliner, and my eyes recovered (an even worse propostion - it looked like I was about to cry for a few minutes), I saw something new in me. Cheekbones! Light off the bones under my eyes! A lipstick that my mouth has been crying for for about three years! Even more cat-shaped eyes!

Even more cat-shaped eyes. I never thought that possible.

I fell in love, as did Momma, and we checked off items we wanted from our consultants.

Aside: Note that they're now consultants.

Our goods were packed, and the woman who rung up our purchases asked if we minded if there were two different transactions, as we worked with different consultants. That was no problem, and Momma proceeded to write out two checks.

Aside: Momma paid for these items.

In total, we spent $900 on makeup today. Correction: Momma paid $900 for both of our new kits today.

I've never felt so spoiled. Thank you, Mom. Thank you thank you thank you.

Here's The Thing

2011-01-14T22:52:00.000-05:00

It's Friday night, I have 1000 things to do this weekend, and potential filthy lucre to forward to, but I miss GPOM. I mean, of course I miss him in general, but I miss having the chance to speak with him tonight. He's out with friends, as he should be, as I should be, as we all should be, but I get stuck in routines and I drag him into mine and DAMNIT I MISS HIM.

I'll be fine. A night of spending time with me just might be what I need. So, ok, the truth is that I miss the option of talking with GPOM.

I really, really hope he's having fun with his friends. He deserves it.

Color Me...Oh, Hell

2011-01-10T22:23:00.000-05:00

GPOM and I chose colors for the wedding a while back, and I deigned to his decision. This is important because:

1. The boy will now be know as GPOM, and if you want to know why, feel free to ask, and;
2. My sister figures into the second part of the first sentence.

Please know that the final decision was mutual, but I let GPOM choose because the wedding is more important to him than it is to me.

Yes, I am not a girl. I have not dreamed of weddings my whole life. I spent the last morning of his being here asking to go to the courthouse.

So, I sent color samples to my maid of honor and my bridesmaids. Since then, I've gotten no end of crap from my sister, who is my maid of honor. Why that color? Can't it be another color? I know you're only using this color because you let GPOM choose it. Why are you letting him decide about your wedding? This culminated in a card I got from my sister, which essentially told me that if she had to wear that color, she'd refuse to be in the ceremony.

I read it to GPOM, after I laughed, and he laughed as well, and we thought no more of it. My sister called me yesterday to apologize, and of course I forgave her because I didn't take it seriously. She still hates the color. She called me later to offer purple as a solution. I pointed out that as a blue-eyed blonde, she could wear anything, but that I have three bridesmaids, two of which have Italian roots, and one who is colored similarly to me. (And is turning 30 tomorrow - W00T!)

And I swore to her that if she kept it up, everyone would wear orange and we would have a pumpkin wedding.

Just wait until I tell her the threats that GPOM has in store.

Live Blog - The Bionic Momma

2011-01-05T11:13:00.002-05:00

11:04am: The doctor just came by to confirm that Momma's OK and on her way to recovery. We can go see her in about fifteen minutes. Momma now has an ID card for her pacemaker, so TSA, I am putting you on full alert. You MAY NOT super-can my Momma. You also MAY NOT feel her up. We clear? That lady is tougher than all of us combined.

10:52am: The nurse just called, Momma's out of surgery and did "just beautifully". The doctor is on his way up to talk with us now.

10:05am: Ever have that feeling that your brain is actually protecting you from yourself? I tried to get up three times this morning, but I kept falling back asleep. It's like I wasn't emotionally ready to handle today. (I'm not, for the record.) I got up at eight and got clean, avoiding any thoughts at all. I called Wade and we visited for a bit, and then came to the hospital. I only started crying once in the car - fat, thick tears that stick to eyeballs and cheeks. The only good about this kind of tear is that it doesn't make my makeup run.

Got to the hospital, to find that the parking garage was apparently designed for Zip Cars - not too handy in a town of uber-trucks and Ford Exorbitants. But Circe is still in one piece. I tore through the waiting areas to get to something called Cardiac Short Stop, which is the pre-op patient waiting area. Of course, I was thirty minutes too late so I haven't yet seen Momma. My dad is here and I am doing my best to not engage.

While I wait for an update, let me expound: In times of worry, my father becomes a child again. I finally learned this lesson when my grandmother - my Momma's momma - died. I was pretty hysterical and looking for comfort, as she and I were pretty close. (Not as close as Momma and her momma were, but still.) I hugged my dad, and he started talking about how sad he was about the whole thing, how much he cared about her, what her death meant to him, etc. I was offended, and since then, I never look to him for comfort. This may sound harsh and unfair, but too bad. I've had to be a grown-up in my family for as long as I can remember. I don't have a lot left for someone who let me be the adult. This doesn't mean that I don't love my dad, just that I don't draw strength from him.

So now we wait.

I Hear They're Small

2010-12-31T23:45:00.001-05:00

The boy and I are discussing kids, the state of our upcoming marriage, laughing, making out, being happy.

Well, we were, but now I'm here, writing to you, and he's in the living room talking to his upstairs neighbor.

All I know is this - it's raining softly, I've got my music, and my boy is apparently convincing his neighbor that he matters. Damn holiday depression.

Regardless of all, I want you to know that I appreciate you taking the seconds to read my foolishness, and occasionally telling me your thoughts, and I look forward to another year of telling you about my life.

Kisses. I love you. Be well.

Dinner At Tim's

2010-12-28T23:08:00.001-05:00

If you've never had the privilege of eating at Tim's Cajun Kitchen, do yourself a favor and get the hell down here right now and eat delicious Cajun food.

(Yes, I've been spending a lot of time with the boy. That should explain my channeling his speech pattern in the previous sentence.)

A while back, I was telling the boy about my buddy Ward and just what a cool friend Ward is. The boy, never prone to jealousy in words, told me that this was one of my friends that he never wanted to meet. I never really understood why - I could only assume that he doesn't like me talking too much about my guy friends.

Last night, Ward and I decided to meet for dinner with a few of his friends. "Are you gonna bring your fella?" he asked me, in his inimitable Southern accent. "I don't know; I'll ask him," I said.

Telling the boy that I was meeting old college friends for dinner, I asked if he'd like to join us. "Hell YA!" was his response, since he's fallen in love with Tim's after I took him there last summer.

So the boy and Ward finally met. And, (unsurprisingly to anyone who's not me) they got along pretty well. They got each other's esoteric literary and vocabularic (is that a word?) references. There were no hugs, but the boy's, "Good to meet you, man!" was true.

Ring The Alarm

2010-12-25T19:55:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, the boy told me that the ring he intended to get for me that was a family heirloom was just not...good. The conversation went something like this:

Him: I saw the rings today.
Me: Yeah?
Him: Mmmmm.....
Me: Yeah?
Him: Not what I thought...
Me: Yeah?
Him: It's dented and well...
Me: Yeah?
Him: I don't think it's a real diamond.
Me: Oh.

So there's some truth for you - diamonds matter. They do. To me.

I know we don't have a lot of money, so when Cita texted to ask me about my bling, I told her that I didn't think I was getting any. It's OK, I told her.

Uh-huh. We both know me, right? But of course I love the boy more than I love jewelry.

Mostly.

Last night, I told the boy that the ring I currently wear, Momma's engagement ring, was not given to her when she got engaged, but was given a few years after my folks got married. It's true, and I didn't want the boy to feel badly for not giving me the ring.

He told me to look for a present that he had hidden for me - it was under the couch. It was a bottle of wine we had on our date, called Dulce Cristina. I was amazed and so happy.

I turned with it in my hand, to thank him, and then I saw something sparkly. And then I noticed that he was on one knee. And then he asked me again to marry him, and he put the ring on my finger.

And I love it. And I love him.

Later I told him that he must like it, 'cos he put a ring on it.

Want Witty? Look To Your Left

2010-12-22T23:02:00.001-05:00

The other night I spent forever on the phone with my sister and my sister-in-law. Who apparently loathe each other. That was fun.

I spent tonight on the phone with my soon-to-be-inlaws and family. So, does this mean I'm in?

The boy tells me that the ring he's planned for me is sub-par. I hope this means that he's saving for one for US, because as I love my Momma's ring, I want one that's ours.

I spoke with the boy's Momma, his niece, his brother-in-law, and him tonight. Good, but to be honest, sometimes a lot.

Plans for tomorrow include removing the chapstick on the mirror, vacuuming, dusting, shopping for pseudo-niece, then picking up said to finish my shopping. Then getting the boy after all and perhaps collapsing.

Next day is Christmas Eve.

Blah Blah Patience Blah Blah

2010-12-16T11:57:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here, waiting for enough time to go by so I can get into the shower and get ready to get the boy from the airport. Waiting for American Airlines to get off its tucus and get the plane in the air. The plane that, the boy told me, drove in circles a few times on the runway before finally deigning to come to the gate. The warm, welcoming gate where passengers can disembark and the boy can finally get on his and come home.

American Airlines - you and I need to have a conversation. It was bad enough that you messed up my trip to Seattle last summer and made me lose a day with the boy. Because of you, I may never go to Houston again (sorry Wade!). But to make the boy miss a flight that was delayed by thirty minutes because his train broke down and he was fifteen minutes late to the gate and you told him that he had to check in thirty minutes early is just cruel. Let's do some quick math, k? Fifteen minutes plus thirty minutes equals forty-five minutes, which falls well into your thirty-minute-before-flight-check-in policy.

Even worse, you made him claim his luggage at O'Hare and spend the night in the airport with his luggage, outside the security gate, because you refused to let him re-check him bag until 4:30am. So he was stuck with all his valuables in an unguarded area overnight.

Aside: One of few useful things about the TSA is that at least the boy would have been safe.

Now, he's finally sitting on a tarmac in a puddle-jumper at O'Hare and I JUST WANT HIM HOME ALREADY.

And for what it's worth, I like United better anyway.

Intro To Parenting

2010-12-06T19:15:00.001-05:00

On Friday I took Biggs over to my folks' place, in readiness for PaintFest 2010. He can't help but be curious, and he'd follow around people and brushes and he'd try to mark the paint. Biggs has a strong, strong habit of rubbing his little cat-lips against corners. Can you imagine how much paint he would've ingested? I believe I'm mentioned before that Biggs is gorgeous, but not that smart. Not smart enough to stay away from delicious wet paint.

Momma told me Saturday that Biggs was having a glorious time, and that he and Bridget (Momma's cat) were getting on just fine. I was only just beginning to feel the pangs of loneliness.

Yesterday Momma told me that he's not pulling out and eating his fur, that he's taken over Bridget's bed, and that he's generally enjoying the rock-star life of a fifteen-year-old cat.

You know, each time I go away, my folks keep him, and he always has fun. So much fun that he runs from me when I come to pick him up. So I've wondered if it would be in his best interest to just live over there.

I want what's best for the Gato Mas Fino, and I know that my bad habits and occasional bad mood are not creating the best environment for him. I know he deserves more than me, and I agreed to let him stay with my folks until Saturday.

But I miss my little face like crazy. I miss him so much it hurts. I keep looking down for him. I don't like coming home from work because there's no-one here to greet me. I cried to the boy yesterday about this. I don't know what to do. I want him with me. I want to be a better cat-friend to him. But I know me and I am weak and I am not ready to change all my bad habits.

So what do I do?

Reminder

2010-12-02T21:40:00.000-05:00

For the past few ~~days~~ ~~weeks~~ months, I've been lost in finding my direction. I've been reactive, for sure, you've all seen that. But today I had a luncheon about tax repercussions for the various ways lawyers incorporate themselves, and that really helped.

What helped much more, though, was time I spent with Jamie. (She said I could use her name!) Despite the ways we got to this place, we're in the same one, finding out how to actually practice law.

Talking with her, feeling comfortable about all the things we discussed, reminded me of why I do what I do and kinda gave me the ass-kicking I needed to refocus.

Also, spending a few hours around colleagues helps as well. That time spent makes me put on my best game face.

Time around Jamie lets me feel free to explore it.

Schmaltz

2010-11-30T20:38:00.000-05:00

You didn't think you'd get more than a post or two away from another story about the boy, did you? Thank goodness, because I didn't want to raise your hopes much.

PS - Feel free to read this while listening to Rush - just so you can have the whole writer experience as well. Thank goodness you won't know exactly when to pause and sing out loud.

Last night I was explaining to the boy about my (perchance monthly) desire to overload in chocolate. "I crave something sweet," I explained. He said, "If you need something sweet, call me."

Awwww... I mean really....awwww....

He sensed that, and backtracked like any normal man would. "Umm...you know what I mean...I'm not..."

Yes, dear. Yes, I know.

This lead into a conversation about change and expectations, and sheesh, kid, I've known you for more than twenty years. Do you think I'd ever want to change you? (I mean, except for the coaster thing.)

Today I checked my email and saw that he emailed me his Christmas list. The last item on his list? 8. You!

Awwww... I mean really....awwww....

It's That Time Again

2010-11-28T22:07:00.001-05:00

Ever year I post my Christmas present list. So here we go - it being after Thanksgiving and all:

1. Digital camera. It needs to have image stabilization, due to my damneded shaky hands.
2. Socks. I love love love these socks. Remember when we were kids and hated getting these as gifts? I guess this is glory of getting older.
3. Sheets. I only have two sets, and apparently a very strong EB - Bubbles II, Electric Bugaloo. So a new set would be lovely.
4. Amazon.com gift card. If only because I can hear my IP professor in my head, telling that that "acquiring" music is very very wrong.
5. Target gift card. C'mon; a girl's gotta eat!
6. Cosmedicine. No-one can afford the Kinerase that my sister got me, and this brand has also been a godsend.
7. Makeup brushes. I forgot my blush brush while I was in Seattle and used a paint brush of the boy's while I was there. 80s makeup much? We looked in Sephora for a new brush, and sweet-holy-anything-unholy were they pricey there.
8. O Magazine renewal. Last year Amazon offered a subscription for a year for five dollars. I got addicted to the positivity of the magazine, but can't afford the renewal.
9. House clothes. By which I mean, yoga pants, fun T-shirts - things I'd never leave the house wearing, but wear around the house like crazy.

An addendum to this year's list - this is the boy's list, for those of you who might care:

1. The Thai - I tell you, the boy can cook.
2. Anthony Bourdain books - see #1 above. (I think he'd prefer the newer ones.)
3. Glen Goldberg recordings, preferably the more recent Bach.
4. 10" nonstick skillet - I was kinda surprised by this one, if only because he tends to be a purist who uses cast-iron cookware. But you know what? Sometimes making breakfast with more modern cookware just makes life easier.

Merry Christmas! May all of our money trees bloom and bloom and bloom.

We've Had This Conversation Before

2010-11-27T23:08:00.000-05:00

I miss writing. I wonder how much I should say, like how annoyed I am at the boy's "illness", or even more, how annoyed at I am Momma.

OK - let's go.

About twenty years ago, I had a best friend named Christina. I got a call one morning that Christina had been in a very serious car accident, and that the doctors weren't sure she would make it. Would I come, her sister asked me.

Where the hell else would I be? I got up and grabbed Momma's car keys (I didn't own one at the time) and got ready to go the hospital, full of fear. Momma said to me, "You don't need to go. This is something for her family, and they'll let you know."

Man, I got hot. I felt betrayed by Momma - did she even have any friends? Did she not know that my soulmate, the woman with whom I fought and loved more than many couples ever do, was maybe-no-ohsweetchrist - in surgery?

I just looked at her and got out the door. I'm so glad I did, although the sight of my friend with a head swollen to double its normal size eventually brought me to my knees.

(I'm shortening this story - it's a tough one to tell - so please bear with me.)

I like to think I was an integral part of Christina's recovery. While she was in the coma, the only voice she'd respond to was mine. When she awoke, she would only do physical therapy exercises if I were in the room.

So when another close friend had a crisis a bit ago, and I had to shorten (I didn't really shorten it) a visit to my folk's place so I could take care of her, my Momma said, "Doesn't she have a mother?"

This friend is family. I don't care the reason. I don't care that she didn't need me after all. But I am there, any time, every time.

Good news - both friends are fine, as far as I know (Christina and I no longer keep in touch).

Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T18:38:00.000-05:00

It took a lot, but I managed to pull myself out of my place at about 10:30, after the Will & Grace marathon ended. Yeah, I still watch that show. I go through phases, however - sometimes I think it's incredibly funny and sometimes it gets old.

I made it to the folks' place, and we sat and read through the black Friday ads and debated the merits of my mood when I wake up (bad) and the deals at Wal-Mart tomorrow morning. Pro: TVs are incredibly cheap. Pro: My very very very bad mood would make me able to hip-check anyone who gets in my way. Con: Limited quantities. Con: Lack of joust.

Momma had already set the table:

We started cooking a while later:

Our menu was lasagna, Yukon Gold potatoes with fresh green beans, real cranberry sauce (go Momma!), stuffing (out of a box, and never ever the wet kind), spring salad, and cranberry bread.

Wanna see?

Dinner was delicious - just enough food to not get overtired or cranky, and Momma let me raid the pantry for cookies, dried apricots, and leftovers.

But four hours was enough time. By the time I had loaded the car with remnants of my adolescence, an extra Christmas tree, lights, and decorations, we were all starting to snipe at each other.

So I'll put this holiday squarely in the win column.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

Keep This Up, And I'll Have A Tree Up Next Year By Halloween

2010-11-24T17:37:00.000-05:00

So the boy and I have decided to host Christmas dinner for my folks and his at my parents' place. My parents have a house that was born for entertaining - it was pretty much my Momma's dream house, and she waited years upon years to have such a place. This is a good excuse for Momma to harass my dad into doing more housework as well.

(She got him a vacuum for his birthday, and apparently things are looking up over there.)

I'm looking forward for my folks to see what an amazing cook the boy is. He did promise me that I'd be recruited into helping, and I'm totally down with that. Even if he is, as he puts it, a complete Nazi in the kitchen.

So this will be the first gift we give as a couple (a poor, poor broke couple) - a delicious meal for both of our parents. I'm so looking forward to this that I'm almost excited for Christmas this year.

My plans for the holidays are to have my own tree, to force us out of the bed at some gawdawful hour on Christmas morning so we can get to his niece and nephews' place to open presents, to have some family time, to celebrate the "us", and, most importantly, have the boy and me home by seven-ish so we can enjoy some quality time dreaming under the tree.

Bet you thought I was going to say some kind of different quality time.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Don't Tell Anyone

2010-11-23T19:27:00.002-05:00

Yes, I am an attorney. No, I don't often write about it. Yes, I have very strong opinions. Yes, there's a very good chance that I'll kick your ass in a debate.

I do get annoyed at people who ask me for legal advice as if they deserve it. It's almost like they think, "Hey! I knew her back in the day, so clearly she can answer all my questions!"

I cannot. I have a couple of specialities, which aren't making me as much money as I'd like, but hope springs eternal.

Still, the questions I get are 1) so far out of my range of practice and 2) so clearly not winners.

No-one will take your case without money. MONEY, people. The practice of law is certainly a business. You think I was giddy to be a quarter of a million of dollars in debt?

So, I will introduce a new rule: You get two questions. That's two, with a capital 2.

So, anyone need some help?

Trust Me When I Tell You It'll Get Worse

2010-11-20T22:13:00.000-05:00

So now my entire family knows that the boy and I are engaged. My brother was (more than) a bit upset at being the last to know in the immediate family. The thing is, he and I were so close, and then the war of 2007 happened, and it's been hard to get as close again.

Telling him made me so happy. And I guarantee to keep my promise to him, that the very first invite I address will be to my brother and his family.

I saw the boy's parents today while I picked up pseudo-niece and they seemed so pleased. Not excited, so much, but calm. Like they already know my presence and know that the boy and I are well-matched. I find this amazing and exciting and fun and ...honestly, I can't think of another adjective.

This year the boy and I are combining presents and cards and all that holiday stuff. Do you know what this means to me?

It means that it's real, and he's in as 100% as I am.

Ready For More Cheese?

2010-11-18T20:58:00.002-05:00

Things I will never tire of hearing:

1. I love you.
2. No, I really, really love you.
3. I'm in love with you.
4. Saying "wedding" is scary.
5. I don't want to get used to this feeling.
6. I miss you.
7. I cannot wait to see you again.
8. I thought of you when...
9. I told my parents, and they're so excited.
10. You're getting your own ring.
11. Wife.

So it's true, I've got wedding-itis. But I need help with all of this. Help, please?