identity crisis

2011-12-05T04:58:00.000-05:00

I have a new blog because I'm not dusting myself off anymore.

I got up and tried again, and now, I've been at the new job longer than I had been at the one that laid me off -- from which I needed to dust myself off and try again. Also, that name puts a really annoying song in my head. (Sorry, Aaliyah.)

So for months now, I've been trying to figure out how I should create a blog that will fit me in all the different shapes I may take in the next few years. (You may have noticed the "identity crisis.") I didn't want to define myself solely by my job or my husband, and when I have children, I don't want them to define me completely. I'll be more than "just a mom," just like I'm more than "just a wife" or "just a designer" now. I tried to find something that would stay the same throughout my life.

I'll always be Rebekah, but my last name has changed.

I probably won't always design. I have no idea when I'm going back to school -- or what I'll do when I get there. And I tend to scoff at women who have no more to say about themselves than who their husbands are.

Tonight at work (for people with normal circadian rhythms, that would be yesterday), I created some content in the list of events in the upcoming week. The editor hadn't found anything for Thursday, so I typed into Google "things that happen on Thursdays," hoping for DVD releases (that happens on Tuesdays) or something like that.

I didn't find anything with that search, but I did think, "That would be a great name for a book."

Or a blog.

Someone else thought of the URL I wanted to go with it, though. So I went through the days of the week, playing with combinations on the mundane, everyday days: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.

While I don't know who or what I'll turn out to be or how I'll define myself, I do know that there are a lot of mundane days in my future. Hilarious anecdotes come from mundane days. And brilliant ideas sometimes penetrate the thoughtlessness of the everyday grind.

Sometimes, the very best stories and ideas come from the everyday things that happened on a Wednesday.

----

Visit me at my new blog: Things That Happen on Wednesdays at mywednesdays.blogspot.com

Now I have a blog name that reflects more of me than one part.

Or nothing of me except an acceptance that I can't plan everything.

For now.

Until next time something I didn't plan surprises me.

Let's Be Clean People - UPDATED

2011-07-26T19:51:00.001-04:00

My house is a wreck.

Really.

Think "tornado went through but left the roof." It looks like a natural disaster has taken place within our walls.

And I'm not being one of those women who smugly says, "My house is such a wreck," knowing that it looks better than a lot of people's houses.

No. It's really bad. And I didn't realize how bad it was until I read a news story in which five children were removed from a home by Social Services because they were "living in filth."

The story said there were dirty clothes all over the floor, covered with flies.

OK, I don't have flies. But I do have dirty clothes everywhere. Michael has a terrible habit (which I've picked up since I married him) of undressing when he walks in the door. Great for relaxation purposes. Not great for looking like civilized adults purposes. We need to walk up the stairs. And someday, I am going to die because I trip over his giant shoes in the middle of a dark hallway when I get home at night.

The story said that food in the refrigerator was spoiled.

Last week, I ate a whole cup of yogurt thinking, "This doesn't taste very good. Yoplait's Greek yogurt sucks," before realizing it was a day past the sell date. (In my defense, I had just bought it, like the day before. It didn't occur to me to check the expiration date because yogurt usually has a couple weeks' fridge life -- at least from the grocery stores where I usually shop.)

Also last week, I cleaned out the refrigerator, and I was really glad Michael wasn't in the room. I kept thinking, "We are disgusting people."

Unlike the people in the story, I do have electricity, and I don't have a bug problem.

But it really made me think.

If I had children, would Social Services deem my house unfit to live in?

I can't say with certainty that they wouldn't. And that's disturbing. Really disturbing.

And I'm being brutally, disgustingly honest because I desperately need a motivation to clean -- especially when I know that in mere hours, dishes will be dirty again, clothes will be removed (and likely dropped in a living area), and gross, unspeakable things will happen in my bathroom that never happen in a single girl's bathroom. And I will need to clean again.

So judge me. Shame me. Guilt me into cleaning this place up.

Because right now, I'm so overwhelmed with it that the easiest thing to do is to curl up in a blanket and bury my face in a book, where I can't see the mess. That's the biggest reason the mess gets so out of control: I get overwhelmed.

It's not that Michael doesn't help me. He does. He helps a ton more than a lot of guys. Technically, he probably does more hours of cleaning than I do in any given span of time. But after he does a big clean, he slacks off. (I guess most people do.) And there are some things he just can't do -- like wash wine glasses. We had to find him some cheap glass ones because he couldn't fit his giant paws in our part-crystal wine glasses to wash them, and you can put plain old glass in the dishwasher.

Every time we get the house clean, we say, "OK. This time, we're going to be clean people."

But at the slightest sign of slacking from Michael, I get catty. Screw it, I think. If he's not cleaning, I'm not either.

And then, by the time I realize I'm being catty, it's messy, and I'm overwhelmed.

It's still manageable at this point, but it's not easy. So I escape. Into a book. Into the computer. Into sleep. Anything not to deal with it. Which is really weird since in all of my other problems, I tend to dive in and work for a solution rather than ignore it and pretend it's not there.

So here is my plan:

Today, I will do two loads of laundry, but I will not beat up on myself if I don't fold them and put them away. If they get clean, that is good enough for today.

Today, I will clean the bathroom. Just one -- not three. (My therapist thought it was hilarious when I talked to her about this and said, "I just didn't see myself having three bathrooms to deal with at 26.") But I will clean it, despite the fact that Oscar will roll in the freshly cleaned tub, and I will have to contend with the "it all goes to the same place" argument regarding urine and drains. For a couple of hours, it will be clean.

Today, I will unload the dishwasher. If one thing leads to another and the kitchen gets clean, thank God.

So leave me lots of comments judging me about letting the cat scatter junk mail everywhere and the fact that my husband puts empty boxes back in the pantry, but most of all, the fact that I pretend not to notice. I'm going to turn on some music and enact above plan.

And if I don't complete it, that is not failure. That is improvement.

After I figure this out, we'll work on motivation to exercise.

UPDATE: With the exception of the music and the dishwasher, I accomplished (am accomplishing) today's cleaning goals. I still need to scrub out the bottom of the tub and move the second load of laundry to the dryer, but the bathroom I chose looks infinitely better, and the library looks better without all the laundry. And I have clean underwear again.

Things Come Together

2011-06-01T00:38:00.000-04:00

Almost three years ago, I was offered two jobs in the same week.

One was at the newspaper I'd grown up reading as a features reporter. The other, which I accepted, was as a copy editor at the newspaper I'm still designing.

I wanted to accept the other job. I wanted to go home. I wanted to have normal hours. I wanted to be near friends. Most of all, I wanted to work at the newspaper that dirtied my fingers as a little girl when the teachers brought them in for social studies. I wanted to produce stacks of papers beside daddies' chairs and on hearths throughout the town where I grew up. And I wanted to write about fun stuff. Not murder-suicides or political expense reports.

The decision did not fit with the chase-your-dreams speech I'd grown up hearing.

The hometown newspaper was offering less money. When I made mock budgets, I found that a roommate would be a financial make-or-break. I didn't know anyone looking for a roommate, and none of my friends in town did either. I was wary of living with a complete stranger, but without a roommate, the mock budgets ended in red.

And the hometown job was 45 minutes farther from Michael.

But finally, I reminded myself, working in newspaper is not my dream job. And Michael is part of the ultimate dream. So is being financially solvent.

Reluctantly, I accepted the better-paying job with terrible hours. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I loved it.

But over the next several months, I wondered why it had to work out that way. Why couldn't the job I wanted in the town I loved be the one that fit?

---

My elementary school was special.

None of my friends at other schools did the kind of stuff we did. Books were really important at our school. Everyone else kind of evened things out, but we did books -- because after all, there were books about everything.

We had authors visit. We published our own books, and we had a binder.

We had a Good Citizen of the Day every day. Each teacher got a few chances a year to choose a Citizen of the Day, and you got to go to the office during the morning announcements. The principal would tell everyone your name, whose class you were in, your favorite color, your favorite food, your favorite author, and your favorite book. Then, you got to lead the school -- the whole school -- in the Pledge of Allegiance. And all day, you got to wear your Citizen of the Day ribbon, and everyone from the other teachers to the librarian to the janitor would tell you congratulations.

The best thing about our school, though, was our principal.

He was the one who liked books the most. Our school motto was, "Read, read, read."

Before we started kindergarten, my friend Catherine told me about meeting him.

"He's bald with a little hair on the sides," she told me. "And he's really jolly. And he shook my hand really tightly and told me to read with my mom or dad every day."

"Is he scary?" I asked. The daycare principal was kind of scary.

"No!" Catherine told me. "He's not scary at all! He's really, really nice. I guess he might be scary if you were bad..."

When we started school, we realized that our principal wasn't just a principal. He was a farmer, too!

And he brought some of his animals to school.

During my time at that elementary school, we had chickens, roosters, turkeys, a pot-bellied pig (who died when I was in second or third grade, leaving tearful bereaved children to experience death with an animal before most of us experienced the death of a loved one -- an ingenius teaching tool, really) and, in third grade, peacocks!

Dr. S., the principal, would dress up like his favorite book characters and read to each class at least once a semester. He was the peddler from Caps for Sale.

And he wasn't the only one who dressed up. The assistant principal was Miss Nelson from Miss Nelson Is Missing. Every year on Halloween, we had Storybook Character Day, and we all dressed up like characters from books. I was Alice from Alice in Wonderland, Cinderella, Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Sometimes, he wouldn't dress up, but he would always use funny voices and talk to us about the books and the pictures. It was always funny when he read Thomas' Snowsuit.

But there was one book that everybody loved the most -- when Dr. S. would dress up and be really silly.

Tacky the Penguin.

He made up a tune to the song Tacky sang. He put on a Hawaiian shirt like Tacky wore. He wore a baseball cap too, probably because his head didn't look very much like Tacky's.

Once, Dr. S. promised that if we read 1,000 books by a certain time, he would sleep in the petting zoo. And he did!

It was a chilly night, and I remember going to school at nighttime to see Dr. S. with a bed -- an actual frame and mattress -- in the pin with the chickens. He was wearing a nightcap, sitting up in bed, talking to local TV news crews. Nobody thought of it as a publicity stunt though, unless it was to show off how much we read. He just really wanted us to read as many books as we could and learn as much as we could.

I credit Dr. S. for my love of reading and writing.

I know I loved it before I went to that school, because Momma and Daddy remember me bringing them endless piles of books. A couple of days after I was born, my aunt got married, and Daddy had to go to his sister's wedding. My mom's parents weren't there yet, and Momma and I were in the hospital alone.

She was lonely, she told me later, but we did a lot of bonding during that time. She said she spent a lot of time reading me nursury rhymes.

So I would have loved reading anyway, but Dr. S. made it fun. With Dr. S. encouraging us, it was cool to read.

And it wasn't just me who was affected this way.

My sister called the other day to tell me Evie Grace discovered board books.

"We read We're Going On a Bear Hunt 10 times," Rachel said. "And then we read The Very Hungry Caterpillar 10 times. And she screamed when I shut the book.

"And then, I got Tacky the Penguin."

"Did you read it right?" I asked her. "Did you read it like Dr. S. with the voices and the song?"

"Of course!" she said, sounding almost offended that I had asked.

She paused, then said, "You know, I don't think I know how to read it any other way."

---

On September 20, 2009, I had been at the job I chose for one year, two weeks, and four days.

That day, Dr. S. had a massive heart attack and died.

A few weeks before, I'd found out about the death of an acquaintance while I was putting obituaries on the page.

"How awful it would have been," I thought, "to have found out about Dr. S.'s death the way I found out about Mrs. Lib's."

I was glad I was in a different newsroom.

On Tuesday, the newspaper that offered me a job published a news obituary. Most obituaries are written by funeral homes (and that's why they say stupid things like, "She stepped on a rainbow to meet Jesus") but a news obituary is written by a reporter when someone's death is a big deal.

It was a pretty well-written tribute. Former students, teachers, district officials. I looked at the reporter's name, hoping it wasn't a classmate who had had to write it. I didn't recognize the name.

But then it dawned on me. The position I was offered was features and education. This obituary would have fallen into both categories.

If the job at the hometown newspaper had worked out, I would have had to have written Dr. S.'s news obituary.

While it would have been a great honor, it also would have been terribly painful. It's scary when people my age lose a parent. It makes it seem like losing my parents isn't that far away. In college, when friends lost parents, I would think, "It's an aberration. It doesn't normally happen." They had cancer or some awful disease, and they suffered for a long time. And, frequently, I didn't know the deceased.

But for a friend to lose a parent that I knew, who had been such a formative influence in my life -- this was different.

I believe things happen for a reason.

I believe that taking the job closer to my parents and closer to Michael was a good thing. I believe being near my sisters was a good thing. I believe it was good for me to be in the same town as my aunt as she was weathering a nasty divorce. None of those things would have been true if I had accepted the job at the hometown newspaper.

I also believe that if I had taken that job and hadn't written every word perfectly, I never would have forgiven myself. I believe he deserves remembering in a way newspaper's traditional format is incapable of providing. I believe that as empathetic as I was when I was reporting -- holding a woman on a curb in the projects as we watched firefighters soak her remaining possessions -- losing someone personally and having to deal with it in a professional way would have been extremely difficult.

And I believe that by choosing the path I chose, I also chose to live near my niece and nephew, where I can read to them.

---

As I recited words to Evie Grace over the phone,

We're going on a bear hunt.
We're going to catch a big one.
What a beautiful day!
We're not scared.

Her delighted giggles made me smile.

And I promised myself that I will help Porter and her -- and, eventually, my children -- to value the written word as much as I do, with the memory of Dr. S.'s exuberance and costumes as an inspiration.

On Mother's Day

2011-05-08T04:38:00.000-04:00

It takes pain to be beautiful.

I hear her when my legs burn after shaving, when the barrel of my curling iron meets my ear, when my eyes water with every eyebrow hair I pluck.

If you go out without earrings, you should feel naked.

I hear her while I'm driving to work, when I touch my ear and realize I've left the house naked.

Put on a little lipstick.

I hear her when I'm tempted to go too natural, when I'm rushing to get ready and have to choose which cosmetics will make it to my face.

Be a lady. Remember your manners.

I hear her when someone tries my patience, when I catch myself excitedly beginning to speak before I've swallowed my food, and every time I see a very young girl pull a dress over her head to reveal her bloomers.

One day, she'll be your best friend.

I hear her when I'm annoyed with one of my sisters, which, now, only happens when they won't answer the phone.

This is happening for a reason. Be patient.

I hear her when I get bad news, when I'm frustrated with my foiled plans, when things don't seem to make sense.

Good morning to you! ... always delivered in an obnoxiously cheerful voice, usually with a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows in her hand.

I hear her when my alarm clock shrieks after a fitful, restless night.

Do your best. That's all anyone can ask.

I hear her when I'm disappointed in myself, when perfection is impossible -- or at least highly impractical, when I need reassurance.

For the past two years, I've given my mom a Mother's Day card with just a picture on the front: a little girl in a T-shirt and diaper wearing much too large high heels. Inside, it says this:

it was from you
that i learned to be me

This year, I thought I would tell her some of the things I learned.

I love you, Momma! Happy Mother's Day!

I've Forgotten How To Sleep

2011-04-12T05:01:00.000-04:00

In college, one of my girlfriends and I joked that we were sleeping champions. If sleeping were an Olympic sport, we would take gold and silver. We were certain.

My mom says I've always needed more sleep than she thought I needed. (She's convinced I have restless leg syndrome because I twitch like crazy -- like my whole body jerks out of nowhere.)

Much of the reason I haven't been completely overtaken by baby fever while my sister and girlfriends are mass reproducing is that I really like to sleep, and I hear babies aren't cool with that.

I have slept on multiple forms of public transportation, sprawled on top of suitcases in the back of a van, in a sitting position with my head on my own knees, on many a couch in places of varying degrees of inappropriate, sitting in a pew in church with my head erect -- sincerely believing my eyes were open, in doctors' exam rooms while they took their sweet time, and on a European sidewalk. I sleep on long drives (and by "long," I mean more than 10 minutes) unless I'm driving, and then I do trouble myself to stay awake. And I don't usually have trouble sleeping on planes. I slept all the way to England. That's like 20 hours.

Lately, though, I've not been a good sleeper. You might have inferred that from the timestamps on my posts.

Today, or yesterday -- they're kind of blending together -- I figured out why.

I've known for a while that Oscar was a factor. When he was a kitten, his favorite thing to do was sprawl across my neck like a scarf. When he got a little bigger, he would curl up behind my knees. After I rolled over on him a few times, he moved to the foot of the bed. But if he's awake, he wants me to be awake too. Frequently, I wake up with a mouse toy on my pillow or a pair of socks he's claimed as his own by my hand. (He fetches better than any dog I know. It's really bizarre.) Sometimes, he'll sleep on my feet or my stomach, which is kind of nice, but usually he prowls around the bedroom getting into whatever he can find.

Anyway. Back to sleeping.

I woke up at 5:30 a.m. (almost 24 hours ago). I generally don't see that hour at the beginning of my day. But today (yesterday?) I did.

See, my paper announced they would be implementing cost-cutting measures (again), and everything was on the table. Last week, I heard there would be "massive layoffs" to be announced Monday. Today. Yesterday. And I did not want to be taken by surprise.

When I was laid off last year, I was woken from a deep, restful sleep. A couple of weeks later, an interviewer called about a job, and I started talking to him about a completely different position -- not even in the same profession -- because he had a similar name, and I didn't want to miss a call that might get me a second interview.

So now, if there's a chance I'm getting an important call, I either turn off the ringer or stay awake. And if it's something as big as my job, I'm awake.

The funny thing is I really won't mind if I get laid off. (They didn't end up making the announcement, and I got a grand total of 5 hours of sleep patched together from before and after my vigil at the computer waiting for an email to gather for a meeting. I'm not great on 5 hours.) If I lose my job, we've been good about saving. I would get a severance package, which would probably be about two months' pay. The job market is a lot better than it was 14 months ago.

The worst-case scenario is that I can't find a job, and we take out a loan so we both can go to school, work part-time, and not live in a dumpster. And that would just move up the ultimate goal, which is going back to school.

I'm not going to be crushed like I was last year. (At least, I don't think I will be.) I just want to be able to plan.

Coworkers were saying that usually, layoff announcements come on Monday mornings, which means even though I overheard someone say Tuesday, it probably will be next week. Maybe even the week after that. That's a long time to do worried sleep.

But after I muddled through the day groggily, I decided that even if I don't leave on my terms, my weekend will be on my terms. I am turning off my ringer. I will go to my appointment tomorrow. And if they call me on my day off to tell me I don't have a job -- again -- they can leave a message.

Maybe I'll sleep more easily with that power.

And Momma, the doctor said if my thyroid decides to buck up and I'm still having sleeping difficulties, we'll talk about other possibilities.

Hello, Old Friend

2011-04-04T02:03:00.000-04:00

It's been a really long time.

A really long time since I've read something as moving and perfectly packaged as The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. It felt like she found a sweet love story and then wrapped it in beautiful paper (appropriately, since the title character makes paper) and tied it up with an immaculate bow. A gift for me that I didn't know I needed.

The story has had me sobbing almost since I started reading it. And I definitely need to read it again to cover everything in the plot. With the un-sequential storytelling, you'd think it would have been a confusing story. But it wasn't at all. I loved the story.

But what really grabbed me was the prose. Every word selected with care. Emotions so articulate that I think, "I know that feeling," and the sensations come back as if I were experiencing it again.

I haven't written much lately. I really haven't read much.

I've been fed up with my writing, feeling that I never write anything with depth, feeling that it would be insulting to "real" writers to call myself one.

It's funny how we people who try to write have such delicate confidence. An acquaintance's comment -- "You obviously love to write" -- made me wonder if that were the compliment. It didn't feel like a compliment. On my blog, I began to judge the worthiness of my writing by the number of my followers, which is so unfair to myself. It stifles me.

I wondered if the constant surroundings of matter-of-fact news stories, where you give away the heart of your writing in the first sentence, had stifled my imagination. The whole concept of a lead in the news story always felt like giving away the milk for free. Why bother to buy the cow? Why read the rest of the story? You already got what you wanted.

And the things I write for myself -- I've found myself writing them in AP Style. I cringe when I watch myself backspace in true copy editor form to change what, before, was "okay" because I hated abbreviations, to the character-spacing-minded "OK."

Around the time I finished reading Anna Karenina last year, I was despondent about literature.

I am not a Tolstoy. I will not write an Anna Karenina.

I wondered if there are any Tolstoys in the world now.

I started listening to The New Yorker fiction podcasts. I've always loved short stories, but most of the ones I've listened to have nice prose but disappointing stories.

To be a good writer, I thought, I would have to write like these people.

But that's not true. To be published in The New Yorker, yes, I might have to write like those people. But is that what I want? To be a published writer? And if I were published, would I want it to be in The New Yorker? Or do I just want to feel the sheer joy of writing again without worrying about what the editors will say and whether readers will like it?

I don't have that answer right now, but I do have some of my questions answered.

Do I have to have more followers to validate having a blog? No.
Am I going to write a ton of garbage before I write anything worth being paid for? Of course.

Are there writers in the world who can paint beautiful pictures like my favorite authors from centuries ago? Yes. Do the authors who shape my style shape anyone else now? Yes, they must have.

Aside from being a really impressive novel and great read in itself, The Time Traveler's Wife gave me two things: most obviously, a reminder to cherish every second with my husband.

The other thing wasn't inside the book. It was on the back cover. It was Audrey's biographical information.

"Audrey Niffenegger is a professor in the M.F.A. program at the Columbia College Chicago Center for Book and Paper Arts. She lives in Chicago. This is her first novel."

This is her first novel. She's not a writer by trade, and she birthed this gem on her first attempt.

I had quashed the dreams of my childhood that seemed too pretentious and conceited to say aloud, telling myself that no one wants to read the kind of thing I would be able to write, wondering if I would be embarrassed when people I knew read it, comparing myself to great authors, telling myself I would never rise to that level. I'd put the hope out of my mind and told myself it wasn't possible.

In the back of my mind, after reading that sentence, I recalled something I read a long time ago. Olive Ann Burns, who wrote Cold Sassy Tree (which is also an amazing book and laugh-out-loud hilarious) said, "If I can write a novel, anyone can."

And the hope came back.

It might not be an Anna Karenina or a Pride and Prejudice or a Time Traveler's Wife.

But someday, I will write something that people want to read.

SMACK

2011-03-21T04:16:00.001-04:00

Part One: How To Discipline A Cat = Not How To Discipline A Child

I'm not anti-spanking.

I'm anti-hitting. I'm anti-beating. And I'm definitely anti-whipping.

But the occasional pop for a severe infraction? I'm OK with that. Or at least, I don't think you're abusing your child if you do it.

I got spankings.

And when I was little, my parents would tell me to go to my room and put my hands on my bed. Waiting was the worst part. They would take a few minutes, calm down and make sure they weren't angry anymore, then come in and give me three quick pops. Always three. Always on the fleshiest part of my backside, which, as a child, was never really fleshy. They'd always make sure I understood what I did wrong, and they'd tell me they loved me. And it was over.

Well, it was over for them. I usually stayed angry with them for a while. I was more indignant than physically hurt. There was one time that I put my dolls' pillows in the back of my panties and expected my mom not to notice, and I remember that spanking -- sans pillows -- hurting. She almost laughed at my sincere belief that she wouldn't notice that I could barely zip my pants.

But because the pain was more emotional, I always thought there probably was a better way. Spankings served to startle me into submission. The methodical spanking regimen my parents had did little more than humiliate me. I felt disrespected.

So I always thought there was a better way. Well, not a Dr. Spock-approved way. But you can definitely assert authority (and, if necessary, disrespect the child) in ways besides spanking.

And when Oscar became my first baby two years ago, I thought, "I am not going to hit this sweet little kitten."

After all, punishment with an animal has to be immediate, or he won't know what he's done. And you can't tell a cat to put his hands on his bed. And people who hit animals are just mean.

---

I learned a lot about animal cruelty those first few months.

It was inhumane to declaw him, one of the vets at our practice said.

He's not a human, I thought. He's an animal. And I don't have a lot of things, but I want to take care of them. And he hurts me when he scratches me.

"Don't tell anyone," said another vet, when he confessed that all his cats were declawed.

Ultimately, it came down to the litter box. Declawing meant he'd never be an outside cat. I would be cleaning that litter box forever. So he still has claws, which he still uses on me.

I also discovered that you cannot discipline a cat the way you would discipline a human being.

And I discovered that animal cruelty does not necessarily always refer to humans being cruel to animals. Sometimes, animals are cruel to their owners. And don't say they don't know they're doing it. Some don't. Oscar knows.

Along with his claws, I had a biter on my hands.

"You have to break him of that habit," all the vets told me.

I tried positive reinforcement, giving him his tartar treats when he was a sweet kitty -- when he curled up beside me on the couch, when he got excited and didn't employ any sharp body part. But he didn't get positive reinforcement without some punishment. He knew what he was doing right, but he didn't know what he was doing wrong.

"What should I do?" I asked the vets. "I don't want to hit him."

"No, don't hit him," the anti-declawing vet told me. "Squirt bottles are great. And citrus scents. Cats hate citrusy scents. And loud noises. Get an empty aluminum can, and put pennies in it. When you shake it, it'll drive him crazy."

"So if there's furniture I don't want him on, I should just dust with lemon-scented Pledge?"

His eyes widened. "Oh no! That's toxic! You have to be very careful with chemicals."

"Dryer sheets?" I tried, more timidly. "I don't want to poison him either. Obviously," I added, with a nervous laugh. You never know who's a crazy PETA person who might misconstrue the slightest displeasure with an animal as a certain sign of abuse.

"Perfect," he said. "Put them in the bottom of the trash can, and he won't get into it."

---

First, I discovered that while I find all dryer-sheet fragrances itchy and foreign, apparently, people who like their clothes and linens to smell don't want them to smell like citrus. After quite the hunt, I finally found mandarin orange-scented dryer sheets.

Oscar was more curious about them than repelled. I learned why after Michael and I got married and Michael fed him pieces of an orange. He liked it.

When I inaugurated my empty Coke can with four pennies in it, Oscar tilted his head to the side and looked at me. I shook it furiously next to his ear. He moved away, continuing to look at me with that odd expression. Still more curious than repelled.

I gave up on the can after a few weeks, and it sat in my kitchen cabinet until we moved, and I threw it away.

I was hesitant to use the squirt bottle because I didn't want him to hate water. I was still rinsing him weekly with the flea shampoo my sister had given me -- he was covered when we got him -- and I wanted to maintain the possibility of baths without writhing and clawing. But finally, it was my last option.

I am here to tell you squirt bottles are nothing to a biting cat unless you make it at least one-third lemon juice. And not the weak lemon juice in the lemon-shaped bottles in the produce section. No. You need lemon concentrate from the spice aisle.

And that just repels him for a few minutes.

Maybe my cat is just especially evil, but nothing was working. I took him back to the vet for his next check-up nearly in tears. (Remember, I've never owned a cat.)

"What do I do with him?" I asked the vet, showing her my forearms with scratches that looked like road maps. "I can't exist like this. I'm getting married in a few months, and I would like my arms not to look like this!"

The female vet looked appropriately horrified at my scratches and diplomatically ignored my wedding, which now seems a very trivial detail in my life with my cat, who wasn't even invited and was kicked over to Aunt Rachel's a week before so scratches could heal on the very vain bride.

"Just pop him on the nose," she said. "You have to break him of the biting and scratching. He has to understand it's not acceptable."

"Like hit him?" I was dumbfounded.

"Well, don't beat him. Just a pop. Enough to know you're stronger than he is. He needs to know you're dominant."

Right. Dominance. I felt immense relief. No one was going to arrest me for hitting the cat in response to a bite or scratch.

Part Two: A Reason Not To Spank The Cat

"Did you hear that, Oscar?" I asked the screeching kennel on the drive home. "I'm gonna pop you if you're bad. And I know you will be. Next time you bite me or scratch me, I will physically overpower you because the vet said it's OK."

To my credit, I did avoid actual hitting as long as I could. I pinned him against the floor, making sure I was holding him just tightly enough that he couldn't escape, until he stopped struggling.

Sometimes, I would show him my teeth while I held him. That just seemed to piss him off.

"Dominant!" I would shout at him, as he gave me expressions of indifference or pity. "Crazy woman," he seemed to be thinking.

I growled at him. I barked at him. I shouted loud noises.

Nothing. I was still getting clawed and chewed to death.

So finally, one night, I popped his nose.

And it was just like when I got a spanking. He wasn't hurt. He was surprised, humiliated, emotionally compromised. He went to a corner and pouted. My tiny kitten was sitting in the corner, looking dolefully over his shoulder every once in a while, giving me the big sad eyes to tell me what a bad cat-mommy I was. My heart twisted.

"He thinks I don't love him anymore," I thought. But he had backed off and acknowledged my dominance. So I stuck to it. I didn't coddle him or apologize. I waited for him to come back. And he did.

But the popping working did not last. Soon, Oscar started seeking retribution for his pops. After a pop for biting or scratching, he would prowl around the apartment, waiting for me to move. And when I did, he would jump out and attack my leg -- claws extended, legs around my leg, teeth digging into my calf -- and before I could respond, he would be gone. Hiding. Usually behind the stove, where he knew I couldn't reach him.

Disciplining Oscar has been an utter failure. And that's where we've been for about 18 months now.

---

Last night, the house was so hot.

When I lived alone, I turned on the air in late February, and I didn't turn it off until temperatures were consistently below freezing. My electricity bills in the winter were a ridiculous source of pride, and in the summer, I just sucked it up and paid to keep my tiny apartments at 67 degrees. Michael talked me up to 71 degrees soon after we got married.

Last year, at exactly the time the weather stopped flip-flopping and decided to be consistently warm, we moved to a house. We passive-aggressively adjusted the temperature secretly all summer, and when Michael finally turned on the heat (I wouldn't do it) we'd both awoken freezing several mornings. I could have lasted a few more weeks, but he didn't have the ridiculous cheapness in him that made me perfectly happy curling up in sweats and blankets, so I cut him a break and didn't make a big deal of it. (Seriously. My family broke out windbreakers in South Carolina Julys to visit me.)

One of my Number 1 rules about my personal energy conservation is that you get two flips a year on the thermostat. You can flip it to heat in the winter, which is why you must make absolute certain it's not going to get warm again. And you can flip it to air in the early spring, as soon as the temperature in the middle of the day is 65 degrees or warmer. But once the air is on, it stays on. Turning off heat altogether in the winter is acceptable. Turning off air is never acceptable. And this is where I'm learning about compromise in marriage. Again. I'll let you know how it turns out. I've actually been cooperative, but the average temperatures are still in the 60s.

So back to last night. Miserably hot.

Not like when my parents' air conditioning went out in August when I was 17, and I would take cold showers and then French braid my hair so it would stay wet and close to my head as long as possible. And not like my aunt's un-air-conditioned house in Florida.

But still, for a girl who likes to bundle up to sleep, it was hot.

Michael and I had just the sheet over us. I was grousing quietly enough not to disturb Michael but loudly enough that he would know I was displeased, and I was trying to stay still to keep myself cooler. Oscar came and lay down beside me.

"Sweet kitty," I said, sleepily rubbing under his chin the way he likes.

He turned his head sideways and bit my hand.

"Asshole," I grumbled at him, pulling my hand away and putting it under the sheet.

A few minutes later, I was almost asleep when something sharp dug into my bare shoulder and upper arm. Claws. Teeth. CAT.

I was furious, and I'll admit I broke my parents' Cardinal Rule of Corporal Punishment; I reacted in anger.

With my other arm -- fortunately my left, my un-handed hand -- I delivered the roughest open-palmed slap I could to Oscar's haunch. The fatty area above his hip where the vet says he needs to lose weight. SMACK. I don't remember the last thing I hit that hard.

The meow, Michael waking up, the confusion -- the next few moments happened very slowly.

Oscar made a noise. I felt slight satisfaction and significant guilt. Michael sat up roaring profanity.

"WHAT THE HELL, REBEKAH?"

"Oscar bit me and scratched me, and I popped him as hard as I could. I'm sorry I woke you," I said, as he continued cursing and flailing in bed, and as my mind slowly pictured Oscar on the sheet, backing up toward Michael.

Had I...? No. Oscar wasn't that fast. My reaction was really fast this time. I definitely got fur.

I did feel fur... right?

"You hit ME!" Michael shouted. "Why did you hit ME? I was just SLEEPING!"

Maybe I didn't feel fur...

I immediately started giggling uncontrollably. Michael was furious. The cat wanted to kill me. I had smacked my sleeping husband as hard as I could. It was a terrible time to giggle, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't even apologize without giggling.

Oscar sat smugly on the love seat by the window, watching the chaos he created.

"Why would you hit me?"

Michael was still mostly asleep. I must have explained five times and apologized more.

"I'm so sorry, Michael. I promise I didn't mean to hit you. That would just be mean."

"It was mean. You did hit me."

"I know, but I was aiming for Oscar. He was right there."

"What are you talking about? He's over by the window. He's not hurting you. Are you dreaming?"

"No. I'm awake. I was almost asleep. He was right here, and he bit me. Hard."

After this conversation repeated itself several times, Michael finally hugged me and said all was forgiven.

Or, at least, all would be forgiven by morning. Or, technically, Monday, because we don't see each other on Sundays.

---

Oscar woke me up this morning, nuzzling his face under the covers immediately after he heard my alarm clock.

He is sweet when he wants to be.

And I am as conflicted as ever about corporal punishment for cats and children.

Conversations With My Husband: Vampires, Werewolves, and Fairies

2011-03-06T15:46:00.000-05:00

When I got home from work last night, Michael was really into this vampire movie with Lucy Liu.

I, on the other hand, am a horror movie-maker's dream. I will jump at every broken silence. I will feel the characters' terror. I might even have nightmares. (Actually, the movie that gave me the worst nightmares was The Passion of the Christ. And not the crucifixion part. I dreamed about the demons chasing me.) So even though this movie was more of a sci-fi deal, there definitely were enough jumps and startles that I wasn't enjoying it.

Only 20 more minutes, I told myself. Then he'll go to bed, and you can watch Private Practice.

He paused the movie.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "I've always thought that if I had to be some kind of supernatural creature, I'd want to be a werewolf."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Then there'd be a reason for me to have all this hair."

He pointed at his arms. He's really not as hairy as he thinks he is. He turned the movie back on.

That's a weird thing to bring up, I thought. But I started thinking about other supernatural creatures.

"I'd want to be a fairy," I said.

"Really?" Michael was clearly amused and obviously thought making fun of me was OK, despite the respect I'd given this out-of-nowhere conversation.

"Yes," I said, picturing Tinkerbell and the fairies as I'd imagined them in A Midsummer Night's Dream.

"I think your boobs are too big for flight, sweetie," he said, grinning like a 12-year-old. "You couldn't be a fairy."

I looked at him with irritation. Really? I completely accepted that he would be a werewolf in a random confession that was important enough to stop this terrible movie, and he's making fun of me because I want to be a delicate little fairy?

I was annoyed beyond ration. It was a little frightening. I mean, we're talking about imaginary creatures, and I'm taking it personally that I'm too top-heavy to fly.

"I can be a fairy," I told him emphatically. "Because my flying isn't about aerodynamics. It doesn't matter if I have big boobs because I'm magic!"

He looked at me, a little surprised that I was taking myself so seriously. I was surprised too, but now I was committed to this ridiculous fairy thing.

"Yeah," I said, with a sense of triumph for I don't know what. "I have fairy dust, and that makes me fly."

"Like Tinkerbell?" he asked, in that tone that he uses when he's trying not to be condescending but we both know I'm being ridiculous.

"Yes. Like Tinkerbell."

"OK. You have fairy dust."

And that was it. We finished the movie as if we'd just had a normal conversation.

Stalemate

2011-03-02T03:27:00.000-05:00

I've been gone for a month. Nothing is wrong with me. I'm just busy at work and pretty much sleeping on my days off. Not to mention totally blocked.

But... NaBloPoMo to the rescue, shockingly enough, since I declared its failure not long ago. Their blogging theme for March is "in a word," or something to that effect. You choose a word, and that's your post.

My word? Stalemate.

I've obviously reached a stalemate in writing.

And until Saturday, I was convinced the neatness of my house and the likelihood of me ever being a decent housekeeper had reached a stalemate. But Michael's parents visited Saturday, so we both spent a couple of hours cleaning, and oh my gosh, my house looks awesome. Well, the parts other people see, at least.

My really big stalemate, though, is work. And just pushing through it has been so exhausting that I just haven't felt like writing.

People are still so bummed about the layoffs in January, partially because people's last days were just a week ago. And I feel guilty because I didn't get laid off, and one of my coworkers who's been there forever did. He's 59, so he was counting on 6 more years. And now he has to start all over again.

On top of that, there are furloughs in the budget for the second quarter, which, for me, isn't a huge deal. I've been unemployed, so I can handle five unpaid days if it means a bunch of people keep their jobs. But human resources didn't know or didn't communicate some of the furlough information (basically, if you file for unemployment while on furlough, you can get paid for your next furlough). So people feel cheated, and they're really mad at management, and they're calling human resources workers incompetent and stuff.

It's almost a toxic work environment. People keep saying things like, "We're all just here, working until they lay us all off." The negativity and depression are palpable. I can't describe how jarring that is. Especially when the person on our team who was laid off gets brought up.

"I just don't understand why they let him go," they'll say. "He's been here for so long. They said they were going by seniority."

They might as well say, "You shouldn't be here." Even though I had nothing to do with the decision.

But here's the thing: Companies have gone by seniority for so long that they're losing all the young adults who are computer savvy and can get stuff online (which, much as I hate to admit, is newspaper's future) and who are driven because we're at the beginning of our careers.

They're left with jaded, middle-aged newspeople who either were holding on until retirement or still complaining about the "new" software from 2007ish. At some point, the company has to think about its future. If you lay off all the 20- and 30-somethings, the company will die in a few years when all the senior workers turn into retired senior citizens.

While proofing pages a few months ago, I ran across a Dear Abby column in which a middle-aged woman complains about her younger coworkers. The woman writing in is annoyed that they put their families ahead of their jobs. They ask off to attend their children's special events! Women her age never did that.

Of course we put our families ahead of our jobs. We have to keep our families. When the job disappears, you want family to like (and remember) you. And many people close to my age have been in that position. And it doesn't matter how hard you work; sometimes, you're just going to get laid off anyway.

So that's where I've been.

Smiling as brightly as I can when I feel like half the people I work with are wishing I'm the one who had been laid off.

And saying, "At least we still have jobs," when everyone complains about furloughs.

And being so damn perky I don't even know who this smiley person is. It's exhausting.

But like I said, I felt guilty. So this is the note I sent my laid-off coworker on one of his last nights:

Coworker, [actually, it had his name]

I've wanted to write you a note for a while, but I remember the frustration that nothing anyone said when I was in your position had the intended effect. I think the thing that stuck with me most, though, was someone saying, "I know you'll land on your feet."

And that's probably what I most want to tell you -- Even completely blindsided, and even though it definitely doesn't feel like it right now (at least it didn't for me), you will land on your feet.

I've been racking my brain for the past few weeks wondering why it was you and not me, and while I'm selfishly relieved, it still seems unfair, and I'm sorry for that. As another coworker said, you were so welcoming and helpful when I started here, and I went home after my one of first nights and told my husband, "I've never done so many pages in two nights combined. But one man just kept checking on me and asking if he could help me with anything. I can't remember his name, but he was so nice. Not the grouchy news-type at all." (And I'm not saying that to be nice. That's really how the conversation went.)

I'm so appreciative to you for your offers of help throughout the following months and for how welcoming and accepting you were of me -- when even I, not a fraction as experienced as everyone else in the room, felt I wasn't qualified to be here. Working with you has been a pleasure, and I think we have a couple more days.

I wish you the very best, and I hope you soon find something better than you could imagine. You'll be in my thoughts and prayers.

Sincerely,

Rebekah

Why Unromantic Valentine's Days Are Best

2011-02-03T15:18:00.001-05:00

First of all, I heart The Frisky Virgin, and I want us to live in the same town and be BFF. Seriously. She's adorable. And I know a ridiculous number of nice single guys and very few single girls.

So when I read her Valentine's post, it broke my heart a little. For those of you who didn't read Frisky's post, it's about those fundraisers clubs do in high school where they sell flowers for Valentine's Day, and if you get a flower, you're pretty and cool -- and I was neither -- and if you don't, you're a big fat loser. Or at least, that's how it feels.

In my freshman year of high school, I did get a carnation from a boy named Justin.

So did his ex-girlfriend, Nicole.

Who was in class with me when our carnations were delivered.

We both tried to be coy about who sent our flowers, but after about five minutes, we had him figured out.

And we were both seething. He had bought my flower, then realized that they might get back together, so he quickly bought her a flower too. They did get back together, but she made him apologize to me.

It was an empty victory.

Years later, Nicole and I are still friends. I can't remember Justin's last name.

I have several stories like that one, but I thought it might be more encouraging to my blogging girlfriends to share the un-sucky Valentine's Days. And my favorite Valentine's memories have nothing to do with boyfriends or husbands. (When Michael and I were engaged, he said, "I just bought a diamond ring two months ago. That is your Christmas gift, Valentine's gift, birthday gift... What do you mean we still get each other wedding gifts?")

Anyway. Two happy Valentine's Days.

2006: The Littlest Valentine

My sister's pregnancy had been a surprise, and since it began while she was in high school, it was difficult for our family.

In college at the time, I struggled with the knowledge that she would never live in a dorm full of girls. My parents, obviously, were really pissed in the beginning.

And watching my little sister grow in a very un-little-sister-like way was beyond weird. This is her on the morning Porter was born:

She remains a big believer in walking to get labor going, even though it did absolutely nothing for getting Porter here.

I know. It's kind of sickening, isn't it?

The girl gained nowhere but her belly. Everything else was still high-school-soccer-player taut. By that summer, I was embarrassed to be seen next to her in a bikini.

She was being induced because the doctor was worried about her size (tiny) delivering a 40-week baby. So they induced at 39 weeks.

He was itty-bitty -- 5 pounds, 12 ounces -- but absolutely beautiful and perfect.

I will take this over a boy (except Michael, of course) any day:

And he still melts my heart when he "pways" with me:

UPDATE: I totally forgot to mention that this particular year, I informed Daddy that since he was the only man in my life, he would be responsible for my Valentine's Day. He always delivers. I don't know what he's going to do when Miriam gets married and he only has Momma to pamper. I think he'll miss us.

Before we went to the hospital that morning, Daddy had roses for Momma, Miriam and me. And Rachel, but that wasn't really important to her that day. (She says she and B.J. just don't bother with Valentine's Day anymore because there's no way they could top Porter -- and they wouldn't want to.) And while Rachel was laboring and wanted us gone, he took us to Olive Garden for lunch. (Why Rachel wanted us gone: Since Daddy's a minister, he has a pastor ID card, and he can just flash it and walk by the nurses' station whether it's visiting hours or not. He was so excited about the birth of his grandson that he might have used it when he got impatient because we hadn't had a status report in a while. He ended up walking in on Rachel getting an epidural. "What if he had walked in on an exam?" she shrieked to me later. Long story short, when Evie Grace was born, it was my responsibility to make sure that the ID card was out of his possession. He wouldn't turn it over, but he did promise not to use it -- and he didn't.)

And the next year, Valentine's was just as good -- in a different way.

2007: The Single Ladies Party

I've mentioned before that my college considered itself a marital institution. So my senior year, most of my friends had dates. Or at least plans. Of my girlfriends, literally three of us didn't. (Michael didn't enter the romantic picture until April.)

My friend Jane and I went to the dining hall for dinner, where we decided they were rubbing in the fact that some of us had to show up at the dining hall. The food that night was especially terrible, so it was like a reverse Walk of Shame. Jane actually wasn't single, but we were on the East Coast, and he was in Arizona, so she was dateless.

We had our plans for the rest of the evening, though.

After dinner, we were going into town to get some champagne. And not the good stuff.

We got the pink stuff in mocking honor of Valentine's Day.

Then, we were going to drink it and watch movies.

Another single friend joined us back at the dorm.

And the funniest part was that as girls trickled back onto our hall after their dates, they gravitated to my room. Jane and I were having more fun than they had with the guys.

Andre didn't last long at all, and Jane and I only had a glass each, toasting girlfriends and commercialism. (Also, it was disgusting. I hadn't yet learned how to determine which wines would be sweet enough for my taste just by reading labels. I think I ended up mixing some juice in the last half of the glass.)

UPDATE: I totally forgot that the next morning, a Saturday, I was awakened around 10 a.m. (extremely early for a college student who had been drinking, albeit not much, the night before) with a knock on our door. One of the organizations had a fundraiser selling cakes. They contacted parents (best way to raise money in college) and told them they could order a cake for their student for a small price. Then, they baked the cakes and decorated with the parents' chosen message. This was mine:

It originally said, "You're mine! Heart, Daddy," but I got excited about surprise yummy cake for breakfast and ate the "dy" before I realized I might want a picture to remember it. Delicious.

So every Valentine's Day, when girls are feeling lonely, I have this advice: Plan something fun for yourself. Ideally, plan something fun for you and a girlfriend. (UPDATE: Or your Daddy.)

I tried to remember things that happened on other Valentine's Days, but honestly, they all are pretty unremarkable. And I have a feeling that to beat these two, Michael's going to have to do something grand.

Because despite roses from a high school boyfriend, love letters from a guy in college, snuggles with a new husband last year, my favorite two Valentine's Days involve a tiny baby boy who stole my heart with his big blue eyes, and a girls' night that made the girls with boyfriends wish they'd stayed in.

Oh, and chocolate.

Biology doesn't care about feminism. Sorry.

2011-02-02T03:07:00.000-05:00

I started writing this on Dec. 1, 2010, so this article I read was back in November. It was the first in a series of events that have pointed out that what my body wants and is programmed for is not what my husband and I want right now. Hence the war between hormones and logic.

PART ONE: Your ovaries don't care about your job.

Yesterday (EDIT: on Nov. 30), I read a fascinating article about the 50th anniversary of the birth control pill.

I'm way oversimplifying (because you really should read it yourself -- it's a well written and thought-provoking article) but it basically says that while revolutionizing sex for women -- giving them the option to choose when they had children, which, in part, led to the free love era of the 1960s and 1970s and subsequently, the one-night-stand dating culture of today -- it also made it easier to push aside biological realities.

Like the fact that you can't have babies forever. Your body just isn't built for it.

Commenters, though, got mad at the author for pointing out those biological realities. They were defensive about The Pill and told the author she should be ashamed of herself for pushing women's rights back 50 years.

Um. Really?

Sorry, but evolution doesn't really care about your pay grade or your emotional maturity. Your reproductive system's job is to pop out babies when it's most capable of doing so. Which is your 20s. If you're sexually active and not religiously on birth control, your body's like, "OK, this guy has some good DNA. That's a go, little gamete! Let's continue humanity! POOF! FETUS!"

That's how I picture the ovaries -- like little supervisors walking around a plant with white coats and goggles overseeing the specifics and shouting instructions like, "POOF! FETUS!"

And as you ladies well know, ovaries are selfish little bitches. They like control. Once a month, they're like, "You didn't give me much to work with this cycle. PUNISH!!!!" And then you get cramps and migraines and maybe throw up. So they're definitely not consulting the rational parts of your brain when they're deciding it's poof-fetus time.

In response to the article, another blogger stipulated that The Pill gave women the opportunity to make sex about the individual -- not necessarily about the two people involved. Of course, it seems trite to even mention because people talk about it so much, but men had been doing this for centuries. It just hadn't been an option for their fertile female counterparts.

I would take that a step further: It also made having children about "me."

For example, before the Pill, no one really argued about "a woman's right to choose." Everyone agreed that if she had sex and got pregnant, she knew the consequences before she had sex. After the Pill, she had a choice before she had sex, and it didn't work -- so she gets a second chance, now, right?

Let me be clear. I'm not against the Pill. I'm on the Pill. I'm making decisions about having children by being on it. And I like those decisions. Those decisions mean that when I come home from work at night, I can read, mess around online, watch a movie, go curl up with my husband -- basically do anything but change dirty diapers and quell a wailing child. I don't want to do that on a nightly basis yet.

But.

At some time in the future, I will reach a critical point at which I either need to stop taking it and have babies or make a decision to adopt, use a surrogate, or be childless. I can't take it indefinitely.

I think that's the point the author was trying to make. Your body is not as well equipped to carry a child at 45 as it is at 25. Period. (No pun intended, but you do stop getting them.)

Sure, build your career. Choose not to have children until you're more mature, more financially stable, in the right relationship. The Pill gives you the freedom to have a life outside the kitchen with shoes on.

Again, but.

There is a cutoff, and at that point, it becomes selfish to try to have children the old-fashioned way.

Yes, I said selfish.

This is where people get offended. What if they didn't meet the right guy soon enough? What if they were building a career to take care of their children? Should they be punished for that?

Of course not. Those are completely valid and, I would even say, wise choices.

But there is at least one other person to consider in this equation: said child. Not to mention the father.

Every child has a right to health, and every parent has an obligation to give their children as many chances for health as they can. In some cases, that might mean it's too late to have a completely natural conception, pregnancy, and birth.

That has nothing to do with religion. That's a very basic human right. In this case, you can't have your cake and eat it too.

The same blogger I linked above said blaming The Pill for problems getting pregnant is like blaming McDonald's for getting fat. Totally agreed. But without The Pill, it would be something we'd consider a lot more.

One commenter provided what I thought was an interesting metaphor that captures the concept of reproductive responsibility I think so many women lack (and celebrities top that list): the grasshopper who played all summer while the ants worked. Then, in the winter, the ants had enough to eat, but the grasshopper didn't have anything.

The problem that follows is that the grasshopper in the story just dies, but women who didn't freeze their eggs or adopt just go ahead and play Russian roulette with their children's lives. "I'm older than 40, and my child has a 50 percent higher chance of having Down syndrome and a host of other birth defects? Well, that won't happen to me."

But it might.

And, it's not just happening to her. It's happening to her family. Everyone is affected by a birth defect.

So yes, if you wait until middle age to have children, if you insist on having your "own" children because you want to experience pregnancy, if you know the risks and just hope for the best, yes, that's selfish.

Infertility is something different. Infertility is something women of a child-bearing age face. We come off the Pill, try to get pregnant, realize we can't -- that's infertility. Equating infertility to the body preparing for menopause is insulting to women who actually deal with infertility.

After 40, not getting pregnant is Mother Nature saying, "Hey lady. You're not 22 anymore. Your body isn't meant to carry a baby. I'm not helping you out." It's your ovaries saying, "Seriously?! We've been working hard here for 25 years, and the eggs are shriveled up, and our 401ks are looking pretty sweet, and now you want to get pregnant? We're tired, lady."

I'm not blaming women of child-bearing age who have children with birth defects. They probably do enough of that themselves. And questioning whether they did something wrong during their pregnancy is something they'll do every time they see that child struggle. It's a lifetime of heartache that no parent deserves. Even women who decide at quite a ripe age that they're ready for children don't deserve it.

But choosing to have a child when so much evidence says it's not healthy for the baby -- that is wrong.

Being a good parent requires giving a child a life that is as healthy and happy as you are capable of providing -- bringing a baby into the world in optimal conditions.

Young women who put babies up for adoption, teenagers who recognize that someone else could give their child a better life and act on that realization -- those people are heroes. They get the morning sickness, the stretch marks, the pain of labor -- but no baby. Because they are being amazing mothers, heartbreaking as it is for them.

Making a conscious decision to put your child in harm's way so you can have a natural pregnancy on your time -- that's not being an amazing mother. And it makes me question what kind of mother you'll be since you intentionally conceived a child knowing your body is no longer equipped for it.

You can't make biology conform to your plans.

PART TWO: My hormonal haze

About a week after I wrote most of the post above, I had my annual visit with the gynecologist.

He informed me that my particular brand of birth control required that it be taken within 15 minutes of the same time each day. Otherwise, it wasn't as effective. Yikes. Would have been nice if the midwife mentioned that last year. So basically it's a miracle I didn't get pregnant this past year.

So since I'm flaky with times and stuff and since there were other side effects I wasn't exactly enjoying, he suggested I try a different form of birth control.

In that whole process, I was off all birth control for a whole cycle. During that time, I realized how incredibly stunted my hormones were on birth control.

This made me think I'd died and gone to heaven:

Michael holding Evie Grace at Rachel's graduation celebration.

And Evie Grace was sick that night. As soon as Michael handed her to my mom, she promptly threw up all over the table at the restaurant. And I only gagged once. And I was right beside her.

I actually thought, "I could handle that."

I could not pass by pictures of friends' babies on Facebook without looking.

The doctor called me with an abnormal pap, which led me to Internet research, which led to a huge fear of actual infertility. (If you didn't want to click on the link, he's pretty sure the labs got mixed up, which means that my hormonal tears about no babies were for naught. Which Michael said at the time.)

We had Christmas, and watching Porter and Evie Grace go crazy over presents was so. much. fun. Christmas is way better when there are little kids involved.

Basically, I was bombarded by babies, and my body was like, "You neeeeeed one." And I was like, "No. I neeeeed to work and go to school and get Michael through school." So my head was all rational and, "Rebekah, you know yourself, and you would not get enough sleep if you were juggling school, work, husband and baby. And you'd have to cut back on the shopping because diapers are super expensive." But my hormones were like teenage girls in the mall squealing at nail polish.

Except babies instead of nail polish.

Good news: Back on birth control. Happy birthday, preventer of birth days! Bad news: It appears I want children sooner than I planned to want them. Which just proves part one: You can't make biology conform to your plans.

More good news: It's easier to be rational with the birth control.

Waiting

2011-01-31T09:32:00.000-05:00

I am not a patient person.

If there's bad news, I want it. Now.

So the last two weeks have been torturous knowing our sister paper laid off a bunch of people, including at least one person from their copy desk/design team, and knowing we just hadn't announced our "cost-reduction measures" yet.

There's a rumor that something will be announced this morning.

So instead of being blindsided and awoken from a deep sleep, like I was last year, I'm wrapped in a blanket sitting in bed with the computer with the phone nearby. I'm not sure which way is better.

Hitting "refresh" every few minutes on my work e-mail can't be healthy. But neither was a terrible blow to my ego with absolutely no warning.

I don't feel the sheer panic I've felt before expecting cost-reduction measures or "a shorter work week" or "work force reduction."

Good grief! Just say it! Pay cuts. Layoffs. Nothing that feels good. Nothing that's tactful in any way for the people who feel the brunt of it. And trying to make it sound better does them a disservice.

But this time, I'm OK. I'm ready to be laid off again if necessary. I finally decided an actual career path that doesn't involve hours from hell or my soul being sucked slowly from my body until I become a hardened, insensitive, cynical person. If it happens, it's a push toward my career.

And despite two layoffs, I will have had a successful run in newspaper.

So on 3.5 hours of sleep, I wait. And maybe sleep some, too. Hopefully.

Updates

2011-01-20T04:24:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I talk about things, and then, I never come back to them. And although life seems to have been on a loop lately -- which I guess isn't a terrible thing -- there are some new things.

Most recently...

We did get to celebrate my mom's birthday. A week late, but I think she had fun.

Remember when my dad asked for blog credit after I wrote about how he's not much of a phone-talker? Well, last week, I made a claim that he always disappears for cleanup on Mom's birthday.

I thought he should get blog credit for the fact that he didn't disappear this time. Apparently, he read that post and was a little indignant.

"I'm usually cleaning up after y'all are all gone!" he told me.

This time, Rachel was the one who disappeared, but she had two good excuses. (1) A hungry, slightly cranky almost-10-month-old and (2) a sick 4-year-old who, they found out the next day, has a double ear infection. I don't even know what that means.

I sat on the couch and watched "Porter shows" with him for a while.

"I feel wike I'm going to cwy," he told me, holding his ear. I could have cried for him.

Odds and ends

The flights to and from Florida were decidedly uneventful, except for the fact that Michael felt terrible on the way there.

I did not find a one-armed illiterate person with whom I would feel comfortable leaving children. In fact, I did not seen a single one-armed person during that whole three weeks. So I will not be getting lots of new clothes.

Oscar remains disgusting, but more on his own since Michael didn't pee on him again. (I know that one's not really an update, but I came across that post looking for others, and it really made me giggle.) I think he's thrown up his dinner behind me. (Oscar, not Michael.) Awesome. I'm hoping he eats it before I go clean it up. That's what usually happens. See? He's disgusting.

The Trouble in Bed

We've pretty much established that after a car and my education, our next big purchase will be a very large bed.

But.

We did get a comforter set. We couldn't find a duvet we both liked, so we ended up with this:

Kelsey 9-piece comforter set by Vida by Eva Mendez -- available at macys.com

And here's the sad part: Neither of us really likes it.

Unfortunately, Michael had a bit of wine before he put the bed skirt on, and he hates bed skirts. He thinks they're ridiculous and purposeless, and that probably has something to do with the fact that he didn't actually remove the mattress from the box spring to put the bed skirt on. Not sure how that worked.

So we can't return it.

I'm not even really sure why we chose this one when we had several perfectly good finalists. I think it's mainly because Michael got really tired of all the shopping, and I got really frustrated with the fact that we don't like anything the same. So we just gave up and hit "purchase."

We had settled on this for a while, and I'm not sure why we didn't go back to it:

Mosaic bed linens available at Crate&Barrel

And we both loved this, but all the shams were sold out, and Michael was terrified of letting me choose things by myself, and he had no intention of shopping for bed things anymore at all ever.

Reversible Retro Plaid Duvet Cover -- available at West Elm

Anyway. I'm hoping he stops caring at some point in the not-too-distant future. And then I'll redecorate.

I'm also worried about my job again because a sister paper (with which we work very closely) announced layoffs on Tuesday. But that's not really an update.

Snow Fun

2011-01-12T03:08:00.000-05:00

OK.
So Sunday night was fun, waiting up until I could see the snowflakes against the streetlight. I don't even like snow, and I still get all excited every time it happens.

And then waking up Monday to my boss saying, "Rebekah, do you have Citrix installed? [Citrix is a magical internet thing that brings my desktop from work to my computer at home. Kind of like the Windows Cloud commercials, but way, way more complicated. I think. Anyway, I have all necessary programs for work. Except Photo Shop, but that's no big deal because I got that for Christmas, and I had no intention of using it the first time I worked from home.] If you don't, you need to do that because we don't want you driving to work in this weather."

Awesome.

I had installed the program Sunday night waiting for the snow. Which meant I got to work from home. And take breaks to kiss my husband when I wanted to. And take a phone call from my sister. (But mostly, I didn't do a lot of that, and I would be like, "No, Michael, I can not watch you make Oscar make a snow angel because I am working and I have a deadline, and it's an hour early tonight.") And I got to not wear pants. How awesome is it to be able to work in the husband's huge T-shirt curled up in a blanket on the couch not wearing pants? Actually, by the end of the night, I felt kind of gross and wished I'd taken a shower, but just to have the choice not to shower... I think this is a sign that I should not make working from home a habit.

Also, company policy is to show up at the office. Preferably with pants.

So Monday was fun.

Tuesday, though. Not so much.

My mom turned 50 on Tuesday, so we'd been planning a party for about a week. Which, in itself, is a big deal. Usually, Rachel and I plan a day that we can both be there, and Daddy shows up with an awesome gift and helps clear the table, then mysteriously disappears for the rest of clean-up.

This time was different. We had designated duties. We had established that all of us would be cleaning up.

But no. Dinner was at 6, and that's after dark, which means everything would be frozen. I'd have to leave our house by 3 to avoid dropping temperatures and ice, and I wouldn't be able to come back that night. So after a brief phone call with Daddy, we decided it was best not to drive. It did make me feel better that Rachel couldn't even get across town.

Michael ventured out for Mexican food. I stocked us on canned vegetables last time I went to the grocery store, but around lunchtime, Michael said, "We don't have any food. I want Mexican!" And aside from the Mexican restaurant, ironically enough, because I'm pretty sure Mexico gets less snow than the Southeastern U.S., nothing but McDonald's was open.

(I learned the first year I lived here that the pizza people have consciences and don't like to send their drivers out. I'd never experienced that before. Where my parents live, the pizza places are like, "I don't care if you're scared! I need the money!" Or at least, that's what I imagine them doing because I always got my pizza.)

Anyway, I'm over the snow.

It's fine for the first day or so, but then it gets old.

I like the idea of snow. It's pretty, and there are happy children, and it doesn't happen often. I don't like actual snow. I blame Rachel ambushing me with snowballs when she was in middle school -- I actually hid in the car with the doors locked once until my mom came outside.

But because I like the idea, I get excited every time we get even just a wintry mix. Every time. I'm like, "Oooh, so pretty!" and I get all excited. Last time it snowed, I actually missed my exit on the way home from work because I was enjoying watching the snow so much.

And then I have to go out in it, and I curse the stuff.

It gets in my shoes. It makes my socks wet. It gets the bottom of my pants wet. And COLD. And it takes like 20 minutes to get out of the driveway -- and even then, I have a big pile of snow in the middle of the windshield where I can't reach to scrape it.

And people go all Chicken Little because it doesn't snow once a week here (although we do get at least one big snow a year, so they really shouldn't freak out) and they're like, "SNOW! We're all going to lose power and DIE! Must buy BREAD AND MILK." (Seriously. Grocery stores run out if the word is mentioned on the weather.)

And then after it snows and they're tired of their kids' snow high (which is worse than a sugar high because there's no definite crash), they're like, "It's just snow. I can drive." Except they can't. Which makes driving in it for those of us who don't freak out until necessary a nightmare.

And that's going out in it.

Michael says it's not possible for me to have cabin fever because I haven't even been outside since I got home from work Sunday night. And I didn't go with him today when he went to get Mexican food.

But I still like to have the option to leave the house. Even if I wouldn't take it.

But it is pretty.

And once the roads are clear, it's really fun to drive around the neighborhood and decide who has kids based on their yards. I didn't notice it last year -- probably because we were living in an apartment complex -- but you can totally tell. When it snowed over Christmas, it made me smile every night coming back from work until everything melted.

The ones that are still white and untouched, like ours (except maybe a cat-shaped hole because Michael finds that hysterically funny), obviously have no children. The yards where the snow is so torn up that the grass beneath it is all mixed in with the white stuff. The yards with snowmen. The yards with snow angels. Those have kids.

And that reminds me of when I liked snow and how much fun it was for me. Before I was a target of my sister's frozen projectiles. And she'd throw anything that gathered on the ground. Sleet, snow, ice. It did not matter.

I kind of want to put up a sign in my yard that says, "Please enjoy our snow for your snowmen, snowball fights, and general destruction."

It's like it's getting wasted.

I might not like it. But I remember liking it. And I like other people liking it. And I do like looking at it.

It is pretty.

Not Again...

2011-01-07T05:02:00.000-05:00

It's so hard to believe that the day I described in this post was almost a year ago. I was laid off the day after Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

So as January has approached, I've become more and more nervous about my job. Among other things. A week after my freckle was removed, I had an abnormal pap smear. Which totally freaked me out because (a) we're already checking for cancer elsewhere on my body and (b) I've had four normal paps since Michael and I started dating, and we started with a squeaky clean slate, so to speak. (And never an abnormal pap before that, for the record.) And abnormal pap smears happen when there's an STD, which was impossible, or something seriously wrong which will prevent me from having babies ever (I thought).

So between nervousness about my job and my health, I haven't slept much lately. It's better now that I've talked to the primary-care doctor, who said my freckle was benign, and I'm tired all the time because my thyroid was like, "Blah. I quit my job."

Also better since I had my follow-up appointment with the OB/GYN, who believes there was a mix-up in lab work. Or that I'm a one-in-a-million case. Regardless of what my labs said, there was no evidence of anything abnormal when I had a very intimate encounter with a microscope earlier this week. Honestly, when he said that he was going to look at cells under the microscope, I thought the cells would go to the microscope -- not vice versa. Imagine my shock.

So now I can sleep easily about my health. But I think it's going to take getting through the month before I can sleep easily about my job.

My Wound: Minor Surgery and BB Gun Crossfire

2011-01-04T19:56:00.000-05:00

Remember my sexy freckle? Well, it's gone. I thought about posting an after picture since you guys were so sweet about preparing me, but then, since you guys were so sweet about preparing me, I decided not to do that.

He definitely scooped, and it was gross, and I couldn't watch. And I made a lot of noise when he gave me the shot numbing the area. The needle was unnecessarily gigantic, and then the stuff going into my fat tissue burned. Seriously. The inside of my fat was burning. I didn't even know that was possible.

"It'll just feel like a bee sting," the doctor said.

SON OF A BEE STING!

That did not feel like a bee sting. That's what the needle felt like. But then it felt like my breast drank a few shots of cheap vodka. He didn't warn me about that part.

So when the needle went in, I was relatively cooperative, but then, when he started pushing the flames, I was all, "Aaaaaaaow, aaaaaow, OUCH!"

The nurse said, "That's all right, sweetie. You make all the noise you want."

The doctor just looked at me as if to say, "Are you finished?" like you'd say to a 2-year-old having a temper tantrum.

So then he got his scalpel and went to work like he was carving messages on a stone wall. It didn't take that long, and he talked to me the whole time. I couldn't tell you what we talked about.

And then he showed it to me. It looked sort of like this:

He handed it across the table to be put in a little biohazard container, and as he was reaching he said, "OK, just put the skin tag in that container..."

I'm sorry. Skin tag?!

That is not what we just removed. Old people get skin tags.

And gross people. There was this girl who rode my bus in elementary school. She was always flirting with the boys I liked. My friends thought she was great, and I never understood why because she talked constantly (that's why her portrait has her mouth wide open) and she was really obnoxious. And she had nasty skin tags all over her neck like this:

Scale and number of skin tags not exaggerated

I always tried not to look at them, but I couldn't stop staring at the skin tags whenever I talked to her. She had one really long one (not picture because I can't do it justice) that just hung there. SO GROSS.

Sometimes, when she was especially annoying, I would picture myself reaching out and yanking on one. I never did, though. I'm not that mean.

I thought her parents must be cruel people for just leaving them there.

So, I concluded, I do not have skin tags. But I let the doctor call it what he wanted. I mean, he still had the scalpel.

So then I went and had blood work done, and it was just an all-around miserable day for me and my skin and blood vessels.

That was about three weeks ago. It doesn't look too gross anymore, but it really did for the first few days.

So when we went to my parents' house to celebrate my sister's 17th birthday, and she was like, "OMG, what happened to your chest?" I told her a neighborhood kid shot me with his BB gun.

"He mistook me for his sister. I was getting out of the car, and he thought she'd been hiding in the car, and he didn't pay attention to my face as he got closer," I told her dramatically.

"So this is what happens when you're shot at close range with a BB gun."

I can't even begin to cover the holes in that story, but she fell for it.

"Oh my gosh!" she said. "I can't believe that! You don't even know your neighbors."

"I know," I told her. "His parents were really afraid we were going to sue. But they paid for me to go get the BBs removed, and they were really nice about it. Poor kid. He was in so much trouble."

Just then, Rachel walked in.

"Rachel!" shouted the birthday girl, "Rebekah's neighbor kid shot her with a BB gun. Come look!"

Rachel was momentarily interested. As a new nurse, she likes gross things.

"Wait a minute," she said. "That's where your freckle was that you were all freaked out about getting removed. Miriam. A neighbor kid and a BB gun? Seriously? You believed that?"

I'm hoping I don't have a gigantic scar. That would not be sexy.

Food, Figure, and Other Caloric Phenomena

2010-12-29T23:57:00.000-05:00

On Christmas Day, I was full after one plate and an extra biscuit -- and I didn't pile food on that plate. I didn't eat dessert. Going through pictures a couple of days later, I found one that made me pause.

"Who is that with Evie Grace?" I thought. "Her hair is too dark to be Miriam. She's not tall enough to be Emily..."

And then I recognized the sweater.

Oh my gosh. I'm that skinny?! I look like I did in high school.

And right when I was trying to feel fear -- because I was so unhealthily thin in high school that my dad would bring me my favorite chocolate bars and watch while I ate them -- I felt a little pleased with myself.

"I look pretty good," I thought, before I could stop the thought from happening.

No! That's the wrong reaction!

After I went off to college, I looked at high school pictures and cringed. My cheekbones, my shoulderblades -- they shouldn't have been so pronounced. Granted, after my freshman fif- ... er... 20, I looked a bit bloated. But the happy medium was in between.

I wasn't treated for an eating disorder; based on psychological requirements, I didn't technically have one.

We chalked everything up to stress. I began the second semester of my senior year as a finalist in competition for a full tuition-and-fees, room-and-board scholarship, dating the most popular boy at my school. I was on the soccer team, and as long as I maintained my grades, I was guaranteed to be the salutatorian. I had everything a 17-year-old girl could ask for. Well, I wasn't going to be valedictorian. I hadn't learned yet that perfectionism can be self-destructive.

But then, I came in as second runner-up for the scholarship. The first runner-up went somewhere else, but both recipients accepted. My boyfriend and I broke up, and since we had all the same friends and they'd known him longer, I was on my own. I was still spending most of my time on the bench at soccer games, and AP calculus was kicking my butt. I felt beaten up all the time. Everything was a huge effort.

It was my first bout with depression. But when my mom took me to the doctor, he mostly ignored me and told my mom, "A spoiled brat's a spoiled brat. Can't do anything about that now." (I really hope his daughter gives him hell as a teenager.)

I'm still confused as to how I got so skinny because I force-fed myself. My mom cooked more that year than any other time I remember, and I forced myself to eat a little bit of everything. My dad was bringing me all the chocolate. And at lunch at school, I had a slice of pizza, and three small cookies for lunch each day.

But I did get that skinny. I was 92 pounds when I stood on the podium to give my salutatory address.

I'll never let myself get to that point again, I told myself months later, looking at pictures.

So I hovered between 97 and 99 pounds for several years. Occasionally, I'd be up to 106, and I'd think, "OK, Rebekah. Pay attention. Make sure you're eating healthy foods." Sometimes, I'd hit 95, and I'd think, "Rebekah, that's not OK. Eat!"

And I would. Throughout college, I frequented the pasta bar and the sandwich line. I went to Subway a lot because that was the only restaurant in town, and I always allowed myself two chocolate chip cookies.

When I was first on my own, I ate a lot of frozen dinners. I made $11 an hour, and overtime had to be pre-approved. Often, I would work through lunch -- on a roll with a story or catching someone I needed to interview on their lunch hour. I would forget to eat.

This is the point at which my friends would roll their eyes.

"So let me get this straight," they'd say. "You're complaining because you're not hungry? You're upset because you're so thin? I wish I had your problem."

Let me just say that catty comments about weight hurt skinny girls just as much as they hurt bigger girls. My mom was told her whole life that she was fat, and she believed it. She's tall, and she was a lean 120 pounds when she got married. Now, she is overweight because for so long, she thought she already was. We've compared a lot of notes on body image, and we've come to the conclusion that unless you must say something -- as in, there's no one else to do it, and it's a life-or-death situation -- you should keep your mouth shut.

But that first year, I did dip down to 94 pounds. My boss was demanding and constantly challenged me, but he also was a workaholic who insisted that everyone who worked with him have the same work ethic. This meant 3 a.m. text messages, 5 a.m. phone calls that our ancient computer server was failing and I had to re-write a story, outbursts at the slightest resistance (apparently, it was news to him that 3 a.m. text messages were not OK unless there was death or fire, and then, he really should bug the crime reporter) and way too many details on his personal life.

When he commented on my weight and started kicking me out of the office at lunchtime -- but didn't become less of a stress factor -- I started looking for another job. When I remembered to eat, the thought of food made me feel sick. The new job helped, and getting married didn't affect it.

But the adjustment of living with someone who was constantly aware of the most minute of my eating habits (college roommates don't really have the same sharing policy as married couples do), buying three times as much food to feed a guy twice my size, losing my job, and taking on five times the work when I found a new job -- the stress came back, along with the aversion to food.

So yes, I am complaining because I'm not hungry. It's not natural not to be hungry.

Yes, I am complaining because I'm so thin. I'm afraid something bigger is wrong with me, and I'm afraid I'm enjoying the weight loss aspect more than I should.

The pleasure I got from seeing the reflection of my figure told me that I was in a gray area between healthy appetite and eating disorder. And when my friends rolled their eyes at me, they thought I was bragging. I was trying to tell them I was worried about myself, and I was afraid I was losing control.

So my complicated relationship with food -- sometimes feeling unbearably hungry and other times feeling nausea at the thought of food -- has continued.

And here I am again. Afraid to step on the scale because I might have dipped below 94 pounds. Shocked at the thin girl in pictures I thought were me. Forgetting meals. Working through meals.

My New Year's resolution was going to be a consistently prompt person. (Ha.) I'm keeping that; it needs to happen.

But more importantly, I need to get myself healthy. That begins with changing my relationship with food to one of health -- not of control.

Overheard

2010-12-26T03:38:00.001-05:00

I've been writing down things I overhear my coworkers say lately.

There's a site for that -- overheardinthenewsroom.com -- but I'm just not sure about posting the stuff I hear.

If it were me getting "published," I would feel a mixture of supreme pride for being funny enough to make it and humiliation because not everyone would think it was funny and Overheard has, like, a billion followers on Facebook. And that's just Facebook. A lot of older newspeople are all, "I don't do Facebook," as if they're above it when usually, they just don't know how to use it.

Anyway, considering that I have a far smaller following than Overheard, I thought I'd share with you guys.

------

An e-mail sent to the copy desk was titled "Facebook status of the night."

I accidentally said ''F***ing A" in front of [his son who's about 5] today. He immediately responded with, ''F***ing B?" Ah, that's my boy.

------

Discussing some superheroes movie that, apparently, is a big deal:

"I don't like the Human Torch playing Captain America."

"Why? Does he not fit the Captain America standard?"

"Yeah. Well, I'm thinking at some point, all the superheroes are gonna meet up, so you can't be Captain America if you're the Human Torch. You have to choose. You can't be both."

-----

This needs no background. It is awesome on its own. The conversation includes reporters, editors, copy editors, designers, photographers, and anyone else in the room who had an opinion.

"I think if you've gone through the surgery and that whole process, you get to be called a man. I think you've earned it."

"The AP says to use the pronoun the person prefers."

"But the woman's relationship with this person is her sister."

"So should we say her 'transgendered sister?'"

"But the person would prefer to be referred to as a man."

"'Transgender' implies that something has been done."

"Or is in the process of being done. Because some people have, you know, parts of both."

"Wouldn't that confuse the reader?"

This conversation continued -- no lie -- my entire shift.

It makes complete sense that it would be a big deal because, well, there aren't that many stories out there in which you're talking about a woman and her relationship to her sister-turned-man. And those are the kinds of things that we have to be very careful about. If we say it too off-handedly, uber-conservatives get really mad because we're "acting like that sort of thing is mainstream." If we say it in whatever way they would put it, it sounds judgy and mean, and the transgendered individual feels singled out. And you never want to piss off minorities of any kind. Or groups that think they're minorities. Or people who think they're persecuted. Or band parents. Especially band parents.

Honestly, you might want to take on a religion or a race before you piss off band parents. I'm not saying it's OK to do that -- it would be wrong -- but band parents are way crazier than athletic boosters, they hold grudges forever, and they more than likely have kids who are squawking away in the middle school band, waiting to take up the torch when big brother or sister graduates. And I can say these things about band parents because I was in marching band. My parents came home from those meetings like, "Who are these people? It's just marching band. It's not boot camp."

Anyway. Moral of the story: Don't piss people off, especially if pissing someone off can get a whole group mad at you. Because then you're really screwed. Especially if they have kids armed with piccolos and snare drums. They'll make you deaf or hit you.

-----

In the middle of the transgender debate, I heard someone say, "That would have been, like, the best surprise ever."

Took me a minute to sort out the cubicles and figure out that that person was on the phone talking Santa Claus.

-----

My favorite was a sports editor talking to a designer:

"The guy who's buying the erectile dysfunction ad said not to put it on the page with the high school stuff. He said the high school kids don't need it."

----

And there's just not much that can follow that.

WANTED: Illiterate Nanny With One Arm for Hypothetical Child

2010-12-21T06:30:00.002-05:00

First. I get that Michael and I are absolutely ridiculous for having this bet. But the second he said, "I bet you can't," it was on. And then he brought ModCloth into it. If ModCloth were remotely manly, Michael might see it as another man in my life.

So here's the bet: I find a one-armed nanny who can't read for the child we won't be having for several years, and, originally, he said he'd give me $1,000. He changed it to "lots of pretty things from ModCloth" when I said, "But Michael, your money is our money." (It was really a joke. We still pretty much operate out of the accounts we had before we were married, but we're not overly possessive of them.)

And here's the best part: If I don't find a nanny meeting above specifications for our imaginary kid, all I have to do is listen to Michael say, "I told you so." And then he'll forget.

So how did we come up with this character?

We didn't.

She was my nanny.

Her name was Minnie Ruth, and she was an older black lady who lived in our community when I was three and Rachel was a baby.

The first day my dad went to pick her up (she also didn't drive), a friend called my mom and said, "I forgot to tell you -- she only has one arm."

Um, what?

That was my mom's reaction. I had been Daddy's daytime charge for three years, and I might have been in a Mother's Morning Out group or something like that. Other than that and play dates, she'd never left her children. Definitely not with a stranger.

"That is not funny," my mom said.

About that time, my dad pulled into the driveway, and there was Minnie Ruth -- with one arm.

And she was awesome. My parents loved her. I loved her. She was pretty much the only non-parent person who could hold Rachel without her shrieking like someone was breaking her tiny little fingers.

She couldn't read.

"She knows her letters, and she reads to me," I told Momma and Daddy.

After years of comparison, we discovered that Minnie Ruth had memorized my books on tape. And she let me turn the pages because I knew "when the chime dings like this [ding]." I had always wondered why sometimes Minnie read it differently from the person on the tape.

So as I drove home from work tonight, Michael and I were talking on the phone about babies. Us having them, I mean. Which is unusual to actually discuss it because Michael doesn't like babies in general and is terrified of surprise babies.

We're not thinking anytime soon; we were just discussing our graduate programs and how babies would fit into our lives before my ovaries shrivel up and die. Because Michael doesn't want to have children until he's "mature enough" and "financially stable," and I've heard you're never mature enough or financially stable. I'm pretty sure Michael's self-assessed maturity and my prime childbearing years won't overlap by much.

"So I'll finish my program, stay home for about six months, and get a job. That way we don't have to put the baby in day care or get a nanny until it's older." (I intentionally said "it" because my instinct was to say "she," and that would freak Michael out. Ever since a six-week-old Porter peed in Rachel's mouth while she was changing his diaper and talking simultaneously, I've been terrified of baby boys and their weapons.)

"A nanny?" Michael said. "Nannies are expensive."

"Mine wasn't."

"Yours was illiterate and only had one arm. She was lucky to have a job."

He sure doesn't sugar-coat things.

"Yes, but she was awesome," I told him, beginning the Minnie-Ruth-is-awesome-and-here's-why speech.

He sensed the speech coming and cut it off: "People like that just don't exist anymore, Rebekah."

"Sure they do."

"No. If someone can't read and only has one arm, they're going to be selling drugs."

Hmm. The drug industry has had quite a boom since the 80s. And with educational and medical advances, people generally know how to read and have both arms.

"Maybe not," I said, less sure of myself.

To prove his point, he continued. "If you can find a one-armed illiterate person that you would feel comfortable leaving a child with, I'll give you $1,000."

And you know the rest. I don't know why our nanny has to be one-armed and illiterate and not just plain trustworthy because if the person did a good job, I'd pay the same.

"You have three weeks," he said.

Anyone know someone who isn't the best reader, might be missing a limb, and is good with small children, overprotective mothers, and just-plain-crazy fathers? Apparently those are our requirements.

No kids yet, but we might have a nanny in three weeks... Because I like ModCloth a lot. And Minnie Ruth was amazing.

How I Found Out About Santa

2010-12-09T04:34:00.001-05:00

Most kids learn the truth about Santa Claus on their own.

A present in Mom's closet shows up under the tree -- not from Mom. The realization that Dad says magic isn't real -- every day except Christmas Eve.

You know -- logical deduction. Not this girl.

Free clip art

I might have been as old as 10, and I found out in Sunday school.

There were four of us: David, Virginia, Ismael and me. I always thought it was weird his name was Ismael and not Ishmael and on more than one occasion snottily told him his mother spelled his name incorrectly if she was trying to name him after Abraham's other son. He said it's spelled differently in Ethiopia, where he lived for several years before his American parents adopted him and his sister.

It never occurred to me that we probably skewed the name more in its translation to English than translation to more similar languages to Hebrew would have done.

"Well, Ethiopia spells it wrong," I informed him. What a little turd. I want to go back in time and smack 10-year-old know-it-all Rebekah. He's separated from his mother forever, and I keep telling him she spelled his name wrong?

Anyway, that Sunday was in December, and we were talking about what Santa was going to bring us. David and I were gung-ho on Santa, and we tried to bring Ismael into the conversation. Virginia wasn't there yet because her family was always late. (Girl is never late now.)

"Santa isn't real," Ismael said.

David and I stared at him. Saying Santa wasn't real... Wasn't that some kind of blasphemy?

"It's just like God, Ismael," I said. "You have to believe."

"It's not like God," he said flatly. "God is real."

"But you don't know that any better than you know Santa's not real," David and I argued.

Virginia got there mid-argument.

"Ismael's right, guys," she said. "Santa's not real."

Virginia was a little know-it-all too. I don't know why people didn't hit us -- especially combined. Our Sunday school teacher was quietly getting the lesson ready. We always waited for Virginia.

"Virginia!" I said, aghast. My best friend didn't believe in Santa?

"It's true," she said. "My mom told me. She said she and Dad put the gifts under the tree, and that's why we don't get as much as the kids at school."

She went to a private school where her dad taught, so some of her classmates had more money than God. We're talking owned-houses-on-the-Charleston-Battery rich, and a lot of them had vacation houses too. Now, it makes sense that her mom would tell them that; they couldn't do as much, and Virginia and her brother and sister were good kids. And Santa isn't supposed to have favorites.

David was just as shocked as I was at the cynicism floating around our Sunday school class. It was like evil had crept in without us noticing.

"Santa Claus has to be real because my Daddy says he's real," I said. "And my Daddy doesn't lie."

"My dad too!" David said.

Virginia rolled her eyes, and Ismael put his head on the table. "Just let them think that, Virginia," he said, giving up on us die-hard Santa believers.

"My mom doesn't lie either," she said.

"But she had to --"

"Rebekah. Think about this," Virginia continued. "Would your dad tell you a lie that makes you happy, or would my mom tell me a lie to make me sad?"

"Daddy doesn't lie," I repeated stubbornly. "And the Weather Channel shows him. He's on the radar. Radar doesn't lie."

"Weathermen lie," she said.

They used all the usual arguments. If Santa is real, how does he visit all the children in the world?

Time zones. Duh.

If Santa is real, how does he get in your house?

The chimney. Stop asking dumb questions.

"Santa's not real."

We were really starting to bicker, and our Sunday school teacher clearly had no idea how to break up the fight without taking a side.

Ismael ended it.

"If Santa Claus is real, then how come he didn't come see my sister and me when we lived on the streets with our birth mom in Ethiopia?"

David's mouth dropped open. I gasped.

"Santa didn't come?"

"No, Santa didn't come. He's not real, and my mom didn't have money to buy food, so she definitely didn't have money to play Santa."

David's brow was furrowing, and I could tell he was tiring of the argument and seeing their logic. I had to save Santa.

And this is where I needed to be smacked again...

"Ismael," I said patronizingly, "Santa didn't come see you because you didn't have a chimney. Duh!"

This time, Virginia and David gasped.

"Rebekah, that's not very nice," the teacher said. "OK, let's start the lesson!"

We dropped the argument and silently agreed not to talk about Santa anymore. David and I were free to go on believing, and Ismael and Virginia could be party poopers if they wanted. David and I decided later, our Christmases would be better for it.

But the seeds of doubt were sown. Pretty deeply.

A child on the streets in Ethiopia needs Santa a lot more than I do, I thought. His mom can't give him anything, but I get presents from my parents and Santa. Santa is supposed to find a way if there isn't a chimney. Santa wouldn't just leave out a family. Especially a family who needed Christmas like Ismael's did.

The options left weren't pleasant. Either Santa was not as jolly and nice as he was advertised to be, or he wasn't real, and my Daddy did tell that one lie. I decided to give Daddy one more chance to tell the truth.

"Daddy?" I asked after church, "Why didn't Santa go see Ismael when he was living with his birth mother in Ethiopia?"

"Oh, he couldn't find them," Daddy said without missing a beat. "They didn't have a chimney."

"That's what I said!" I told him. "But Ismael and Virginia said it's because Santa's not real. And I don't think it's fair that Santa only goes to see the kids who have chimneys. It's the kids without chimneys who need presents more."

"You said that? To Ismael? You shouldn't say things like that," he said. Because when the preacher's kid pisses people off, they leave the church. I don't think Ismael's family left then. I think they moved. Not sure...

"But why? If it's true?"

"Well, Santa's magic," Daddy said. I didn't realize until later that he'd completely avoided the question.

To this day, my dad has not admitted that the reason we had to leave the Christmas ham hock on Santa's plate wasn't that Santa had a long way to travel but because that was unarguably the best part of the ham, and Daddy wanted to eat it.

And I never apologized to Ismael.

So Ismael, if you're out there, I'm sorry I said your mother spelled your name incorrectly, and I'm sorry about the chimney comment when we were talking about Santa. I hope your Christmases are much merrier now, and I hope your children get to enjoy the magic of Santa Claus for as long as I did. You know, if you want to tell them Santa exists.

Makeup Post for Nov. 23: On Anniversaries

2010-12-06T15:17:00.002-05:00

Since I'm a little neurotic about failed goals, I decided that I'm going to make up the days in November that I didn't participate in NaBloPoMo. I know I don't have to. But it's a little bit of a compulsion. I'm going to try to use posts that I started in November or about things that happened in November.

This one was written on Nov. 21. I saved it to post over Thanksgiving, but I was enjoying my family too much to bother.

Today's newspaper had a Dear Abby that irritated me. It was a mom whining about the fact that while her son is wonderful about holidays and birthdays, her 40th wedding anniversary is coming up, and she "just knows she's going to feel empty" because her son won't do anything.

Growing up, my parents didn't want us around on their anniversary. They dumped us in Florida with our grandparents and went adventuring in the mountains. I'm pretty sure they still don't want to see us on their anniversary.

So I always thought wedding anniversaries were really special but private -- just between husband and wife.

Lately, though, I keep hearing people like this mom complain. And Abby didn't tell her to suck it up and enjoy her husband, which surprised me. She did say to be grateful for everything her son does do, but she said he must have some kind of negative association with his parents' anniversary.

And I've heard a lot of girls say things like, "I can't believe no one called to wish me a happy anniversary! Even so-and-so. She was in my wedding! Why would she not call?!"

Um, maybe because she thinks your husband is enough for you today?

Because she got dressed up and stood by you, but ultimately, it probably wasn't a life-changing day for her. And a lot of people like to have romantic dates on their anniversaries, so she might not have wanted to intrude on your time.

On birthdays, I can understand being upset if no one calls or recognizes the date. But anniversaries? They're not overly special to everyone who goes to the wedding -- just to the bride and groom.

My sisters made the best anniversary "I'm thinking about you" gestures.

Rachel posted on Facebook -- on Michael's wall. She said, "Happy anniversary big bro!!! Thank you for being the man to fulfill my sister's childhood dreams of what Prince Charming would be like!"

How sweet is that?!

Miriam sent me a text message about how she was thinking about me, and I was a wonderful wife for Michael. That was special too because I'd confided in her a week earlier that I didn't think I was as good a wife as I wanted to be.

And that was all. We got other phone calls, but we ignored them. It was our day.

Obviously, our parents' 30th anniversaries will be a big deal. And admittedly, the son probably should be doing something for his parents' 40th. But for the mom to feel empty?

I always thought that if you needed someone besides your spouse to acknowledge your anniversary, you probably needed marriage counseling because even if you didn't realize it, you were going to a bad place.

Maybe I've been celebrating anniversaries incorrectly my whole life.

Apparently, you're supposed to make best friends with other couples on your honeymoon.

But we didn't. I always thought it was a bad sign if you couldn't spend the first five to seven days of marriage with only your spouse. Don't you get married because you want to be together your whole life?

We didn't make friends on our honeymoon. We ordered lots of room service, lay in the sun, walked on the beach, marveled at our towel creatures the housekeepers left on our bed.

Photo by me

We went to one group event -- the chocolate bar. And we left as soon as we ate several chocolate-covered strawberries apiece. And even on that beautiful island, we spent a lot of time in our room with the doors to our patio open and a breeze blowing up the mountain from the water -- just enjoying being together.

Photo by Michael in our room

Maybe we did it wrong. Maybe we should have come home with phone numbers and photos of us with other people. Maybe being alone was a wasted opportunity.

These are some of the pictures we came home with (because I'd like to dream about the Caribbean while it's cold outside):

Our first married date. Photo by our butler.

Photo by Michael's long arms

Again, photo by Michael's long arms

But you know what?

I wouldn't trade it for all the couple friends in the world. And I don't care if you remember the anniversary of the day Michael and I got married.

I only hope that on your anniversary, you treasure the companionship of the person you love more than anything (right?) rather than worry about those you didn't choose to spend the rest of your life with.

A nice fellow honeymooner took this picture of us as she passed Michael taking my picture with the pretty little fake waterfall. After this picture, I found myself offering to take pictures for other solitary couples. I think about that woman every time I see this picture, and I hope she and her new husband enjoyed their honeymoon as much as we enjoyed ours. We never saw her again.

The Bad Sex Award

2010-12-02T00:29:00.004-05:00

I posted more on the below on my other blog about 24 hours ago. But it's not too bookish, so I re-posted it here because ohmygoshyouguys, there's a BAD SEX AWARD.
----------

Shut. Up.

This is a real award?

I just learned there is an annual Bad Sex in Fiction Award. No joke. Click on it. (Don't worry, there are no dirty pictures. I wouldn't even describe it as literary porn. But you will cringe when you read just the sentence from the winner.)

I am positively giddy about this. Something on Twitter led me to the title of an article about how the award came to be. (That one does have a PG-13 image. Not work- or child-appropriate.) The title was, "No sex, please. We're literary!"

I clicked on it because I thought that was funny, and that is how I discovered this award.

The journal that gives it, according to this article, says it's a publicity stunt. I wish more publicity stunts were this fun. LeBron, take note. You're not interesting enough to be a publicity stunt all by yourself.

The article also says the award was given at the In & Out Club in London. Ha! You're welcome.

My mom is a little bit ashamed of how much I enjoy dirty jokes...

Nov. 30: Conversations With My Husband: Playing God

2010-11-30T23:17:00.001-05:00

"I don't get that one," I said. "Is that something I should recognize?"

We were watching Tosh.0, and so much of the video had been blurred out that I couldn't even tell what was happening.

"It's extremely disgusting, and you don't want to know," Michael said.

Seriously. How long is it going to take him to learn that if he says, "you don't want to," I inevitably will want to much more than I wouldn't have wanted to had he not said "you don't want to?"

"I do! I do want to know! Please tell me!"

"You know how in the Bible in the Garden of Eden, God says, 'You can have anything but this?'"

"Yes..."

I really don't see how this is answering my question.

"This is like that."

"How?"

"Well, the thing they can't have is fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil because God didn't want them to have knowledge of Evil. This is like that. This is knowledge that you should just let be a burden on me. It's knowledge you'll be sorry to have."

Oh my gosh. Does he know me at all? This is just making me want to know more.

"Please, Michael. Please tell me. Please."

"Fine."

He gave me a URL.

"Look at it after I go to bed. I don't want to see it. It's really gross."

"Is it something that's going to give our computer a virus?"

"Probably."

I didn't look. But he did eventually cave and tell me what it was. (It involves nudity and homosexual intercourse -- not really sure what the politically correct way to say that is -- and I'm not really cool with porn in general, much less guy-on-guy porn. Also, MOM, either stop judging me, or stop reading my blog!)

Unrelated -- Thanks for all the get-well wishes! I didn't sleep much last night, but I've been much better today. I only told Michael I was dying once all day, as opposed to every 8 minutes while I was awake, like yesterday.

Nov. 28: The Failure of NaBloPoMo

2010-11-28T14:54:00.000-05:00

You know, November is really not the month to post every day.

People travel. Holidays happen. There's cooking and cleaning to be done. There's family to spend time with. It's get-sick season. It's just not a good time to post every day. You're basically setting yourself up for failure.

But I still said I'd do it -- and made it for three weeks. So here's a quick update on what I've been doing for the past week:

Monday, Nov. 22

Michael wakes up sick. I spend the morning calling my grandparents and aunt to make sure it's still OK for us to come to Florida because (1) my grandparents are old and don't need sick people and (2) my cousin had surgery the Friday before.

I call the pharmacy and doctor's office about birth control, only to be told that my coupon has run out, my insurance refuses to cover any long-term prescription without using its mail-in pharmacy, and it will cost $88. No birth control.

I work 8 hours and actually finish everything early, so I start the next day's paper. I get stuck talking to coworkers after work. One is horrified that I'm flying during all the security changes, and his eyes widen and tell me he hopes I don't get violated.

At home, Michael feels -- and looks -- terrible. I check us into our flight online, and he goes to bed, nixing any hopes I had of packing. I finally wind down from work and go to bed at about 3 a.m.

Tuesday, Nov. 23

I wake up at 6:15 a.m. and start packing. Around 6:30, I drag Michael out of bed. He still feels terrible, so getting up is a miserable process.

The plan is to leave for the airport by 7:45. We leave around 8:15.

Since we're checked in and not checking bags, we go straight to security at the airport -- and it's almost empty. The full-body scanners aren't even turned on, and we go through metal detectors as if nothing has changed. No scans. No pat-downs.

Our flight is on time but sits on the runway for about 15 minutes waiting its turn to take off. Our pilot is ridiculously fast, and we land a little before noon -- about 20 minutes earlier than planned. My aunt, who is picking us up at the airport, is lost.

We wait about 40 minutes before we see my cousins circling the hotel above us, hunting for the huge Christmas tree and Disney store landmarks I'd given them.

I haven't ridden anywhere with Aunt Judy in years, so I've forgotten her erratic driving habits. Outside, I suggest Michael sit in the front seat so he doesn't breathe on anyone and has leg room. Beside me, my 4-year-old cousin Kate has a fever and feels terrible.

My aunt promptly runs into a column in the parking garage. Michael tells me later that her "testing the structural integrity of everything by running into it" scares him to death. When I tell my mom about what happened, she says, "I pray for my sister and her driving every day."

After lunch at Chili's, Michael perks up, and we head to Nana and Grandpoppa's. I keep putting off a nap -- I don't want to be rude. Nana and Grandpoppa have something to do at church, so we go out to Aunt Judy's, where Uncle Tim is waiting to take Michael hog hunting. I had planned to hijack a cousin's bed for a nap, but I end up standing in the kitchen while they cook dinner, chatting.

When the guys get back, Uncle Tim plops down in the living room and says, "Well, our TV's dead, so we'll just have to enjoy each other's company." Aunt Judy looks through sales papers for Black Friday deals on TVs. Michael and Uncle Tim discuss the merits of LED, LCD and plasmas and where a flat-screen should be mounted.

Back at Nana and Grandpoppa's, we sit with them in the kitchen for a while and talk, but Michael and I head to bed around 9:30 p.m. This is pretty much an unprecedented bedtime for me.

Wednesday, Nov. 24

We sleep blissfully until around 11 a.m. Michael feels a little better, and Nana and Grandpoppa have a big breakfast waiting for us.

Aunt Judy arrives around noon to "maintain sanity," as her daughter tells me. Kate is still sick but feeling a little better too.

At 3 p.m., I ride into town with Aunt Judy for her to get her roots colored. The kids and Michael stay at Nana and Grandpoppa's. I end up sitting in the corner of the salon with copies of Glamour and US Weekly, blissfully reading for about an hour. We stop at the grocery store for a few last-minute items, and Aunt Judy drops me off at Nana and Grandpoppa's while Michael is out at her house hog hunting again.

My mom's brother drops by for a while, and we do a little catching up. We all head to bed around 10:30 p.m.

Rachel and B.J. call me around 3 a.m., and I open the garage door for them and carry Porter inside. Evie Grace, wide awake, leans for me as soon as I put her brother down.

Thursday, Nov. 25 (Thanksgiving)

Rachel and the kids are already awake when Michael and I get up. By now, Michael feels better, but Porter is sick. Porter refuses to "cut Mickey" when Nana fixes him Mickey Mouse pancakes, so he eats all but the ears.

We turn on the Macy's parade, but Porter is set on something else, so we watch that. Rachel and I argue over who should call Momma because we know she's homesick. We finally settle on Porter, but he's uninterested and will only shout a brief "hey" at the phone before taking off to another room.

Lunch is around 1 p.m. Uncle Tim makes prime rib. A little unconventional maybe, but delicious. I ignore the turkey. We sing "Happy Birthday" to Jack, who's turning six on Friday. Michael and B.J. turn on the football game. Rachel and I fall asleep for about two hours.

Everyone goes out to Aunt Judy and Uncle Tim's in the late afternoon. We eat fried gator tail and grilled shrimp, and Uncle Tim takes us on a hayride through the orange groves. Aunt Judy's kids shout at her as she stands up to take pictures. "We're all surprised she's survived this long," Uncle Jeff says.

Rachel takes me for a ride on the 4-wheeler and decides to chase an armadillo in the yard. Michael later tells me armadillos jump, and I frantically text Rachel to stop chasing them because they can get her.

Evie Grace sits contentedly on my lap as her parents sneak off for a ride. Porter plays with Kate and Jack, but he has sick eyes. I check us into our flight for the next morning while Michael, Uncle Tim and Uncle Jeff make one last-ditch effort to find hogs.

By the time Uncle Jeff gets us back to Nana and Grandpoppa's, Rachel, B.J. and kids are asleep.

We talk to Nana and Grandpoppa for a few minutes, but they're quickly ready for bed. We stay up eating pie and talking about the day until about 10.

Friday, Nov. 26

I wake up around 6:15 a.m. to take a shower. We're nervous that our flight home won't be as smooth since it's the day after Thanksgiving. I wake Michael up to pack around 6:45.

We have breakfast with Nana, Rachel, and the little ones before time to leave for the airport.

"Beh!" Evie Grace shouts as I walk past her. Apparently a kiss on the head and brief conversation is not significant attention. I'm the fifth person she's identified. Rachel ("mama"), B.J. ("dah"), Porter ("bubba" for "brother") and Daddy (p sounds for "PaPop").

Porter, amazingly, is awake but still doesn't feel well. He's eating Mickey Mouse pancakes again.

We get our stuff in the car, and I fall asleep. I wake up in Orlando in the drop-off lanes. We hug Grandpoppa goodbye and head for security.

It was empty again. TSA agents were entirely too perky for the day after Thanksgiving. I smile at them, hoping I can charm them into not scanning or touching me. It works -- sort of -- since the machines are blocked off anyway.

Our flight is on time, but as we get near our destination, the plane rocks with turbulence as the pilot dodges storms. We're not in sunny Florida anymore. I shiver as we wait for the shuttle to our car.

We drive home and watch one of the TV shows saved on the DVR. Michael heads to work. I clean out e-mail and head to work. I'm amazingly awake and perky. I credit Evie Grace's shout.

Around 1 a.m., I'm e-mailing a new trick I learned to the reporters at the paper I collaborate with. The coworker who was worried about my airport privacy asks about the trip and says, "Rebekah, you have to be tired. Go home."

An editor immediately responds to my e-mail: "Thanks. Now GO HOME."

I go home, and Michael and I go to bed at the same time, about 2 a.m.

Saturday, Nov. 27

My alarm clock goes off around noon, and I realize I've been coughing in my sleep.

I sneeze as I sit up.

I feel terrible. Maybe I should have been more discriminate in the babies I hugged over Thanksgiving. I go to work, expecting to clear up.

But I don't. By the end of the evening, I've lost control of the volume of my usually-quiet sneezes, and coworkers across the room are blessing me.

"Do you need help?" I ask the coworker next to me as I finish my work.

"No," she says. "Go home and take a hot shower, and just let the steam clean you out."

I do go home, but I'm too lazy for a shower. I settle for washing my face.

Michael has gone to a friend's house to watch the game, and by the time he gets home, I'm curled up on the couch with NyQuil in me wrapped in two blankets and shivering.

We watch "NCIS," bicker because we're so exhausted, and go to sleep.

Sunday, Nov. 28

"You know it's almost 11:30, right?" I say to Michael, who usually has to be at work by noon on Sundays.

My NyQuil has worn off, I'm coughing, and I can't breathe.

"I don't have to be there until 12:30," he says. "My alarm is set."

I pop a cough drop, lie back down and snuggle up to him. I hate that we bickered, but I feel too terribly to make any grand gestures.

Around 12:15, I give up on getting more sleep and head downstairs to watch "Glee." I'm annoyed Kurt is going to the private school after everything his friends did for him, and I think about a book on bullying I saw in the Orlando airport.

I look at the clock. Still an hour until I need to get ready for work. And I feel awful.

At least I have Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday off. There's no way I could do a 5-day week with this cold.

All of that -- above -- is why November is a bad time to plan to post every day.

Nov. 22: Little Things

2010-11-22T02:23:00.001-05:00

I pulled into our neighborhood and saw green trashcans and blue recycling boxes dotting the driveways.

Crap. I thought. It's my week to clean the litter box. Which means it's my week to handle trash.

-----

Not knowing anything about cats when I adopted Oscar, I thought, "Oh, cat poo can't be that bad to clean."

I was wrong. It is disgusting. Especially considering that what Oscar produces is pure, concentrated evil.

-----

My stomach churned a little.

I had not had a good night. I was late to work, so I didn't take a dinner break.

My head ached.

-----

I cried on the way to work because I'd forgotten that Michael and I don't see each other on Sundays. He had two weeks off, and I got spoiled. I was also crying because the house was a wreck -- and my mom just helped me organize less than a week ago. I had left papers in neat stacks in the living room: shred pile, finance pile, special stuff pile, and not-sure-what-to-do-with pile. Oscar had a blast doing sprints through them. I should have known better.

A few blocks away from work, roads were closed for a downtown thing. Usually, I can flash my badge at the police officers, and they'll let me get to my parking deck or the building. Not today.

Not only did he wave me on, he also gave me this ugly gesture that I think was supposed to be, "What do you want me to do about it?" but looked more like, "You wanna mess with me?" He flinched at me like angry drunk guys do when they're posturing before a fight.

Seriously, Mr. Policeman? You're trained in bad ass-ness, and you feel the need to intimidate a 97-pound girl in a Corolla who's on the phone with her mother crying?

"I think some people become policemen just because they're jerks and want to make people feel like crap," my mom said as I burst into tears anew. My mom -- the least anti-establishment person in the world.

Frustration continued when I finally got to work.

The editor I was working with needed hand-holding.

And I had to do my least favorite job, which is my least favorite because I don't get to finish it. Tonight, I handed off with far less done than usual. My goal is always to have as much of the section done as possible, but there were graphics and stories missing that should have been there hours before.

I e-mailed Michael: "I miss you especially tonight."

We had a brief e-mail conversation about how I'd forgotten I wouldn't see him all day, and I told him he should pray for people because I was in a really bad mood.

He was incredibly sweet. It made the rest of the night slightly easier. I made deadline, and I even stayed late getting some advance work for tomorrow done.

-----

OK. This is fine. I'll just clean out the litter box. I can't lift the garage door without waking Michael up, so I'll just do the litter box tonight and deal with the rest later.

And then I turned onto our street and saw trashcans lined up at every house. Including ours.

Surely he didn't clean the litter box, I thought. We're pretty rigid about the your week, my week thing. But he took out the trash. Usually he doesn't take out the trash if it's my week to clean the litter box. Surely he didn't...

I went straight upstairs when I got home. Might as well get the dirty job over with.

That's odd. There's nothing there.

He had cleaned it.

In the next room, I crawled beside him in bed and asked if it was his week to clean the litter box. He grunted what roughly translates as, "I don't know."

But he had cleaned it anyway.

They say it's the little things that keep marriages strong. I don't know if he did it because he wanted to make sure it got done, because he thought I wouldn't do it, or because he knew I was having a rough night. But he did the nastiest chore in the world when it was my turn.

And I was in tears again.

I don't deserve to have anyone help me with chores. Ever. I've always been terrible at them. Between being overwhelmed and being lazy, I'm terribly messy, and no one should have to deal with that but me.

But my Michael did. And tonight, that was exactly what I needed.

Nov. 21: Michael Makes Gooey Chocolate Goodness

2010-11-21T01:33:00.000-05:00

"These directions don't make any sense," Michael said. "They're a grammatical mess."

"What? They're very clear."

"No," he said, holding up the box. He was fixing me one of those warm delights things. "This is not clear. 'One tablespoon plus one teaspoon water.' One tablespoon of what?"

"Water," I said, wondering how he was having such difficulty.

"Well it doesn't say that."

I let him rail about it for a minute.

"Well. It's a good thing the pouch says not to microwave it. I didn't know."

I looked up. "But you are supposed to open the pouch and put the chocolate on top before you microwave it."

"How am I supposed to know that?" Michael asked. "All it says here is 'Do not microwave,'" and he listed a bunch of numbers.

"Are you reading the instructions?"

"I already told you they don't make sense! Clearly, they know exactly who they're marketing to. And it is not people who think rationally."

"Maybe not," I said, trying not to take offense. "But they are marketing to people who think more intuitively."

"Nope," said Michael. "They're marketing to people who are so desperate for chocolate they just throw water at powder and are too lazy to make a cake."

"Michael..."

He was stirring vigorously. "This isn't very different from making a cake, is it? Although I guess you don't have to worry about cleanup."

I'm not sure if Michael has ever made a cake to make that comparison.

"You can blog about this if you want to. Just make sure you include that this stuff clearly is not marketed for people who take things literally. Just crazy chocoholics."

"Got it."

"Not rational people."

I'll probably be making my own gooey chocolate goodness in the future.

Nov. 20: Guest Post By Oscar

2010-11-20T02:36:00.000-05:00

Editor's note: The views expressed in this post are solely the opinions of the writer, Oscar. They do not reflect the views of his owners or the owner of this blog.

Hi. My name is Dammitoscar, and I run this show.

My pet-momma calls my kitty-momma a slut, and that makes me angry, so I eff her up when she's not looking. I like to jump on her leg and hang on with all my claws and my teeth. That'll show her.

Pet-mommy tried to make me call her Rebekah when she first brought me home, but I was such a little kitten and needed so much attention that I was more of a baby than a companion. So she's my pet mommy.

She's gonna be mad at me for telling you all that because it used to get on her nerves when people acted like their animals were their kids. So not very many people know I call her Mommy because that would make her a big fat hypocrite.

Sometimes, when Mommy and I lived together by ourselves, this man would visit and call me a bastard kitty. He would let me sit on his shoulder while he watched big kitties on TV. I'm gonna be a big kitty like them when I grow up. I'm totally gonna kill some antelope. And I could eff up a zebra too.

But sometimes the man did stuff to mess with me.

This is NOT FUNNY! Get me DOWN from here, guys!

Like make me do pull-ups on his stupid bar. And then he moved in, and he does more and more of that shit all the time.

I like our new house because there are lots of places for me to hide and jump out at people. And one time when I escaped into the world, I met up with a kitty skank. Mommy was pissed.

I have to show Mommy who's boss at least once a day, so I hide and make sure she can't see me.

Shh! She has no idea I'm here. Mommy is so dumb!

And I used the pull-up skills Daddy taught me to piss Mommy off at the new house.

Hehe, Mommy! I jumped up here, and you can't reach me now! And I scratched the door in your rented house! Hehe!

I guess I like Daddy OK even though he still calls me a bastard kitty. I like sleeping next to him better than Mommy because he doesn't roll over on me.

This is what a nap is supposed to look like, Mommy. Take note. See how Daddy's not squashing a kitty? That's correct catnap form.

Daddy lets loud people in my house though. Usually the company is OK because they give me beer. I like beer. I don't like gin.

But I hate this guy.

They call him Porter. He is my nemesis.

He is so loud, and he chases me and talks to me in his screaming voice, and I just can't handle it. But I'm not backing down and ceding my house to him. I hide under the coffee table and hiss at him.

I don't know why Mommy doesn't stop him. It's almost as if she likes him better than me, but I know that can't be true.

OK, well, peace out, bitches. I've got shit to do. There are some kitty skanks I need to spy on while they visit their litter boxes.

And I must plot Porter's demise. And give Mommy a big scratch. It's gonna be a good day.

Nov. 19: How I Learned To Like Cats

2010-11-19T03:01:00.000-05:00

I would not characterize myself as an animal lover. At all.

I always had dogs and fish growing up, but after Dog #3, Bud, bit me in the face, I distanced myself. He was a little jerk cocker spaniel.

I wanted a cat when I was little, but then, my piano teacher's cat attacked me after a lesson while I was waiting for my mom to pick me up. One second, we were fine, and I was petting her, and the next second there was all REOWWW and scratching.

By the time I was in college, I had very simple rules about animals: (1) I avoided all cats because they're crazy moody and make me sneeze. (2) I would pet dogs on leashes, but only if their owners had a firm grip, and the dog was less than 3/4 of my weight.

My parents' chocolate lab, Beau, was good, though, and I would let him kiss me on the face, even though he only weighed about 20 lbs. less than I did. When he'd had a recent bath, I'd even lie down on the floor with him and cuddle him. He's the best dog in the world ever. Even now, having spent more years living away from him than with him, he recognizes my car and jumps into the driver's seat when I open the door. My mom says he's extra content when "all his girls are home."

But Beau was my one and only.

The animal ambivalence continued until the summer Michael and I started dating. He was a biology major, and his life's dream was to hand-raise large cats. As in lions and tigers and cheetahs oh my. I would concoct these terrible images of toothy cats with large-cat dander gnawing off our childrens' arms for breakfast.

He did an internship at a zoo, and he hated it.

Well, most of it. He liked the large cats. I've never seen him as exhilarated as he was the day he was six inches on one side of the bars, and a lion was six inches on the other side and roared at him.

"Bekah," he said. "I could feel the roar in my stomach. He wanted to kill me."

But there was the negative side too. (Feeling the roar in his stomach wasn't the negative side, to be clear. He liked that.) As you might imagine, zoo animals aren't exactly house trained, but no one wants the exhibits to be covered in poo. And guess who cleans up? That's right. The intern.

He hated the siamang apes because they liked to throw poo at him. And one molested him.

While he was cleaning their exhibit one day, one of the females reached out of her little temporary cage and cupped his butt cheek. I laughed until I cried when I heard that story. And I still do every time he tells it.

"Hey Mr. Zookeeper! I want to do dirty things to you!" (From the San Francisco Chronicle) This is actually a picture of a 7-month-old siamang, but she's way cuter than her older relatives. The link is her story.

Poor Michael. He was so outraged, as if she knew what she was doing. I mean, obviously, she knew she was putting the moves on him, but she didn't know it's inappropriate to mix species like that.

That was the beginning of the end. By the end of his internship, he said, "I'm just not willing to shovel as much shit as it'll take to get to do what I want."

But during this time, I'd been getting myself OK with cats. If I might have to share a home with the flesh-eating kind, I should at least get over my irrational fear of the household variety, right?

Michael's family has an awesome cat named Chip. Think Garfield, but more of a cuddler and gray instead of orange. And the nasty liquid off the top of canned food -- but not the canned food once he's had his liquid -- rather than lasagna. Chip gives head-butt kisses so hard that once, he almost knocked me over. They also have two female cats, but Chip was the one who won me over.

"If I had a cat like Chip," I told Michael, "I could stand to have a cat."

"Chip's one of a kind," Michael said. It looked like we were back where we started.

Cue loneliness of living alone.

Around the two-year mark, I was planning a wedding with all my bridesmaids in different towns. My family was crazy busy. And I was still getting used to my odd hours. So when my sister told me that her neighbor's slutty cat was pregnant again and that the kittens probably would be euthanized, I'm not sure if it was more the fact that I was lonely or that, as ick-cats as I was, I couldn't stand the thought of one being killed just because nobody wanted it. I agreed to take one. Ironically, Michael was completely against it.

But that's how I got Oscar. He had several sisters, and one looked like him -- gray striped with a white belly -- but most were completely black. Maybe it was a little superstitious, but I didn't want a black cat. I also didn't want a female cat. They cost a whole lot more to get fixed, and I liked Chip better than Michael's girl cats.

There were two boys -- a black cat and Oscar.

Oscar hid from me. He ran under chairs, behind the couch, under the stove.

"I want the spunky one," I said.

Famous last words?

To be continued...

Nov. 17: Tits the Season

2010-11-18T00:34:00.000-05:00

We bought the plane tickets. Now, I have four choices:

1. Do not spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents and aunts and uncles that Michael only met briefly at our wedding. Also, waste a whole lotta money on nonrefundable tickets.
2. Spend most of the 3 days off we have in the car. And again, waste money.
3. Show off my naked body to a total stranger twice. There and back.
4. Have someone grope me twice.

One is not an option. I want Michael to know my family. All of my family. Two is not an option. We both have to work on Friday, and I won't be functional if we drive back the night before.

So it's between three and four.

I've been doing a good bit of research, and yesterday, I posted about PETA's terrible ad campaign.

This video was about the most unbiased thing I could find:

First, I would like to say that I get national security. Sept. 11 was terrible, and of course we don't want anything like that to happen ever again.

I understand why they banned tweezers for a while. I understand the liquids.

But let's just consider this: You have to be a special kind of stupid to put a bomb right next to your netherlands. I know the underwear bomber tried it. But seriously. How many people are actually going to go through with that? That guy was still in the process of getting his materials together when his fellow passengers caught onto him.

Would he have done whatever it is he had to do? When the, "Here goes. We're blowing up everything, starting with my junk," moment came, would he have pushed the button?

Somehow, I just don't think that many people have the...

No, that's too easy.

Anyway, I know that things needed to be changed. But there's a line somewhere. It might be a moving line, but I think we might be on the wrong side of it.

Hence my current predicament.

OK, so the naked body images aren't saved. Problem solved. I'll go through the big X-ray.

But wait... Why won't the TSA let the reporter see the images? Is there something to hide?

I dug around some more, trying to find images. Nothing I saw looked like the "gingerbread" characters the above video claimed. Everything was pretty graphic.

Still, I took comfort in the fact that images weren't saved.

That is, until I found a report that said thousands of images had accidentally been saved. I don't want my lady parts online. Or on a hard disk somewhere.

I've said before that I'm pretty confident about my upper torso region -- the expression "glorious breasts" might have been used. But I'm still pretty selective about who sees them. Michael doesn't even like for me to mention them here. This paragraph has been highly censored. (I didn't describe them or anything.)

Anyway, they're not for all eyes. So I'll do the pat-down, I thought.

But then, I remembered a past pat-down.

The first time I flew (that I remember) was in 2005. I guess I looked nervous -- maybe because I hadn't been on a plane in almost 20 years -- because I was pulled for a random search. I was horrified, as were the friends I was traveling with. All of them had been on planes much more recently than I had, and none of them were pulled.

And I thought that frisking was invasive. She felt around my bra, and I think I blocked out the rest. Despite some pretty heavy tranquilizers my doctor had put me on ("We don't want to risk a panic attack on a trans-Atlantic flight...") I was shaking after my frisker let me go.

So I decided to leave the decision to Michael. I'm going to be violated either way. I can't decide. So I'll let him decide whether he would prefer to watch his wife be groped or know naked pictures were being taken with someone sitting in the next room looking.

He sighed and said he didn't know. So I'm taking opinions. Hands above my head or hands between my legs?

And since Thanksgiving weekend is the busiest time of the year to fly, a bunch of people have decided that Wednesday, Nov. 24 will be a day to boycott the scanners.

At least we're flying on Tuesday... Hopefully, no one gets the day wrong.

Nov. 17: Eff PETA, Eat Meat

2010-11-17T19:37:00.002-05:00

CONTENT ALERT: The following post might have images some viewers would consider exciting, disturbing, or confusing. Parental discretion is advised.

During my search for what I should expect flying over Thanksgiving, I found an ad PETA wanted to post near the scanners. I'll be talking about the scanners another time.

(The link above is where I got the picture, and the article makes some really good points. That is not a PETA-related source.)

They have a body scan, and it said, "Be proud of your body scan. Go vegan."

The good news is that PETA added underwear to the picture, and airports rejected it. The bad news -- PETA is making out like they rejected it because it's too sexy.

Um, no PETA. They rejected it because it's entirely inappropriate.

People are going to be uncomfortable enough getting their private bits viewed by strangers. Why freak them out about whether the technician thinks they're fatties because of all that meat they eat? That's just mean.

I guess that doesn't really matter though. As long as we're not mean to animals, we can do whatever we want to people.

And also, children fly. I'm imagining my nephew in the airport, and that is exactly the kind of ad he would hone in on and ask embarrassing questions about.

Loudly.

And he can't read, so it's not going to be a mature conversation about how we should be kind to animals, and some people believe that means not eating them. It's going to be all about the near-naked woman.

"Mommy, why isn't that wady wearing any cwothes?"

"Is she getting ready for her bath?"

"Who is that wady in the picture?"

"I fink she's getting ready to feed her baby."

You can definitely see areola, and young kids with younger siblings tend to develop a fascination with breastfeeding.

So the racy ads with Pamela Anderson all marked up for a butcher -- yeah, that might be too sexy.

From PETA's ad campaign for vegetarianism

But ads showing people about to be humiliated a reason to be more humiliated? There's nothing sexy about that. That's just inappropriate.

Who's going to be proud of a naked picture? Besides porn stars. I'm not looking forward to it.

Also, I'm eating extra turkey on Thanksgiving just for you, PETA.

Nom nom nom. That's the sound of me gobbling up your little bird friend. And I don't even like turkey that much.

Nov. 16: Loves Me Not

2010-11-16T06:00:00.003-05:00

In sixth grade, my best friend was a girl we'll call Haley.

We just got each other. We were smart kids who tried to stay out of trouble and though we'd never admit it, we wanted more than anything to be popular. But I was awkward, and she was outspoken. So we weren't.

In school district rezoning, I was moved to another school for seventh and eighth grades. We knew we'd be reunited in ninth grade in high school, so it was hard, but it wasn't a huge deal. My main concern was making friends at my new middle school. And then in eighth grade when my two best friends went to the other high school, it was easier knowing that I'd be going back to an old friend.

Haley and I had kept in touch. We hadn't spent a lot of time together or talked a whole lot in the two years we were in different schools, but I knew we'd still be friends.

I was wrong.

Apparently, while I was floundering in the social department at a middle school across town, Haley had become popular. I think she dumped me because she thought I'd hurt her social status as we started high school.

-----

If that was her reason, Haley had a very understandable fear.

I was in the marching band. And I was incredibly awkward.

Despite those forces working against me, I was friends with everyone, which, in itself, might have imposed part of her reserve.

It was hard, but I tried really hard not to snub even the most annoying people. In fact, sometimes they seemed drawn to me, maybe because they knew I'd at least be polite to them.

What a revelation it was when I realized that several of the senior boys, though three and four years older, were not only far less mature than I was but also just plain annoying to be around.

The girl who drove me to school was a bigger nerd than I was. And she was explosive. Now, I think she was working through some stuff, and I truly hope she came out on the other side with minimal damage. But people thought she was crazy and tended to avoid her.

Someone once asked me if another friend with a unisex name was a boy or a girl. Fair question -- she kind of looked like a guy with a really smooth face. But I didn't stop being her friend. You can't help ugly when you're 14.

-----

I never understood Haley's reasoning or what had happened; in sixth grade, she was always talking about how she was a Christian, and you should be nice to everyone.

I tried to think of something I must have done to hurt her. But what? I believed she knew just dropping friends was wrong. She didn't even try to phase me out.

She wasn't friendly, though, so I tried to give her space. If you love something, you should let it go, my parents told me. And I loved Haley.

She needs something that's not me right now, I would tell myself at school when she deliberately looked the other way as I tried to say hello.

Even though my associations grew to include many of the cool kids, Haley never came back.

I would go home and cry because the only people who wanted to be my close friends were crazy or looked like men.

-----

We reconnected on Facebook in college, but I don't think we ever had a conversation. She didn't seem to have changed all that much.

Even now, her Facebook page says, "Love all and worship one."

I ran into her cousin at a party in college. She had gone to high school with one of the girls on my hall. There's a drunken picture of me with the birthday girl and Haley's cousin.

"Tell her hello," I said. "I hope she's doing well."

I meant it.

-----
Michael and I were in line for drinks at Reid's wedding when I heard her name.

Of course Haley's here, I thought. She was one of Reid's good friends too.

I turned around, and there she was, not a foot away from me.

"Haley?" I said, introducing myself in case she didn't know who I was. She gasped, hugged me, then pointed toward the bar -- we were at the front of the line.

Michael was sipping his beer, and I was regretting my rushed choice of white wine when I realized there was a sweet tea and lemonade concoction. We stepped to the side so Haley and her date could come continue our conversation.

Should've had a weak mixed drink, I thought to myself. Hold it together tonight, Rebekah. We're going to be here a while, so just sip slowly. Why is Haley taking so long?

"Where did your friend go?" Michael asked.

She had stepped to the other side of the bar and was talking to someone.

"It looks like she got caught in a conversation," I said. "I'm sure she'll come over when they're finished."

I made a point not to stare; after all, she wasn't the only person I knew there. The next time I looked up, she was farther away, talking to someone new.

OK, I have to make this move, I thought. I can do that. I'm not reading into this. It's been 10 years.

Michael followed as I walked over to her. She was mid-conversation and didn't make eye contact. She left quickly.

"She doesn't want to talk to me," I said, so shell-shocked it was almost a question.

I was baffled at the concept that you could spend months telling another person everything -- being her best friend and having her as yours -- and not want to talk to her. I could understand high school. You have to be bitchy to survive high school.

But 10 years later, we're still not speaking, and I still don't know why?

"I'm sure she got distracted, Bitty," Michael said, using his special pet name for me to put me at ease. He took such good care of me. That was the largest and most intense social situation I'd allowed myself into since our wedding.

We ate dinner. I spoke to other friends.

We watched the newlyweds have their first dance and gaze at each other with that rare expression of complete happiness that only comes on very special days. They seemed to speak to each other across the crowded tent. As they blissfully greeted guests, they would look up and smile at each other as if they had a secret none of us knew.

Michael and I sat quietly, me telling stories, pointing out classmates, introducing him to old friends. There was a lull, and I briefly explained what had happened with Haley and me. Then, I saw her walking toward us.

"Oh look, Michael! She is coming over to speak."

But as she got nearer, I realized the angle of her course wasn't toward us. I tried to catch her eye. I even waved. She kept walking.

"Y'all aren't friends," Michael said bluntly.

"What?"

"You're not friends. You just tried to wave to her. She saw, and she ignored you. You're not friends."

It was so blunt that we both started laughing.

"We're not friends," I said, and as I heard my voice, I realized I didn't sound all that upset.

"We're not friends, and that's OK," I said, employing my positive-thinking skills.

"Nope, but who needs her?" Michael said, clinking his beer against my glass. "She's doesn't seem like a very nice person anyway."

As we made our informal toast to sincerity and friendship, my dear friend the groom came running to our table. He was hugging me before I could get all the way out of my chair and shaking Michael's hand.

"I'm so glad you're here," he said.

"I want to meet your wife!" I said, after the obligatory "everything is beautiful," "yes, we're having a wonderful time," "I'm so happy for you." He pulled us to the cake, where his sweet Caitie was getting the utensils ready to cut it. And I think they waited just a couple minutes so I could meet her, tell her she was radiant, and be completely shocked when she hugged me as if we were old friends.

The joy I felt for the couple in a true, timeless friendship -- the reason we were there -- eclipsed the hurt of the broken friendship.

As we left much later, the unhappy pangs I felt were for Haley. A little bitterness, sure. But mostly disappointment and confusion.

Maybe someday, I'll learn what happened.

Nov. 15: My Name in Print

2010-11-15T05:09:00.001-05:00

A lot of writers, whether in journalism or just-for-fun writers, have an ultimate goal of seeing their name in print.

Even after I started working at a newspaper, that wasn't a big deal to me. (I did, however, miss the byline once I started designing pages and not getting any public credit.)

I think the name-in-print thing was never a big deal to me because I'd seen it in print so many times. I got awards, I helped organize a tutoring program at my high school (yeah, I was that kid), and a lot of my relatives died along the way, so I got into a lot of obituaries.

But I think one of the biggest things that made me comparatively immune to seeing my name in print was that the editor of one of the local papers loved me. He was also the photographer.

Apparently, I was the subject of a lot of standalone art. This is the only one I have:

It appears the photographer asked me a question while I had food in my mouth.

This is also a showing of good faith to my mom. I have a ton of family pictures that I told her I'd scan. You might be seeing lots of old pictures in the next few months. I'm not even going to pretend I'll get it done in a reasonable amount of time.

Nov. 14: Why I Opened the E-mail Vault, Part 2

2010-11-14T00:27:00.000-05:00

I have to be really careful with this story because Michael gets mad when I overshare. (Or make him sound human in any way.)

But this was the whole purpose of the John Vary saga.

Because without that rejection, and the fact that the world didn't end with the possibility of our relationship, the story I'm about to tell you never would have happened.

A few months passed before Michael and I began our love story. But once we started dating, we were inseparable.

I happened to need to be at my family's mountain house near where he was working as the summer began.

"That's where I can concentrate best on my job applications," I told my family.

Which was true. I was applying for 12 jobs or so a day, which is a lot if you do the whole cover letter thing right.

But when Michael finished work in the evenings, all bets were off on the job hunt.

I thought I wasn't ready for anything serious when we went on our first date in early May. But by the time I graduated three weeks later, I'd figured out he was pretty special.

He, on the other hand, basically told me I could be a permanent girlfriend, but he wasn't sure he ever wanted to get married. I thought, "If it's meant to be, he'll reconcile himself to marriage."

It wasn't far into the summer when one night in the darkness, we had one of the most special conversations in our relationship. He might have been drinking that night. Can't be sure. I'd just graduated, and he was still in college. And we went out with friends several times. Often for me. Not so often for Michael.

Hey, Rebekah?

Yes?

Don't freak out, OK?

[freaking out] Why? Is everything OK?

Yes, everything's fine. I just ... I want to tell you something. [long pause] I think I'm falling in love with you.

[dead silence]

Are you OK? You don't have to say it back.

I was thinking. I'd been falling in love with him for a while. It just seemed like something he wouldn't be interested in hearing.

No, I want to say it. I'm thinking. ... I'm falling in love with you too.

I rested my head on his shoulder.

Actually, no. No, I'm not falling in love with you. I am in love with you. I love you. And I love you enough that I just want you to know, and I want to make you happy. And I don't care if you say it back. Michael, I love you.

He didn't say it back. He didn't need to. He did say it eventually, of course.

In fact, I think it was only a week or so later. But by then, it wasn't a big deal. I actually don't remember how he told me or when.

I already knew he loved me.

And by then, after I'd told him I loved him and sincerely wanted nothing back, I knew I had the rest of my life to hear that he loved me too.

Nov. 13: Why I Opened the E-mail Vault, Part 1

2010-11-13T01:06:00.000-05:00

Remember John Vary of my terrible posts from the weekend? Yeah, I know. They were bad. But they were background for this story.

John Vary was a major point for me in becoming more confident about myself. There was significant flirtation on both sides, including:

Him [responding to my initial e-mail]: Funny thing, I think I still have your phone number in my phone... not sure how it has made the move between about 6 different phones. You must be special. There have been times that I thought to just call out of the blue, but then realized that you would probably have no clue who I am.
Me: I'll definitely be expecting some out-of-the-blue calls because those are one of my favorite things ever.

I had other examples, but considering that things didn't go that direction, it seems wrong to publish them.

Maybe I'm being a prude, but at the very least, Michael will appreciate that I'm not rehashing everything.
Anyway, after a few months of banter and flirtation, some serious conversation, a couple of phone calls, and a visit, (I still don't know whether it was a date or not) I sent this:

Okay. I think we might not be operating on the same wavelength. Just in general. So I'm just gonna put it out there for you. ... I'm wondering if you've figured some things out. Because I've been hinting like crazy, but I'm getting the impression that either you're not the kind of guy who picks up on hints, or you're the guy who likes to watch the girl squirm while trying to hint at you. Probably the first, since you didn't catch on when DDA was blatantly hitting on you. So here it is: I would not have e-mailed you this summer had I not had a ginormous crush on you when we worked together at Camp Happy. That's all. I thought you'd figure it out, but I didn't know, and I feel the need to state the obvious. Or not obvious. That depends on you, I guess.

So I guess the reason I felt you needed to know this is that I have no idea what we're doing with the e-mails and the talking occasionally, and I'm a girl, and I overthink things, and I've definitely overthought this. So I'm complicating it. And I'm sorry for that. I just kind of would like to know where you stand. If you don't feel the same way I do, that's totally okay. I won't go beat my head against the wall or anything crazy like that. I just wanted you to know where I am and kind of get an idea of what you want so we can either move forward or decide to stay the same or whatever. Whatever you say, I still definitely want to keep in touch and be friends, and I say that with complete sincerity, not just because it's the right thing to say.

So I'm really hoping I haven't made things really really awkward, but I was kind of hoping you would either figure me out or bring it up first. My suite had a little discussion tonight, and they all said, "Rebekah. You're driving us crazy. Go talk to the guy." So if they gave me bad advice, please forgive me.

Okay. That's pretty much all I wanted to say. I'm really hoping this doesn't make you uncomfortable. I had just reached the point that I needed you to know.

To this day, I am proud of this e-mail. Not because it produced the results I wanted -- it didn't. He rejected me very nicely, and we did stay friends.

What I am proud of is what this e-mail represents. I had never been confident enough to tell a guy I liked him before.

And I didn't ever do it again. I made sure I knew Michael liked me before I said anything.

But I think it's an experience everyone needs to have. It was way better to know than to obsess about it. And if I hadn't written this letter, I wouldn't have had the confidence to tell Michael I loved him before he said it to me.

That story comes tomorrow.

Nov. 12: Zit

2010-11-12T13:53:00.000-05:00

This is part of the Conversations With My Husband series, but that was way too bulky to try to put in the title.
----------------

"You're going to want to take care of that," Michael said yesterday morning, grimacing toward my face.

"What?"

"On your cheek. By your nose."

Oh right, I have a gigantic pimple, and he thinks I didn't realize it.

"I tried," I said. "I put stuff on it, I tried to pop it, I left it alone. It's just there, and it's bad."

End of conversation, please ...

I went back to my crossword puzzle. But he kept staring. And then he reached out and poked at it.

"Ouch! Michael, stop that!"

"It's almost like..."

This can't end well...

"... It's as if you're trying to have two noses or something. Like you were trying to be Rudolph and missed."

I haven't been compared to Rudolph because of acne since fifth grade. Reid, whose wedding we attended at the end of September, insisted on calling me Rudolph for two days while a pimple at the dead center of the tip of my nose grew and grew. I might have been called Pinocchio too.

I told Michael that story, hoping to at least shift the subject.

There was a pause.

"You need Neosporin on that zit."

This morning...

"Michael, thank you for bringing in that big bag of cat food last night. I can carry it, but it's really heavy and bulky, and I heard people laughing at me in the parking lot."

"It can't weigh that much more than your boobs."

Um, what?

"Your boobs are probably about 10 percent of your body weight, and that bag weighs 10 pounds."

"OK..."

I really wasn't sure where he was going with this.

"Actually, your boobs are the biggest thing on you ... 'cept maybe this," he said, poking the zit.

Why won't it go away already?!

Nov. 11: Why You Need a Newspaper Subscription and a Holiday Gift Idea

2010-11-11T12:08:00.000-05:00

The closer it gets to the holidays, the more I think about how blindsided I was in January when I was laid off. So it's my personal mission to raise awareness of your local newspaper and its importance.

If people buy their local newspapers, people like me are less likely to be laid off.

Here is a list of things you can do with newspaper. I included pictures so you wouldn't get bored.

1. Paint it and make wrapping paper -- it's cheaper! And your kids' little handprints are so much better than identical Santas.

Photo from here

2. Keep things clean. Do you really want to put down paper towels or sheets when you paint that dresser? (Absorbent papers generally mean there can be bleeding through to your floor or porch. Guess what newspapers aren't! Absorbent!)

3. Keep things clean, part 2. Did you know that using newspaper to wipe the Windex off your mirrors, windows, and other glass things leaves fewer fuzzies than an old cloth or a paper towel? Because again -- newspapers aren't fluffy. I wouldn't recommend it for other scrubbing, but it's great for glass.

4. Keep things clean, part 3. New puppy? Puppy pads are expensive. I know this because sometimes, when the store runs out of pee pads for the litter box Michael insisted we had to have, I'll substitute layered puppy pads.

This is a picture of me with a tiny baby Porter and
my puppy, Beau, (who actually isn't a puppy at all --
he turned 11 in October)
circa May 2006.

5. Um, read it. And if the endorsements on the editorial page bug you, don't read the editorial page. Besides, you won't have to worry about that for another year and a half for primaries.

5a. If you think the copy editors are cutting one side of a story so it doesn't seem balanced, write a letter to the editor. What? That doesn't do anything, you say? You're right; it's the opinion editor, and in most papers, he or she doesn't have much to do with copy editors. So, even better, e-mail the actual editor. We print his e-mail address. You can harass the crap out of him.

And actually, this is a little sidetrack, but we have a lady who e-mails the sports desk (sports copy editors and designers) every time she finds an inconsistency or something she thinks could have been done better. And working away from the editors of the paper I design, I really appreciate that feedback. People who truly want to be successful like feedback, even if it's negative. Our sports lady, for example, told me we had run the same story two days in a row. Stupid, stupid mistake. I should have read the paper produced on my day off. And I learned.

5b. Did you know that puzzles like Sudoku can keep your brain healthy? Studies show that people who do puzzles and keep their minds active can at least slow the process of dementia. And check this out: an Alzheimer's website that has Sudoku. That means newspaper is good for your help. (And it's also healthy to read.)

5c. Crossword puzzles make you feel super smart when you solve them (and are also a type of puzzle that can slow or prevent dementia). Wait until the next day's paper comes out with the solution, and cheat a little if you need to. But you'll still feel super awesome. That means newspapers are good for your morale and therefore prevent depression. Um... except you might want to skip the hungry children stories if you're using it for that purpose.

6c. Dear Abby has some pretty juicy stuff. So does Dr. Gott. Lots of the columns are really interesting. I actually love proofing that page because sometimes, people actually have legitimate questions for Abby. And Dr. Gott cracks me up with how bluntly he talks about bodily functions. (Don't read him right before or after eating.) Also, your paper probably runs syndicated columnists like Leonard Pitts. If you read him, you'll be like, "Oh my gosh, why am I wasting my time on Rebekah's blog? I am going to read everything this man ever wrote." Sometimes he ventures into politics, but usually, he just comments on the news. Here are a couple of my favorite columns he's written:
    "Let's at least try to get along" is also linked on my Election Day post.
    "A 60-mile walk for Mom" made me cry in the middle of the newsroom. That's generally frowned upon.
    "Everyone deserves right to privacy" is a response to the someone in the LAPD leaking Rihanna's picture to the press after Chris Brown beat her up.

7. We're not like national journalists. We're not Puritan conservatives or crazy liberals. There doesn't have to be an extreme. We quote people. Sometimes they say stuff you won't like. Our printing it doesn't mean we like it; it just means we want you to be informed. We're not like TV journalists either. We won't say something like, "The police got something back from the state today, and they won't say what. They had sent a bone to be tested for DNA, so that could be what it is." I heard that on the news this week. We don't speculate. We only print what we know.

And on to the holiday gift idea...

I recently discovered Etsy. Yes, I realize I'm late on this.

Recently, I ran across some really cool stuff.

Hippiekingdom posted this necklace, as well as the other pictures below.

You'll never guess what she used to make the necklace.

You probably thought I was done with my print soapbox. It's MAGAZINE PAPER!!!

And that's not all she does...

Yes, those are earrings made from newspaper. Not saying they're my style (and wearing them to work would be kind of like my sweatshirt I wore all the time in sixth grade that said "So many books, so little time" -- just screams brown-nosing) but it's cool to see a creative use of newspaper.

This is my favorite even though it's not made of newspaper:

All together: Oooooh... Ahhhh... Pretty necklace.

So...

8. Make jewelry and sell it on Etsy. Or ask hippiekingdom to make you some. She's really nice. I know because I wrote her a note:

I just wanted to say thank you for using newspaper in your creations. I'm 25 and work in newspaper, which is pretty much suicide for my career. I LOVE my job, so every time I see someone using newspaper in a conventional or unconventional way, I like to thank them. You're keeping us in business. Thank you.

Rebekah

And she responded in less than 24 hours:

Hello Rebekah,

Thank you for the happy surprise message :) This is the first thing I read after I woke up today.. Makes me want to rush to creating :) Glad to hear you love your job, hope you get to do what you love, always.

Much Love,
hippiekingdom

What? That's the third time I linked her? My bad. She actually signed her name, but I'm protecting her privacy while promoting her shop.

So, here's the take-home message. Newspaper can keep you healthy and happy. It can help you keep your house clean. And, apparently, it can be made into pretty cool jewelry stuff. Just don't wear it in the rain.

Why are you still here? Subscribe!

Nov. 10: My Solution for NBC's Viewership Woes

2010-11-10T19:09:00.000-05:00

Before you read this, you should know that I did a lot of research, and I'm not just reciting this stuff. I'm not that pathetic. However, I do find my TV time on Tuesdays difficult since there's so much good stuff. NCIS, NCIS Los Angeles, The Good Wife, Glee, Parenthood, and probably other stuff I haven't even considered because there's all that.

Dear NBC,

We need to talk. I keep hearing rumors that you're canceling Parenthood, and I'm not really cool with that. I couldn't find anything online to say definitively that you are, but tvbythenumbers.com has had some less than fantastic things to say.

First, you need to realize that even though you have Ron Howard and the coach and Lorelei Gilmore, you put Parenthood in direct competition with The Good Wife, a show we already know is extremely popular. And this isn't something I should have to tell you: Sex always sells over wholesome family values. People are going to be way more interested to see whether Alicia chooses Peter or Will on The Good Wife than if Sarah's kids think she's cool on Parenthood.

Need I mention The Good Wife's awards resume? The Screen Actors Guild awarded Julianna Margulies for best performance by a female actor in a drama series. Archie Panjabi, who plays Kalinda, won an Emmy for outstanding supporting actress in a drama series. I can't even list the nominations.

So it was a little over-confident to expect to compete with that.

On top of that, it's not the only popular show you're competing with. Other new shows that aired at the same time last night were Detroit 1-8-7 on ABC (you probably have nothing to worry about there because I'd never even heard of it), Sons of Anarchy on FX, 16 & Pregnant on MTV, and several other cable shows.

So here's what I propose you do. It's shockingly simple.

Change your time slot. Pick a night with a lot of shows that cater to a particular population -- but not a population you want to tap into -- and reality shows, and you're guaranteed to be the most popular show on the air.

Don't choose Thursday. You lost "Must-See TV" when you lost Friends. On Thursdays, you'd be competing with The Big Bang Theory (CBS), Gray's Anatomy and Private Practice (ABC) and I'm sure lots of other stuff.

The first one -- you can't compete. Just don't try. And despite the histrionics on the other two, they have a cult following that you might be able to lure on a Wednesday or Friday. Heck, you might even be able to get Sunday night. A lot of people don't get Showtime, which airs Dexter on Sundays, and the cult following for Desperate Housewives and Brothers and Sisters on ABC seems to be smaller than for its medical counterparts. And I like The Defenders on Wednesdays, but you could totally compete there. (Don't tell my husband I said that.)

Anyway, my point is, don't cancel before you see what you can do on an easier night.

And one plot point I take issue with: What happened to Steve? You know, Haddie's boyfriend/Amber's hookup? He just disappeared after the Amber thing, and while I get that the girls might want nothing to do with him, high school boys "in love" with girls don't just go away. They are persistent little parasites. Just sayin'.

Anyway, please don't cancel it. The ratings are your own fault, but it's a good show with a lot of potential.

Sincerely,

Someone who watches entirely too much TV and spent a ridiculous amount of time researching Emmys and Golden Globes before she remembered that she's writing a blog post and not a newspaper article and therefore does not have to back up her information as thoroughly

Nov. 9: Superwife... Or Not

2010-11-09T23:17:00.018-05:00

This past weekend, Michael went camping and hunting, which is why my posts from Friday and Saturday are so terrible.

I wanted to write about the fact that I was being angelic and supportive and not at all difficult like I normally am when he goes away.

But I also didn't want to say, "I weigh 97 pounds, I refuse to use Michael's guns, [yes, plural -- ugh] and I am home alone!" Which is basically what bragging on my Superwife status would have done.

So when he got home Sunday afternoon, and I hadn't had a single meltdown the whole time he'd been gone, I was elated and ridiculously proud of myself. I had even done chores while he was gone.

All that is a big deal. I hate for Michael to spend the night away. I think it's partially just that our parents handled being away from each other differently, but I'm really not sure why I hate it so much.

When my parents are away from each other, even just for a night, there are long conversations before bed and a whole lot of, "I miss you, Babe."

But the first Thanksgiving I spent with Michael's family, his dad had already gone to his grandparents' house when we arrived that Wednesday.

"So is your mom driving up tonight?" I asked.

"No, why would she?"

"Well, it's only an hour or so, and I just assumed they wouldn't want to spend the night apart."

"Why? It's just one night, and she'll see him tomorrow."

I was completely baffled. She'll see him tomorrow?

I guess for people whose families did spend more time apart, going off for a weekend about every six weeks doesn't seem excessive.

But it does feel excessive to me.

Because of how attached-at-the-hips my parents are, I didn't understand why when Michael would go do stuff with friends, he wouldn't really want to talk to me on the phone. He casually suggested before one camping trip that he might not have service so not to worry if he didn't talk to me for several days.

Long story/ies short, I had several meltdowns based on this view I grew up with. And he probably had a few meltdowns (OK, fine, instigated by my whining) based on his... I don't know... being a boy?

I thought he was choosing his friends over me when we both had time off (and sometimes he did). Or he was going away too frequently.

For a while, this equation was true:

number of months we've been married < number of nights we've spent apart

I took every opportunity to remind him.

And it didn't help that his first big camping trip in the mountains last December, it snowed. And he got stuck for four or five days. He and his friends ended up in a house, but it was at least a mile off the main road, and they had to hike to meet someone to bring them groceries.

And it didn't help that the friend he was staying with wrote something like, "He's mine! Bwahahahaha!" on my Facebook wall. Great. I projected all my anger at the weather onto his friend. For months after that.

There have been a few trips since that one, and I have freaked out every. single. time.

Why doesn't he miss me as much as my dad misses my mom? Does he not love me as much as my dad loves my mom? What if he doesn't love me as much as I love him? Why does he want to spend so much time away from me? Why doesn't he want to talk to me? Why does his voice get all muffled when he says, "I love you"? His friends aren't stupid -- he married me, and they were there, so they know he says it.

So I spend his time away wondering what I do that makes him not want to be at home with me. My head knows that I like being at home, and he likes going out and doing things. My sensitive little heart that grew up watching Daddy dote on Momma feels abandoned and cheated.

Michael says it would help if I had girlfriends that I did stuff with, but because I haven't been able to do stuff with girlfriends, we've all drifted, and the ones I actually do want to spend time with have lives as busy as mine far away from me. None of the guys have babies yet, but a lot of my girlfriends do.

This time, though, it was a group of friends from high school who hadn't all been together in 7 years. How could I be a jerk about that?

I *might* have suggested a few more chores for him than usual, and I *might* have made him clean up his kitchen mess that he was trying really hard to leave for me.

But I didn't complain, and I didn't force long conversations. On Saturday night, I even initiated the getting-off-the-phone sequence.

I was ridiculously proud of myself.

He came home, hugged me gingerly (because he hadn't had a shower all weekend, and he was gross), took a shower, and promptly fell asleep on the couch with his feet in my lap, digging into my stomach.

Seriously?!

Again, my brain knew he was tired. But my feelings were not cooperative.

I actually woke him up to nag about Thanksgiving plans.

In my defense, that's not something I do a lot. I try really hard not to nag, and I respect his sleep so much that sometimes, I just stay up until he gets up so I don't wake him.

But it was as if I had set out just enough patience to make it through the camping trip, and when more was required... It just wasn't there.

I snapped.

And the typical I-feel-abandoned meltdown ensued complete with Niagara-level waterworks and shouting. It was pathetic and shameful. We made up before I left for work, but it was the biggest argument we've had an ages.

(Minute point that isn't an excuse but does explain the patience snapping like a brittle twig -- Michael's camping trips tend to coincide with predictable hormone changes and rages. That is ~~bad planning on his part~~ unfortunate for everyone involved. This time, the raging was a bit of a surprise but there just the same.)

And I revoked my own Superwife status and berated myself for the rest of the day for being such a nut job.

Why am I so crazy about him leaving? I have no idea. Probably because I'm so crazy about him.

But we do need to maintain our individuality. So there will be more camping trips, and hopefully, someday, there will be one that doesn't involve a huge meltdown on my part.

And who knows? Maybe someday I'll learn to poop in the woods, too. Maybe.

Nov. 8: A Bizarre Phone Conversation

2010-11-08T23:59:00.000-05:00

This is another written in 2008 at my first job. In the middle of nowhere.

We didn't have a newsroom receptionist, so we just fielded calls. Each of us was expected to answer our share of calls from readers.

The newspaper was in a relatively rural area, and the majority of our readers were not well educated. So a lot of the calls were weird. We got drunk people in the middle of the day. One man told me I'd ruined lives with a story I wrote. At my next job, one of our random callers told me I was a subhuman bitch. I hung up on him.

This was probably one of my most bizarre calls. There are a lot of medical details that I left out, but this is the gist.

Me: This is the newsroom. How may I help you?
WW: I hope you kin help me. See, my husband, he fall and hurt hisself at work. The first doctor we saw say he kin get on worker's comp. He broke his foot and threw out his back.
Me: OK... I don't understand what you're asking me to do.
WW: I need you to fine the first doctor 'cause she was the one that really helped us, and this new one done said he cain't get on worker's comp, but the first one - she understand his back done throw out.
Me: Do you know her name? [I'm thinking, maybe she doesn't have Internet access... I'll just look her up online.]
WW: No, that's why I need your help.
Me: Okay. [Waiting for an explanation.]
WW: I know you done helped us a lot already, gittin his hospital bills paid and all that, but if you could help with this just one more thing. We really appreciate your help before, and I wanna thank you for that.
Me: Well, you're welcome. [I'm so confused. That doesn't sound like us. Our insurance plan is bad. I pay for mine privately.]
WW: So kin you help me?
Me: Okay, does he work here?
WW: [Exasperated.] No, he donn work there. We wouldn't have this problem if he work there.
Me: Was the accident in the newspaper? [Maybe she thinks we mentioned the doctor?]
WW: No it weren't in the newspaper. Why would it be in the newspaper?
Me: Ma'am, did you mean to call the newspaper?
WW: No, I dinn mean to call the newspaper. How could the newspaper help me?
Me: This is the newspaper. I'm sorry, you have the wrong number.
WW: Oh. [Pause. Click.]

Nov. 7: From the Vault - Dirty Old Larry

2010-11-07T23:59:00.003-05:00

It's another cop-out post. I'm sorry. I just can't get used to posting every day. But I promise I'm working on it. I wrote this in 2008.

I think every office has a Dirty Old Larry. He's that guy who should have retired a long time ago but no one has the heart to tell him to go on home. He doesn't know what he's doing because the technology is well beyond his time (and my office is still in Windows 97 -- no, seriously) and although his actual job title might have to do with fixing computers, all he really does is lock the door at five.

Oh, he also ogles the breast regions of female coworkers.

I added one of my favorite dresses to the not-appropriate-for-work file today. (I'll probably reconsider, but right now, it's a loss.) Why? Because after DOL locked the door at five, he told me what a pretty dress I was wearing. If he had stopped there, I could have attributed it to his age and the fact that when he started working, it was okay to compliment a woman on her clothing. There aren't many ways to compliment without risking a sexual harassment suit now, and normally, it wouldn't bother me, but he's established himself as a creepy old man in my mind.

But he didn't stop there.

DOL: Is your boyfriend comin' up tonight? He must be comin' for you to be wearin' such a perty dress.
Me: No, not today.
DOL: Oooh I'm tellin'! You shouldn't wear such a perty dress - and pearls! [they're fake] - with him not bein' here.
Me: [Uncomfortable laugh.]
DOL: I just love that color blue. It looks so perty on you!

The dress is green. It's also two years old. And not that pretty anymore. At one time, it was very pretty, but it shows its age now. Michael said I was probably revealing more cleavage than I realized because "that happens a lot. They're not small, sweetie."

Embarrassing.

DOL also has asked my advice on long-distance relationships because his "lady friend" moved to the beach. He doesn't think it's going to work out. Sounds sweet, right? No. I maintain that he's creepy because he was staring at my blouse throughout that conversation.

My favorite thing about DOL is that he keeps moonshine in his office. Around Christmas I couldn't figure out why everyone kept going to his office, but turns out they were all taking a swig. Yeah, I live here.

People in this little town hate outsiders. It's not a rational melancholy that their lazy little town is growing into a bustling little town. (It's by no means the metropolis some people seem to think it is.) It's blind hatred. So since my parents moved to the next county over when I was 15, I told people that's where I was from. But I didn't live here long before I let everyone know I am not a native.

For a girl who grew up near Charleston, moving to a town where acceptable behavior includes keeping moonshine under the desk, having intimate relations in the office basement, walking down Main Street with one's hand in one's pants (I've seen this), and using subjects and verbs that never agree, was quite a shock.

DOL was involved in the highlight of my day at the office, however.

Our intercom system is generally used to page people for phone calls, since no one has working extensions, as in, "Circulation, line 5." Occasionally someone will be asked to report to the front desk or something like that. On very rare days, someone will use the intercom and forget to hang up, and we all hear the juicy details of her love life. (It's generally the same girl.) Today, though the owner came over the intercom after lunch and said, "Larry, come fix my phone."

Sometimes I think DOL relates to me because I'm a little bit of an old lady. Here are some old-womanish things I do:

Go to bed before 10
Buy -- and complete -- fill-in puzzles from the grocery store
Wear cotton nightgowns (In my defense, they are spaghetti-strapped nightgowns, and the last one I bought was from Victoria's Secret. Not in my defense, it looked way cuter on the model than it does on me; basically, I bought what I plan to be my favorite maternity nightgown.)
Complain about my neighbors' loud music (The definition of complaining here is whining, not tattling to the landlady.)
Refuse to go to the grocery store after dark
Wake up to eat breakfast at 8 a.m. on Saturdays (although I do go back to sleep after that)

So maybe he thinks we're old-people kindred spirits.

Nov. 6: Old Letters - Big Plans

2010-11-06T14:03:00.001-04:00

OK, the reason I introduced you to John Vary is that he asked me random questions that spurred

decent writing.

He suggested at one point that I put all our e-mails in a book. But I'm not going to do that because

(1) I was in college so some of the e-mails are drunk and stupid, and (2) like I said, I had a crush on

him, but now I'm happily married without regret, so there's no reason to put all of that out there,

especially considering the significant amount of flirtation.

Anyway, at one point, he asked me where I thought I'd be in 5/10/15 years. And it was kind of fun to

read because that was a topic I explored on this blog on my 25th birthday. It's only been four years

since these letters (still pre-Michael though), but still interesting.

Where I'll be in 5/10/15 years is scary.  If I'm still single (which I kind of hope I'm not, but probably

will be because I'm all sarcastic and scary) I'd like to live in a big city with a bulldog to attack

intruders.

I'd like to have a job I love, which is pretty broad, since I just have to be doing something with words

and communicating.  At some point I'd like a husband and kids, but I'm not like a lot of girls who

are so obsessed with getting married that they don't even want a career.

Some guy my freshman year had the nerve to ask if I was at school for a real degree or for my MRS.

Ugh.  So I hope that comes at some point, but I'm not on a countdown like a lot of people I go to

school with.

Part of me doesn't like not knowing when everything's happening and what I'll be doing, but I'm

okay with it today.

Interesting that except for the bulldog, I'm pretty much where I thought I'd be in five years. Ten and 15

were too scary to think about.

I think I need to look other parts of my vault and find some better stuff.

Nov. 5: An Old Letter

2010-11-05T23:59:00.026-04:00

I'm stealing an idea from my brilliant friend Jenny, not only because her essay from her vault is poignant and beautiful and I wanted to link it, but also because I'm lazy and brain-fried and don't have anything worthwhile to say. But I am not going to fail the challenge five days in. So I'm opening my vault.

I was trying to figure out how to make all my e-mail accounts go into one mailbox without using Outlook because I sorta hate Outlook, and I think I have it figured out. Anyway, I ended up on my college e-mail account (the dot-edu kind).

And I found good stuff.

OK, maybe not good stuff. But definitely enlightening. It's so strange to see things I wrote four years ago.

First, it's strange because I was so much less anal then. Like I wouldn't freakishly think time, date, place like a walking AP Stylebook, and I'd put the place and the time and the date wherever I pleased. Just an example. It makes for much better prose. AP be damned. Yeah, I said it. (But to any coworkers who might stumble upon my blog -- I like AP at work. I just think it hinders interesting writing. It's fine -- even necessary -- for informative stuff.)

So here's the e-mail that started it all, circa August 2006. Names have been changed to protect the privacy of people who don't know I'm writing about them.

Hey John!

So the past few weeks have been like BAM John Vary. I have to explain that just so this randomness doesn't seem all-out creepy.

First, I went to see Josie last week, and we were looking through her old Camp Happy pictures, and you were in a bunch of the group shots. Like when Bill put on the Pooh suit the last night and we all laughed till we cried. We're all in the background with tears coming down our faces, and I think James Valencia was crumpled in a doorway in convulsions. And there was another from chapel that we had to examine closely to see if you were looking at Miss Ann to get signs or if you were looking at Kelli Lawson. Haha. We also had pictures of Lainey Faile, and we had to talk about that time at the Talent Show that she LEAPT onto your lap. So we had a nice nostalgic time. We talked about stuff other than you too, though, so don't get too excited.

And THEN today, I was just going through old e-mails because I never delete things and thought I might have saved some picture, and I found an e-mail from you from my freshman year in college harassing me to come to your school and bring Kitty. (Which I never did, and I'm sorry. Really.) She did go that year, but without me because she got her nose pierced and I would have freaked out and fainted.

So after all that (and the few of us that are left from that one session telling all the new people about the Pooh suit all through third session) I decided I needed to say hey and see how you're doing, if this is, in fact, still your e-mail address. So I hope you're doing well! Say hey sometime.

Rebekah

A few words of explanation:

In case you couldn't tell, I had a massive crush on John Vary. I find it's necessary to spell that out because John Vary had no clue.

We had met at Camp Happy, a week-long camp for adults with special needs. Josie and James Valencia are fellow counselors, as is Kelli. Kelli to this day is freakin gorgeous and oh-so-nice, so we all hated her just a little bit because (1) she was gorgeous so we hated her just a smidgen for that, and (2) she was so nice you felt guilty hating her a smidgen which upped the hatred to just a little bit. Although Josie and I never reached a conclusion, John probably was checking out Kelli in the picture.

Lainey Faile was one of our special friends. She had Down Syndrome, and her talent was that she could comb her hair with her toes. Not like run her toes through her hair -- girl could hold a brush and fix her hair with her feet. It was hilarious and gross at the same time. I was her one-on-one counselor, but she was nonverbal and very temperamental, so she actually got two counselors. She loved John, so we kind of spent the week together. He could tell my co-counselor and I were exhausted just getting her to breakfast. We had to pretend to leave her and pretend we didn't care if she came with us, and we would talk loudly about how yummy the eggs were going to be and stay just one hiding place ahead of her, and eventually, she'd follow. Unless, of course, she caught us watching to make sure she was following, and then she would say, "Humph!" so hard she blew her bangs out of her face. Then, she'd sit down and wait until she thought we'd stopped caring. Silly Lainey. We never stopped caring. She was a trip, and she was one of my favorite campers ever.

John just loved on her. It was really sweet. Especially after this 200-pound woman hopped onto his lap as if she were a featherweight 2-year-old.

Anyway, my correspondence with John led to some great practice in writing because he loved reading what I wrote -- and I ate that up. Some of the stuff I wrote was cracking me up as I went through it tonight. I'm so glad I didn't delete that account. That is where my vault begins.

Our chats also helped me mature emotionally... but that's another story.

Nov. 4: So About Yesterday...

2010-11-04T23:59:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I wrote about why I don't go shrimping anymore and mentioned that if you want to see my dad hold his stomach and laugh, then you should ask him to tell that story.
My mom checks my blog daily, and tonight, she called my dad over to the computer saying, "You're going to want to read this."

They sent pictures:

Momma said he started laughing really hard, and he looked like he wanted to grab his stomach, but he'd already read what I said about how he always grabs his stomach, so he was trying not to. But then he did anyway.

Aaaaaand there are the tears. He said the best part is that I'm telling the story now.

*In case you're wondering, the odd shape with green on top on the desk in the background is my dad's collection of Sprite bottle caps. He drinks so much Sprite, he's actually won that many times.

**In honor of NaBloPoMo, I'm doing a little cheating thing where I change the post date to what day it is to me. Like it's after midnight right now, so it's technically it's Nov. 5. But it's not my bedtime yet, so it's still my Nov. 4.

Nov. 3: Why I Don't Go Shrimping Anymore

2010-11-03T23:59:00.000-04:00

Since yesterday's post, which was basically me ranting about the fact that people make campaign decisions based on TV ads and stump speeches instead of really doing the research, was a little heavy, I decided to go with a lighter topic for today.

Actually, I'm surprised I haven't written about it before. I guess it's because my dad tells the story every chance he gets (including our wedding video) I forget that there are people who know me and not this story.

We lived in a suburb of Charleston for 11 years, and during our early years there, my dad, who has always enjoyed fishing, discovered shrimping. Every year, he and my uncle, who was at the College of Charleston at the time, would get their shrimping licenses and clean Daddy's little boat and make bait balls in the backyard. I think there's a law against bait balls now, but then, it was OK. And we ate fresh shrimp all the time. It was pretty awesome.

I'm not sure whose idea it was for us to go on a family shrimping expedition. I would guess my mom's. But one fall evening, Momma and Daddy took Rachel and me (this was in the PM years -- pre-Miriam) out on the boat.

We spent the first couple hours crabbing, which I thought was a lot more fun than shrimping. We caught three crabs, and Rachel caught a blowfish. Seriously.

She pulled it up on a little string, and we were like, "What is that?" It looked like a miniature deformed pineapple. And then it blew up, scaring the poo out of the little 4- and 7-year-old fisherchildren and revealing its identity.

So we put them in a big bucket with water in it:

After that, we stuck 10 poles in the brackish water of the river and dumped bait balls around each of them. Actually, Daddy did the poles -- they had to be pretty long to go from the river bed to several feet out of the water -- and Rachel and I threw bait balls. I got irritated because my hands were dirty, but my arms were too short to wash them off outside the boat.

It started to get dark, and Rachel and I kept getting in trouble for scampering around the aluminum boat.

"Silly Daddy!" I laughed when he told us to be quiet. "Shrimp don't have ears!"

Finally, he gave me something to do to keep me still.

"Here," he said, handing me a flashlight. "You sit in this chair, be very still, and shine the light on the poles so I can see where to throw the net."

A few minutes passed.

"Rebekah! Stop moving!"

A few more minutes...

"Bek! When you turn around to talk to Mom, you make the light move. I need you to pay attention so we can have fresh shrimp!"

So then I really gave it my all. I was trying so hard to be still.

I was leaning against the back of one of those boat chairs that you store things underneath. This is kind of the concept:

Here is the link for this picture. They're pretty nifty little chairs. You just unsnap the seat, and you have storage. Snap it back, and you have a chair. I'm pretty sure Daddy made ours.

"A little to the right, Bek," Daddy said. "You're doing better."

I stretched to shine the light at the next pole.

Momma and Rachel were there too, but I didn't draw them.

And the next thing I knew...

Someone had forgotten to snap the seat in place.

Daddy turned around, beginning to fuss at me for making so much noise, but he ended up doubled over laughing. He tried to pull me out by my ankles, but he was laughing so hard, and I was kicking so hard and squealing so loud that it took a few minutes.

By the time I was out of the bucket and deemed unharmed (fortunately, the crabs were as startled as I was), I was wailing. Daddy was laughing, Rachel was laughing and pointing, and Momma was trying not to laugh and failing. I was not a good sport, and I wasn't able to laugh about it for years afterward.

Mom claims she was the one who forgot the snap. No one really remembers.

I spent the rest of the trip sitting by Momma, shivering and sniffling in my wet clothes. No, we didn't have towels. It was too cold to go swimming.

I was furious Daddy didn't immediately pull up the poles and head for the landing. Furious. I think there might have been some comments like, "If I catch pneumonia and die, you'll be sorry for making a couple more laps!"

But we ended up with a much more exciting story than, "Hey, we caught a blowfish."

And if you ever want to see my dad hold his stomach and laugh so hard tears run down his face, ask him about the time he went shrimping and turned around to see a 7-year-old's shoes flailing in the air.

Nov. 2: Voting Is Great Power

2010-11-02T03:41:00.000-04:00

WARNING: I'm gonna go all news junkie nerd on you. It's Election Day. I can't help it. It's like middle-aged men reliving their glory days as high school quarterbacks during the Super Bowl. So if you fall into any of these categories, come back tomorrow because you'll end up being bored or insulted.
1. Dislike/have no interest in politics
2. Vote straight ticket
3. Are not registered to vote
4. Make decisions based on campaign ads or stump speeches
This post is gonna piss some people off. I take today seriously. But I'm not like this in real life. I'm not going to grab people in line at the polls by the collar and scream in their faces, "DO YOU REALLY KNOW WHO YOU'RE VOTING FOR?" Promise. I won't.

Election Day is exciting in the vein that it will be a crazy night at work with results flying in all at once at the end of the night, and that's the kind of stress I eat up.

It's even more exciting because the terrible campaign ads are going away for two years!!! Hooray!

And I get to vote, which I'm ridiculously excited about.

That's odd, because I'm probably not the most patriotic person. At all.

I hate the Fourth of July because fireworks make loud noises and create fire, so I get startled, and people get hurt. (And yes, people do get hurt. My PaPa got a rogue firecracker in the face when I was little. No one remembers this except my mom and me. Everyone else was having too much fun, and PaPa -- rest his boisterous soul -- was pretty drunk and just roared a little, which wasn't all that unusual.)

And for a while, I wanted to go live in Europe because people think Americans are loud and obnoxious and frivolous, and I kind of agree. I like quiet conversations in restaurants, thank you. And remind me again why I need a house with multiple bedrooms when we rarely have guests and a yard when I'm never around to enjoy it? And it really irks me that Michael claims to be such a tree-hugger but is determined not to downsize when he gets his new car. I told him he should at least get a hybrid, and he said they're "kind of gay." Really, Mr. Biological Conservation who's obsessed with the wolves on the Outer Banks? Anyway, I seriously wanted to keep my citizenship in case Europe got too crazy but basically get the heck out before the U.S. turned into a Sodom and Gomorrah situation.

But.

I have always had a fascination with voting.

I used to go with my parents to the vocational center near our house when they voted. Sometimes, the poll workers would even let me go in the booth with them. And while we were in line, my parents would explain the process to me. I think my first lecture on the Electoral College and party nominations was at the vocational center waiting for my dad to vote in 1992. I was 7.

One year, I went twice -- once with Momma, once with Daddy. The poll workers dug through the records and triple-checked Momma's ID because they recognized me. "It's OK," I said. "I was here with Daddy before."

In 2004, I marched into the polls with a newspaper I'd marked up with my dad. I voted straight-ticket Republican, but on principle, I still went through each of the offices. I thought people who voted straight-ticket not considering each race individually were uninformed and lemming-like. Which is exactly what I was.

In May of 2008, members of my family had taken to calling me "the flaming liberal," but I voted in the Republican primary because locally, the Democratic county council candidates were unopposed. I was doing an 11-part series of interviews and profiles with each candidate. As people, I liked every one of them. As a reporter, several had sought my opinion, which I couldn't give.
So with my unaffiliated voter's registration card, I weighed in in the only place I could ethically express my opinion. While I was filling out my sheet, the county's election director lectured me on my high heels from the other side of the curtain.

"You won't be able to walk by the time you're 25!" she told me. "They're cute shoes, sure, but don't you want to walk? Don't your feet swell? I couldn't even wear shoes like that when I was your age."

That November was almost as big a fight between Michael and me as it was between Obama and McCain. Michael did not register to vote.

"If you don't vote, I will not talk politics with you for four years," I told him matter-of-factly. And I meant it.

I e-mailed him a link to register to vote. I nagged him almost every time we talked. On the October cutoff date, I lectured and told him how terrible it was that he has such strong political opinions and doesn't vote.

"It's lazy," I said. "And it's irresponsible."

He rode with me to vote on Election Day and tagged along into the cafeteria of an elementary school, and I cruelly told the lady at the exit not to give him an "I voted" sticker.

"He didn't register," I said. "He doesn't get one."

His hurt expression didn't faze me.

"You didn't care enough to register. You don't get a sticker."

We've talked since then about embarrassing each other in public or telling complete strangers about each other's flaws.

Last night and tonight, I sat on the couch poring over newspaper articles, archived news, and any information I could find on candidates for the obscure offices. I had decided who I was voting for in the congressional races, but some of South Carolina's small-time political offices have been less publicized. And reading more political material as a copy editor than I did as a reporter, I've seen more of the roles those guys play. They're not inconsequential.
Races for lieutenant governor, secretary of state, attorney general, comptroller general, superintendent of education and commissioner of agriculture have notes scribbled on the Sunday opinion section of my newspaper.

"Experience is all out of state. How long has she lived here?"
"Former lobbyist."
"Was he with Sanford on stimulus?"
"Very experienced in higher education, but opponent is experienced in K-12."
"Constitutional interpretation might be different from mine."
"Incumbent -- what has he done?"
"Really old -- has been out of politics for 20 years -- Why is he back now?"
"Experience less partisan than opponent's."
"Kind of a douche."

And then, I had a terrible thought.

How many people actually do the legwork?

Michael likes to rail about how newspapers shouldn't make endorsements -- and maybe they shouldn't -- but I don't see him finding out details about any of the candidates. The Tea Party has its collective panties in a wad about "mainstream media." Some of us really truly try to look at both sides and present them fairly.

How many people just get swept away with excitement and campaign-manager-calculated patriotism watching snippets on the evening news and hearing lite political chat at dinner and vote based on that information? How many people actually read the campaign coverage reporters painstakingly compile about dozens of self-important politicians? Those questions we ask each candidate -- who reads them?

I used to get excited about letters to the editor in the newspaper where people would argue with each other about candidates. But they're not actually arguing. They're just spewing party propaganda back and forth at each other. Are they really so stupid they believe what they see on a commercial or a flier in their mailboxes?

Who actually does the research?

It's abuse of power, really. To vote without knowing that you have done everything you could to find out what this person is truly about.

But it's an honor system. The Framers gave great power in voting. But -- I'm totally quoting Spiderman's uncle, and I don't care because it applies -- with great power comes great responsibility.

So before you go to the polls today -- Do you know who you're voting for, or do you only know who you're voting against?

Of course you're choosing the lesser of two evils in most cases. That's politics. You have to be something of a narcissist to believe yourself that good a leader. But is your choice the lesser of two evils? Will your choice uphold the Constitution -- even the parts you don't like?

I have one office on my list that's still unchecked because I can't answer that question. I couldn't vote in good conscience knowing that I hadn't done what I could to find out who these people are.

For the record, my list has Republicans, Democrats and even a Green Party candidate. So I'm not, as Michael accused me tonight, a "hard-core Democrat." I'm one of those people who hard-core likes to think for herself.

Nov. 1: Triple-Dog Dare Accepted

2010-11-01T03:18:00.000-04:00

I like to name-drop my friend that not only has her own blog with, last I checked, quite a following, but also posts for a for-serious site with a cause close to my heart. She and I had brunch together last weekend, and she casually mentioned NaBloPoMo.

Na-what?

NaBloPoMo. National Blog Posting Month. For the whole month, you post every day. No excuses. No days off. It doesn't have to be good. You just do it.

Hmm. Unlikely that I'll be participating, I thought.

But... It is kind of a challenge. And I've been kind of lazy about challenging myself. But going with the lazy, I didn't really think about it anymore.

Browsing blogs tonight, I ran across NaNoWriMo.

Again, na-what?

NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. Anyone who's ever considered writing a novel is invited to participate, and the goal is to write a 50,000-word novel by midnight on Nov. 30. No nit-picking yourself, and it's a given that you'll write a ton of just plain crap. But the point is to write.

I have always planned to write a novel eventually, I thought.

Wait. Working on my novel every day for a month? Seriously? That's a huge challenge.

You're scared, Rebekah. You think you can't do it.

That was the neurotic voice that constantly interrupts my inner monologue. The anxious.

Do I need medication? No, I've taken it.

That was just plain Rebekah inner monologue. I always question whether I've taken my medicine when the neurotic voice comes out.

You're scared. You're afraid you'll write something crappy, and you don't want anybody to see something crappy and associate it with you. You might have been a small-time reporter, but the best thing for you to do is to make sure the real writers don't make comma splices. You might be able to join that writing world, the one inhabited by your blog crushes and published authors. But you'll never know if you can. Because you're scared.

So what if I'm scared? Writing a novel in a month is too much for me right now. And that's OK.

So what about this blogging deal? You don't have a minimum requirement. You just have to do it. But you're scared. You'll tell everyone you're doing it, and then you'll skip a day. That would make you a failure, Rebekah. FAILURE. It's inevitable.

It's a blog. It's my blog. You can't fail at blogging. You might suck, but you can't fail.

Really? Is that why you're all sissy about Na-whatever? [Even my inner meanie can't remember the whole thing.] Well, that's OK because you'd fail.

No I wouldn't. And if I didn't post every day, if something happened to prevent it, or if I chose to spend time with my husband rather than write, or if I were just too tired, that would be OK.

Would it? I dare you.

You dare me? Seriously? Am I really having this conversation with myself?

You are. I dare you to put yourself out there and sink or swim.

I don't need to put myself through that kind of pressure.

I double-dog dare you.

I don't need to prove anything.

I triple-dog dare you to participate in NaBloPoMo.

Did that sentence really just go through my head? This is a challenge. A challenge my skill level might not be ready to meet, but a challenge all the same. And neurotic Rebekah could use a little kick in the pants.

So I'm doing it. To spite the pessimistic monster in my head. I have no idea what I'll find to write about every day. I might have to cheat a little and make a list of ideas. And I can promise you, you're going to be reading some seriously crappy writing in some cases. And for Thanksgiving, if I don't have internet access, I might write the day of and not post for a couple days. That still counts, right?

My favorite English professor in college drilled into us -- "Your pen is your brain. Your pen is your brain. Your pen is your brain."

The first time he said it, I thought, "That sounds like an incredibly stupid idea."

But then he explained: "Your pen is an extension of your brain. If you're not writing, you're not thinking. Your pen is your brain."

Whenever I write something I don't like now, I chalk it up to a less-than-perfect thought. I beat myself up about it, sure. I don't keep my posts in draft form waiting to publish until they're perfect. I write what I'm thinking, and I click "publish post." I re-read and go back and tweak because I am a copy editor and a perfectionist. But it's the closest thing to stream of consciousness I'll ever do. My pen is my brain. It's how I process thoughts sometimes.

I don't really know what a triple-dog dare is. I just know that it's bigger than a double-dog dare, and when my pride is at stake, I have to take the plunge.

I triple-dog dared myself, and now, I write truth. Maybe. I might make some shit up along the way.

A Treat That Made Me Notice Other Treats

2010-10-29T03:34:00.000-04:00

When Michael and I got married, my greatest desire -- aside from my neurotic need to be a perfect wife, which almost doesn't even count because it's just plain crazy -- was for us to become part of each other's families. Not just in-laws -- a part that, if missing, something would feel wrong to everyone.

After tonight's events and a little reflection, that desire has been realized for a while, and I hadn't even noticed.

Earlier tonight, Porter and Evie Grace came trick-or-treating at Aunt Bekah and Uncle Michael's. It was fabulous. Here is a picture of my first trick-or-treaters ever.

Their mommy took this about a week ago and texted it to me with a message saying, "Want some trick-or-treaters?"

As you can see, Evie is a ladybug. You probably can't tell exactly what Porter is. He is "a rescue hero/pirate with ropes (not pictured) and no weapons." Here's to not forcing conventional costumes on your kids. This is way better.

Aside from his disappointment that I didn't have "tock-watt" (and I'm with him -- we definitely need some chocolate in this house) Porter had a blast. He got a ton of Fruit By the Foot and a Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin DVD. Oscar grudgingly let Porter pet him before he reverted to their standard hiss-giggle-growl-shout relationship.

"Let's see if Rachel and B.J. want to go out to dinner," Michael said as we cleaned the house before they came.

"They aren't eating out right now," I said with a meaningful glance.

Rachel is finishing up nursing school, and things are tight. And B.J. is amazing -- between two jobs, he works 12 days straight for two days off.

"I know," Michael said. "We'll treat."

It should be noted here that Michael and I are so cheap that when we were dating, we would argue over who was going to drive to see the other so we wouldn't have to pay for gas. While I sometimes buy presents for no reason (inexpensive presents though), Michael's purchases are always calculated and usually necessary. He'll buy a friend a drink occasionally, but treating a friend to a drink is not the same as taking a family of four to dinner.

I posted a few weeks ago that my mother-in-law bought me a dress for a wedding Michael and I went to. And Michael's parents did a lot for us while I was out of a job. There were a few hour-long drives just to buy us dinner, and every couple of weeks, a card with an encouraging note and a little bit of cash would arrive in our mailbox. They made things so much easier.

When I wrote about Ann and me going shopping, I said that family does things for one another that you can't (or won't) do for yourself. I said I did that too, but I felt a little guilty because I hadn't done anything "just because" in a while.

I've been so convinced I'll be laid off again that I've been pretty tight-fisted. But since becoming aware of that, I've been throwing in little things for Rachel when I can. Usually without informing Michael until afterward. But still small things. Until tonight, I thought he was just indulging my big-sister need to take care of my little sisters.

Michael does things all the time that make me think, "This is why I love him." His decision to treat Rachel and family to dinner tonight was one of those things.

We've always said that if we won the lottery (which is a ridiculous "if" because we never, ever buy tickets) we would pay off all our families' credit cards as one of our first acts.

Anyone can say that. And a lot of people probably would do that -- if they won the lottery.

But my husband, obviously, inherited some of his parents' generosity.

We haven't won the lottery. We're not rich, but we're able to save a little each month. We have a lot of education to pay for, and we're going to have to buy a car soon. We're just holding our breath as Michael's car plods to its imminent death.

Despite all that, Michael looked up from straightening the living room and without a second thought, offered to treat my sister and her family to dinner, knowing that they're struggling more than we are.

We went to a little Mexican place up the road with Porter in full rescue hero/pirate garb. We got a few stares, and I think I heard a man say "arrrgh" to him -- which, I'm sure, produced a blank look from Porter. The only pirates he knows are the ones in Peter Pan. He's not aware of all the pop culture pirate stuff.

I played peekaboo with Evie with a napkin while Michael quizzed Rachel about her preceptorship. Porter stuck his hands in Michael's pockets when he wasn't getting enough attention. Somehow, the waiter made chocolate milk happen, even though I was sure he said they didn't have it when Porter first asked for it. I bounced a cranky Evie on my lap after I finished eating so Rachel could finish her dinner.

I was a little disappointed Rachel and I didn't get to catch up as much as I would have liked. We were taking turns entertaining Evie and keeping her chubby little hands away from the food she so desperately wanted to snatch from plates. The restaurant was loud, and the kids needed attention.

But it was worth it, if for nothing more than this comment:

Michael didn't hear her, but as we left the restaurant, Rachel said, "I don't know when the last time we went out to eat was. That was really fun."

I don't know if Michael knew better than I did what they needed tonight or if he wanted to go out to dinner enough that he was willing to accommodate my previous plans. But seeing my sister enjoy something special that my husband thought of -- and that he and I take so for granted -- made me swell up with pride in him.

I've done more pushing to blend our families in the last year than Michael has. But without my efforts, we've blended in places I hadn't thought to push.

My dad texted Michael a real-time play-by-play of the South Carolina-Auburn football game while we were at the wedding in Charleston. Ann calls me when she's trying to communicate something to Michael and he ignores her calls. Michael and Rachel disgust everyone with their hospital chats about blood and bodily fluids over dinner. I help Michael's brother with his English homework.

And I awkwardly realized at Michael's grandfather's birthday party that my impulse to grab the camera and coerce smiles out of my brothers-in-law wasn't appropriate anymore. I felt a bit nostalgic as I watched a teenage cousin's girlfriend shyly smile over the flash and count to three. When I was standing where she is, I thought, I never thought I'd be where I am now -- which was happily squished between an aunt and my sister-in-law on the front steps of Michael's parents' house with an uncle in front of me, and Michael behind me.

I'm in.

And Michael just gets taking care of Rachel and B.J. when we can.

Maybe we're still honeymooning, but I think this is what the family-blending part of marriage is supposed to look like.

And I picked a perfect partner to figure it out with.

Husband's Bath Buddy

2010-10-27T20:28:00.001-04:00

As you might remember from my three-part story of how we met (part 2, part 3), Michael and I weren't friends throughout college. We really didn't get to know each other until his junior/my senior year.

That would explain why we weren't aware of all of each other's ... ahem ... extracurricular activities.

Michael and some of his friends went to Cocoa Beach, Fla., one spring break, and last night, I saw that one of our mutual friends had updated his Cocoa Beach album on Facebook recently. This wasn't a new one, but I'm shocked I haven't seen it before:

In case the disturbing factor isn't obvious enough, here's a little commentary:

But, as hilarious as it was, I couldn't resist sharing it with the wife of Michael's friend with soap in his eyes:

She was equally amused.

Gravity Wins, and My Sexy Freckle Meets Her End

2010-10-27T01:50:00.001-04:00

I went to the doctor for my annual physical today. I had kind of quit having them after I was away from home, but then my thyroid was like, "I've worked hard for 23 years. I quit. Kapooey."

("Kapooey" is the sound I imagine my thyroid made as it flopped down on its couch to spend the rest of our life watching Friends reruns and eating chips and not doing its part to keep the body healthy.)

So now I have to see the doctor and get blood tests once a year.

I was prepared for the drawing of the blood today. I was not prepared for other stuff. And I didn't even get blood drawn in the end because I had run out of thyroid medicine, so I have to get all leveled out again.

So first thing I was not prepared for: finger pricking.

I know. I should have thought about that. But I didn't. And I'm a huge baby. I hate the needles. I hate the tiny little needle gun that snaps a needle into my finger. It didn't hurt, but I had myself way freaked out in the four minutes between the time I figured out I was getting my finger pricked and when it actually happened.

That finished, I had an internal groan when I walked into the exam room and saw my paper clothes laid out on the table. Second thing I'm not prepared for: paper clothes.

See, I got spoiled. My lady doctor's office has sheets and actual gowns with snaps. So even if I haven't wrapped myself in the sheet, I'm still covered. And by the time the doctor comes in, I'm all nice and bundled in two layers of cloth. And not freezing. Almost as if I'm in my own clothes.

I've heard people make a sanitation argument about using the cloth sheets and gowns. I don't care. Really. I think about people with gross diseases using the same sheets, and then I think about being in paper gowns, and I trust my doctors with cleaning their sheets sufficiently and burning them when necessary. (Like if a lady had poison oak down there. That would be a situation in which I would like the sheets to be burned rather than cleaned sufficiently.) I'd rather be comfortable. And another reason that I'll get to.

So I begrudgingly start changing out of my real clothes to put on the paper ones.

"Go ahead and slip off your bra, too, honey," the nurse said.

"But I'll see my lady doctor next month," I protested.

"Well, you know, it can't hurt to have two checks. One person might feel something another person doesn't."

Fabulous mental images of doctors groping me, feeling around for something the other one might have missed. I'm 25. There's nothing there.

My past paper clothes, I could swear, were better about staying put. The top was a glorified bib -- horrifically lacking in sides -- and the bottom was a big piece of white paper. Great.
So I'm sitting on the table waiting for the doctor, realizing that I left my book on the chair, but determined not to move lest he walk in because I'm having to hold about five different paper gaps together.

At one point, I tried to tie the sides of the top shut, but the paper started ripping. (See, we're not even talking about the nice paper clothes. These are like a clash between toilet paper and butcher paper.) I tried to tuck the top into the bottom sheet. That didn't work either. I tried lying down and letting gravity help me out. Gravity did more to hinder than help, which made me nostalgic about when gravity and I coexisted more and battled less.

Finally, I just sat still and examined my feet until the doctor came in. Parts stayed covered best when I just sat still, but they should invest in some sheets.

"Anything specific you want to talk about?"

"I have some moles that are bigger or a different color. And my mom made me promise I'd talk to you about my sleep."

Mom and her dad both have sleep apnea, and he has restless leg syndrome too. Mom is convinced I have RLS because I jerk awake when I fall asleep on the couch, and I always needed more sleep than the other kids. I explain this away with bad habits, odd hours, daylight creeping into my wee hours, and the fact that Michael gets up at a normal hour. So we talked about sleep for a while.

And then I showed him my moles. Which is where things get hairy.

Well. Maybe "hairy" is the wrong word. My moles aren't hairy. But the situation was.

First, I showed him what I've always called My Sexy Freckle.

I discovered this freckle -- on the upper left side of my chest -- around the time I learned what the word "sexy" meant. It was also around the same time Cindy Crawford was really popular. So when my friends and I played dress-up, sometimes they drew on moles. I never understood why you would want to put something on your face that wasn't you, so I didn't. But I liked my chicken pox scar on my chin, and I had my very own Sexy Freckle.

I would wrap myself in a towel after my bath at night and pull the towel just low enough that My Sexy Freckle was visible. And then I would pretend the worn towel was an evening gown or a cocktail dress, and I was grown-up and chic and, of course, sexy. I was really excited about my first blouse that went below My Sexy Freckle. Really, it's not that sexy.

This was my bridal luncheon.

He didn't say anything about any of the freckles and moles until after I'd shown all of them to him. The Sexy Freckle. The weird one on my arm. And the big one on my stomach...

As I moved the paper aside to show him the big freckle I was most concerned about, gravity did me a great disservice.

Plop.

And there was my boob.

"This would not have happened at the gynecologist's!" I thought, slapping paper over the offensive breast.

I'm not too modest around other girls, but for some reason, it was just really weird for my boob to pop out when he wasn't even going to examine it. I cursed the nurse in my head. I'm not worried that he was like, "Ew, her boob." I know he sees boobs every day, and this might be a little conceited, but if he thought anything, it would have been, "Damn, that's a nice breast."

So then I thought, "Oh my gosh. He knows I have glorious breasts, and he didn't examine them. Now he's going to think I took off my bra just to show him. He's going to think I let it drop on purpose."

Ugh. That's the other reason I hate the paper. I cringed but forced myself to focus.

He wasn't worried about the large, dark freckle on my stomach. It's symmetrical, he said, and it's still probably smaller than a pencil eraser. He wasn't worried about the moles on my back or arms.

But My Sexy Freckle has to go.

He saw a blood vessel in it.

"Sometimes basal cells look like that," he said. "I'm not saying I think it's cancerous, but it might be benign or precancerous."

OK. No cancer. He saw my boob. He thinks I showed it to him.

"... So we'll need to schedule a time for you to come in and have that shaved off."

Um. Shaved off?

My skin hurts like crazy when I cut it shaving. There's no way I'm going to be thrilled about shaving off a whole identifying mark.

I racked my brain for other phrases I'd heard about removals. Burned off? That wouldn't make sense. Frozen off? No, that's for warts.

Scooped out. Charlie had a mole removed Monday on Two and a Half Men, and that's how he described the process. Scooped a mole out of his left butt cheek. "Shaved" sounds better.

Stay calm, Rebekah. It's not cancer. He's going to numb it.

I called Michael leaving the office. "I have to have a mole removed and I scheduled it for a Tuesday morning in December, and you don't have school or work on Tuesday mornings, so I need you to come with me."

"Rebekah. I've had moles removed. It's not a big deal."

"But I haven't! And I'm scared! And I have to have a bunch of blood taken! And sometimes I faint!"

"I'm in the middle of a video game."
So that's how that conversation ended.

"Michael, it's My Sexy Freckle," I said when I got home. He laughed.

So I still haven't really considered the small possibility that I have a touch of skin cancer. I'm pretty convinced I don't.

I'm more upset about losing My Sexy Freckle.

Cutest. Kid. Ever. (Part II)

2010-10-15T01:47:00.003-04:00

Remember when Porter got sick when Evie Grace was a week old and I was unemployed so he came to stay with Aunt Bekah?

Well, I finally figured out how to post the video we made for Mommy and Daddy.

Everyone look how precious my nephew is.

My favorite things:

1. I love how he jumps on the bed at opportune moments to show how much better he's feeling.

2. Toward the end, it sounds like he's about to launch into the Darth Vader music from Star Wars. I don't know. Maybe I'm the only one who heard that.

3. At the very end, when he says what sounds like "egg grinder," I'm pretty sure he wasn't saying "egg grinder," but instead, speaking in his own language. In the coming months I would become very accustomed to hearing my sister over the phone -- "ENGLISH, Porter!"

4. This isn't in the video, but we spent the whole day in my bed watching Sleeping Beauty on repeat. (I don't have many boy movies, and Pirates of the Caribbean turned out to be too scary.) He kept wiggling around, and finally I said, "Porter! What are you doing?" Cutest answer ever: "Twying to get cwose to you."

5. Porter was super excited he got to use Uncle Michael's pillowcase from college. He didn't understand the "college" concept, but he did understand that it was Uncle Michael's, it was old, and he was special.

I love this kid.

My Shoe Kick

2010-10-14T02:29:00.002-04:00

I don't know what it is lately; I have been all about some shoes.

Maybe it's the fact that I actually do need a pair of brown heels for winter. Or the fact that in cold weather, wearing pumps with no socks or hose is kind of stupid even in South Carolina, so I might genuinely need boots. Or the fact that I'm actually growing bored with my beloved Rainbows.

And then today, Jill at Spoils of Wear posted "I Love Shoe." And it completely explains why I love shoes. Jill and I might be sole-mates. (Yes, I did that.)

I e-mailed it to my dad because he's always talking about how much money he had to spend on shoes for me. He didn't understand why I had to have black and brown.

"Why can't you just pick one and only wear that color?"

So it's kind of a running joke. And in college, whenever I needed to get off campus for a while, I'd go shopping. Usually shoe shopping. Oh, the adorable shoes I bought in college. I've worn most of them out. Like the soles started coming off one pair, and they weren't low quality. My last pair of shoes I bought toward the end of college are starting to smell pretty rank...

But I have cut back on the shoe shopping. Tremendously.

Not even thinking about Jill, I was browsing tonight (online advertisers love people like me who think, "oooh, pretty" and click) and fell in love with a few pairs.

Ladies, drool with me. And fellas too, if you want. I'm not here to judge.

The Bow-mance Flat at modcloth

Get your pair here. And think of me when you wear them, you lucky girl.

I love everything about the Bow-mance flat. The neutrality of the mauve, the eye-catching details of the bow, and how darn comfortable they look. I usually don't mourn my petite stature, but flats like this get me every time. And the catchy word play with the name is not lost on me.

Lightning wedge by Me Too

Get your pair here. Available in black, Bordeaux, bronze and pewter. Shown in bronze, supposedly, but it looks more like Bordeaux to me.

I have to admit that I didn't drool over these quite as much as I did the other I'll be posting. But many of the others don't pass the Necessity Test, and these do.

The Necessity Test sucks, but it's an integral part of being a grown-up and maintaining a budget. Here is the Necessity Test:

1. Are they professional enough for work? (Because I don't do anything else enough to necessitate a pair of shoes for it.)
2. Will I be able to walk a block when I wear them to work?
3. Can I wear them with more than one outfit?
4. If, when I leave the office at 1 a.m., I am accosted by an assailant waiting in the foliage for my 97 pounds of an easy snack, will I be able to (a) injure him severely with the shoes, (b) get the shoes off my feet fast enough to run, or (c) run in the shoes?
5. Will I act like an adult keep these on my feet in public?

The last two questions are usually where most shoes fail. Actually, almost all of them fail #5. I can't keep shoes on my feet. Not even slippers.

But these shoes, I assume, are named "Lightning" because I could probably run in them. So they're appealing for their cute practicality, but I'm not nearly as in love with them as I am the rest.

Guess Petita pump

Anyone who would like to donate a pair to me can find them here. I will give you my address after you give me your full name and date of birth and I run a background check on you.

These are what started the shoe lust tonight. How could you not fall in love with them? How? The best part is that the heel is only 2". Which means I could live in them without wanting to hurt someone. When we get to about 3.25", I start tipping forward because I'm so short, there's so little surface area of my foot actually on the ground.

And then there were a couple pairs that I saw and thought, "Awesome!" but probably couldn't pull off.

The Kapow! Boot by Miz Mooz via modcloth.com

I know! Aren't they gorgeous?! They're here.

These fail the "will I wear them with more than one outfit?" part of the test. Mainly because I don't have sweater dresses. And I'm not allowed to count things I haven't bought yet in The Necessity Test. I would be more likely to rock the Kapow! boot successfully, however, than these:

Proudly Posh heel from modcloth.com

They are here -- restocked at least once due to popular demand.

They are so cool. I really wish they'd been around when I was looking for wedding shoes for my something blue. They're so much better than polka dots. But despite my salivating, I can think of no outfit I own or could put together with which these shoes wouldn't look ridiculous.

Actually, there is that dress I wore to my rehearsal dinner. I think it's the same color... But that's just one outfit. I need three.

Any donations to Rebekah's (Quickly Stinking and Waning) Shoe Collection would be more than appreciated...

Just kidding.

Sort of.

No more shoe shopping tonight.

Inadvertant

2010-10-13T01:15:00.001-04:00

Well. This is a complete surprise.

Everyone on Facebook is all excited about the Chilean miners getting out of their big cave, and that's really cool. I'm excited too, but I'm restraining excitement until they're all out and safe because stuff could go wrong. Not trying to be a pessimist or anything, but it's true.

Anyway, I was reading status updates and considering eating another cupcake, refreshing my ice water and watching The Good Wife, when I saw my aunt's status update:

"Productive work? None tomorrow... We're all going to be up all night watching the miners return home!"

As I went to comment, I found my fingers typing this:

The good stuff always happens on my days off. I could design the crap out of that front page.

Wait. What? Everyone slow down here, and take deep breaths. Did I just treat this newspaper deal like an actual career?

I thought I was just doing something an English/psychology major is qualified to do until I figured out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

And then I examined the time I've worked since I graduated from college.

I've worked at three newspapers, each with a bigger name and better pay than the last.

I considered buying PhotoShop to tinker on my own time so I could make super-awesome promos. And I still haven't ruled out that possibility.

I tell everyone that except for the hours, the job is perfect.

But this isn't my career? I'm not even sure anymore.

I'm salivating over highly emotional photos someone else gets to dig through, a poignant headline someone else gets to write, and a story that I know my work would tell well. Because I love the happy stories.

That's why I thought I didn't like journalism. There aren't many happy stories. And I miss the stories where someone is happy.

Miracle on the Hudson? Off.

Presidential elections? Off. *

Miners get rescued? Off.

But the bad stuff? I'm right in the middle of it.

A woman in the projects watches her house burn down after she had a cold and left a heating pad on her mattress while she went downstairs to make soup. The same mattress under which she kept all her cash. ALL her cash. I sat on the curb and let her cry on my shoulder.

The recession news that got worse day after day. I was there. And then I got to live it, courtesy of American journalism.

Underwear bomber? Time Square bomber? Pakistan floods? Fort Hood rampage? Gigantic oil spill? There, there, there, there, and there.

I was laid off when Haiti had its big earthquake, so I missed that one.

But... Where else could I have been? At home obsessing about tragedy? At another job, getting nothing done because everyone is glued to the TV?

No.

I was putting together a paper to dispel the rumors and fears TV journalism tends to propagate, getting all the information, telling people what really happened.

I hate the "mainstream media" stereotypes. TV journalism should be in its own category. We do not do the same thing.

I try to explain to people that working in news, you have to set your own beliefs aside. You have to tell both sides of the story equally and without bias. The editorial page... well, that depends on the staff, but it should be well balanced. Most papers, admittedly, fail at balancing editorial staff.

A lot of times, when you read the paper, it looks liberal or conservative or Libertarian or Marxist because of the readers' biases. No one reacts well to seeing something they've rejected presented as a viable option. I will say that some of the wire services, when marking for copy editors parts of stories that can be cut without omitting first references to people named later or messing up context, do mark the conservative side of things. But diligent copy editors -- like me -- re-edit and cut fairly.

Journalistic integrity is a phrase I use when our conservative friends start railing about "mainstream media." I hate that my profession gets attacked anytime we hang out with (usually Michael's) friends.

I just didn't realize that in defending newspapers, I'd come to love them. And I'd quashed the euphoric feeling of seeing a good design in print. Or that the excitement I felt when a public board reversed an unpopular decision I was a part of reporting.

At my first newspaper, one of the first editorials I saw was written by a woman who had been editor forever and had recently retired. She said the ink seeps off the page, stains your fingers, and gets in your blood. And try as you might, you couldn't escape journalism once that happened.

I'm not sure if that's true. People 10 years older than me tend to change careers throughout their working years. I might do that too. I plan to, anyway.

But for now... I am a journalist.

* I'm not a big Obama fan -- I think no one can be that involved in his community and still be idealistic, so I basically think he's a really good public speaker with decent writers who fudge the truth more often than not. But still. It was a big night. First non-white president is a big deal. I wouldn't call him black, though, on the technicality that his mom is white. But he is part African-American, so I see how it's huge for civil rights.

Late-Night Grocery Trip Thoughts

2010-10-11T03:24:00.000-04:00

I love that this store is open 24 hours. And clean. And well-lit.

No, Rebekah, you don't need a buggy. You're not getting that much stuff. Toothpaste... Cereal... Is that fresh bread I smell?

Where the hell are the baskets? I've wandered all the way to the other door. No, I don't want a bag. They'll make me buy it, and I don't want my cupcakes and pears to get smooshed. I recycle the plastic bags, so give me a basket, grocery store!

OK, surely they have buggies inside somewhere. Really? No?

Maybe I can carry everything.

Unlikely.

OK. Well, I'll just put my groceries here with the cereal I want, and I'll come right back. ...

Whew! I almost walked out the door with that notebook under my arm. What if that had happened? What if I walked out the door with a notebook without realizing I hadn't unloaded all the stuff I was carrying?

Would they believe me if I told them I was just getting a cart? I put down all my merchandise...

What would I even say? Well, I'd definitely pull out my debit card right away. "I promise I intend to pay for all of this, and I'll even pay for the notebook twice if you want!"

No, I wouldn't pay for the notebook twice. That wouldn't help. If they wanted to call the police, an amount of money equal to the price of a 5-section college-ruled notebook would not be a significant enough bribe.

In case you're wondering why it was necessary for me to buy a notebook... I use them for work.

OK. Got my cart.

Oh no. What if my stuff's not where I put it?

Those were the best pears. I looked at all of them. And the bread. Oh, the bread. It was packaged today, and it was the last fresh one. Good. Still here.

Why didn't Cheerios Crunch take off? They were so yummy. And healthy. I guess I'll have to settle for Honey Bunches of Oats. Lucky Charms just don't fill me up. And they're not that healthy. Honey Bunches of Oats are really good though. Not as good as Cheerios Crunch, but still really good.

I should get Oscar some treats. He hasn't had any treats in a while. They should be dental treats. His breath effing stinks, and he has to come kiss me anytime a normal cat would purr. OK, I like it. I'm his favorite. And this is why. Tartar control treats made with real seafood.

I probably should get Cokes. Don't want another surprise run-out like last week. Where are they? Wouldn't I normally have passed them? Coke Zero. Diet Coke. Sprite... Where are the Cokes?

Oh my goodness, there are NO COKES! NO COKES AT ALL!

Well, there are a couple 2-liter Cokes, but that doesn't measure my exact 12 oz. of caffeine I'm allowed each day. And they go flat. Bad 2-liters. So NO COKES!

Tons of Pepsi though. How does a grocery store with "super" in its name have NO COKES? How is that even possible?

Maybe I should just stop obsessing and get the Pepsi. Ugh. No. It's SO not the same.

Cheese. Yogurt. Ew, that one's dated today. I eat yogurt way too slowly to get stuff close to the date.

OK. I'm tired of grocery shopping. Let's get this show on the road. Toothpaste. Crackers.

I should get crackers I'm not going to get attached to because Michael will eat them in three days. Saltines are good. And nice and bland. That's good with the extra sharp cheddar cheese I got. Michael prefers his cheese in Mexican food. Saltines are kind of bland. Maybe I should get... Wheat Saltines?! They make those?! Awesome. Decision made.

OK, really time to get out of here. Lit-up register.

Boxes in front. Toiletries and cat stuff. Cold stuff. Fruit and bread in the very back.

Get over here, kid. Stop talking to the hookers. Be nice, Rebekah. They'd be a lot more slutty looking if they were real hookers. Why are they in line? They don't have any merchandise... Ha! No merchandise that I can see! HAHA! How clever am I!?

OK, finally. Wow, he's a pretty fast little bagger. Go grocery kid.

"Debit, please."

I'm SO in Trouble

2010-10-08T22:34:00.001-04:00

I love to read. Love, love, love to read.

Almost as much as I love to read, I love to buy books.

Which is why, a few days ago, I was ridiculously proud of myself when I saw the rolling racks with huge "$3!" and "$5!" signs on them outside Books-A-Million -- and I drove past. I didn't even take a second look.

Tonight, though, I was not as strong. And what makes it even worse is that today is a furlough day. Translation: I just spent a bunch of money, and I'm not getting paid today.

And... my discount card had just expired, so I had to renew it. It really does save money.

I seriously spent like an hour -- maybe 90 minutes -- outside the store as the air got chillier, shivering as I added up my books. Other customers came and went, unwilling to dig through all the books to find the worthy ones.

So here's what I got:

Anu Garg, who wrote this book, is the founder of wordsmith.org and A.Word.A.Day e-mails.

Listed price: $13.00
I paid: $3
Savings: $10

This looks hilarious, and it's so similar to a lot of things I talk about.

Listed price: $14
I paid: $1
Savings: $13

Here's an excerpt from the front-flap summary: "When two grown daughters discover their mother's diary in her attic, they are stunned to learn her true love was not their father. But is all as it seems? That's the mystery they must unravel as their mother lies near death in a nursing home. Only the pages of her diary can provide the clues that will reveal the truth. In a richly detailed journey into the past, we see the young Elizabeth Marshall lose her heart to one man while remaining devoted to another. Finally, she must choose between the stable, loyal Bob ... and the electrifying and unpredictable AJ. When a suspicious fire is linked to AJ, Elizabeth is faced with the most painful decision of her life: She's the only one who can clear his name, but to do so would ruin her reputation and cost her the love of her fiance."

Listed price: $12.95
I paid: $1
Savings: $11.95

This is the real reason I'm going to be in trouble. Michael hates her.

Listed price: $7.99
I paid: $3
Savings: $4.99

Secret societies fascinate me. And this is a three-fer.

Listed price: $18.95
I paid: $4.97
Savings: $13.98

If you review this post, you'll agree that this book obviously was a need.

Listed price: $14
I paid: $3
Savings: $11

Reviews say Patricia Weitz has a perfect understanding of this time in a girl's life. I'm too lazy to type the whole summary.

Listed price: $24.95
I paid: $5.97
Savings: 18.98

But the real reason I'm in trouble is that I promised Michael on Tuesday that I would clean the kitchen.

I didn't clean it Tuesday because I got a stomach bug. I didn't clean it Wednesday because I was recovering and still barely moving because I was afraid I'd end up back in the bathroom. And I didn't clean it yesterday because I had to work. So I for-real-this-time promised that I'd do it today.

There's still time... But that was when I was supposed to be doing it.

Also. Michael bribed me with this gorgeous sweater to clean the kitchen:

Obviously, I'll wear something under it. See my new favorite shopping place.

And it came in today.

So... despite the impressiveness of my $83.90 savings (we're not going to talk about renewing my membership or the price of the sweater, which, together, probably make up the whole of the savings...) I'm off to the kitchen. And the laundry room.

I hate housework.

Trouble in Bed (Not That Kind, You Perv)

2010-10-07T04:56:00.000-04:00

I've always been a little obsessed with my bed.

So here's the trouble: Michael is cramping my style in bed. And I mean style in all kinds of ways.
First, he's a big guy. So that's half the bed in which I learned to sprawl that is no longer at my disposal. You might be wondering -- especially if you know us -- how it is that he is almost twice my size and still only gets half the bed. It seems you would divide by three -- two-thirds to Michael, one-third to Rebekah.

But no. I don't do that. I love my bed.

See, in college, I discovered that a drab dorm room with cinder block walls could be made infinitely more livable with a comfy bed. And people started coming to my room just to sit on my bed. Or lie in it. I eventually had to make rules about who could and could not get in. And I changed the sheets a lot. But I don't now because Michael's freaking always in it.

Anyway, after college, I had some money left in my college savings fund, and I wasn't going straight to grad school (any college students reading: Go straight to grad school), so I bought a queen-sized bed and a TV.

Michael and I had been dating a few months, but marriage wasn't in our immediate future, so I figured, as long as I had a big bed, I should start sleeping big. Before that, I only took up little spaces in my beds. But then, I discovered the glory of sprawling. This is a brief history of my bed space-taking-up:

He's also made me switch preferred sides of the bed. (Notice that under "California king honeymoon bliss," I'm on the left. I like it like that.)

Another problem with sharing: He is always in my cool spot.

When I was little and had trouble sleeping, I could always roll into the cool spot and flip my pillow over, and it was like a fresh start at sleeping. Not now. This is the dichotomy of cool spots:

He's also made me stop reading in bed because I never go to bed before he does, and he says it keeps him awake, and he doesn't like when I rub my feet together or against the side of the bed to go to sleep.

But that's probably more because Oscar attacks things that move under the blanket than because my foot-moving bothers him.

So we're agreed that we need a king-sized bed.

He is just too big, and I am just too sprawly. And surprisingly enough, I can hold my own in a sleeping fight over bed space. You'd think he'd just toss me out of the way, but I am unmovable.

But my other style that he's cramping is decoration.

See, my bed used to be my haven.

Granted, I used it to hide from the world a little bit. So it wasn't always a healthy haven, but Michael has helped me with that. He would bribe me to go to the bank or the grocery store with bedtime. As in, "You can hide from the world after you go to the grocery store. We need chocolate, don't we?" (Bless him. He doesn't even like sweets.)

Anyway, all that's to say I think I'm healthy enough now not to hide from the world if my bed is my haven again.

Also, I need incentive to get in it at night.

But alas. The comforter needs dry-cleaning but doesn't get it because Michael says that's ridiculous. (It's too big for the washer, though.) And it's white, so it's really obviously dirty.

The set of garnet sheets we use most frequently have a hole in them from Michael's razor-like toenails. I know this because I examined the position and the shape of the tear before I assigned blame, and it looks very much like my ankles do on the rare occasions that he startles awake or twitches violently. (Usually, the crazy sleep behavior and twitching and stuff -- all me.)

Along with that, I'm tired all the time during the day because I have no desire to go to bed until ridiculous hours. And once I get there, I can't fall asleep. I used to read to help that, and that worked, but I can't do that anymore.

So I really want to decorate and make my bed a place I want to go.

We didn't get the comforter on our registry for our wedding:

From here.

But now, we can't find anything we both like.

Michael has a decor issue: He loves brown.

I realize brown is in right now, and I'm down with brown. Just ask my living room. Or my library. Or my bathroom.

But do I have to have a brown bedroom too? And that set that we didn't get? That's a good bit of brown.

Is it just me, or does an inordinate amount of brown make you think of poop? Poop thoughts do not make me feel like I'm in a haven.

I still haven't gotten through to Michael that making fart noises and then saying, "Bitty! That's gross!" in no way amuses me, but he does understand that Dutch ovens are not allowed. I'm proud to say my husband has never completed a Dutch oven -- on me at least. I'm sure he's done it to all his siblings and many more people.

So he seems to get that the bed is a sacred place for me.

And I want it to be a nice place for him, too.

So something like this, while I would love it, would not be appropriate for the bed of a married couple.

From here

He actually might be OK with that if it weren't for all the pillows. He already hates how many pillows I have. But I like it because of the pillows.

I don't want to emasculate him. I want us both to like where we sleep.

So I thought we could compromise on something like this. Reasonable, right? I mean, it has brown...

From here

OK, maybe that's a hair girly.

Or this? This is a way better compromise on my part. I'm giving up color. But at least it's gray...

From here

No.

"I hate paisley," he said.

"All paisley? It can be done tastefully."

"All paisley. I hate it."

"All paisley's off the table?"

"Yes."

I gave up on that web-surfing-shopping trip.

He would like something like this:

From here

It's nice enough, but it looks like it belongs in a hotel room, and I don't want my bedroom to look like a hotel room.

And... it's BROWN!

So for the time being, I'm just going to have to suck it up and sleep under the dirty comforter.

I did get red kitchen appliances... Maybe I could do brown bedding.

No, I can't. Not all brown.

My Magical Dress

2010-10-01T04:35:00.001-04:00

Before Michael and I went on our Charleston trip last weekend, my mother-in-law and I went shopping. For shoes.

I wore this dress to my rehearsal dinner, and I've worn it once since then. So I wanted a pair of nude-colored shoes to go with it because I'm kind of over silver shoes. (And my silver shoes are 8 years old...) Here's the dress I planned to wear to the wedding:

That's a ruffle around the top. We don't have any frontal shots of the dress, but it's much cuter from the front.

"I want to look stunning," I told my mom a few days earlier. "At least as stunning as possible. I haven't seen these people in 10 years, and I want them to look at me and say, 'Man, that's not the nerdy Rebekah I remember.'"

"If you want a gorgeous dress that fits you well, you really can't get any better than that one," she said.

I agreed. Antonio Melani makes dresses that fit me perfectly. Another example of me in an Antonio Melani dress:

This is at one of my bridal showers. Both moms (Ann second from left and my mom in the middle) and all my sisters (Miriam in jade, Margaret in pink). Rachel (far right) hates this picture. Ironically, she was irritated because the dress she wore made her look pregnant. But actually, she was pregnant and wouldn't find out for another few weeks.

But I didn't wear the Antonio Melani dress.

Ann and I both love shopping. Ann is also a little bit ADD. (She says this herself -- I'm not being mean.) So while I probably could have dug around and found a pair of shoes in the first department store, Ann said, "OK, nothing here," after they didn't have my size in the first shoe I picked out. There really wasn't anything, but I probably would have settled.

"Ooh, let's go in here," Ann said as we passed White House Black Market.

She loves that store, she told me. Me too, but I usually confine myself to the sales racks.

No nude shoes. And we looked at little black dresses -- I technically don't have one -- but they were too pricey for me. So cute though.

Not finding what we were looking for, we left.

The next department store was in the middle of renovations and a gigantic shoe sale. Normally, I love shoe sales, but things were a mess.

And normally, I would tolerate the mess, but this one was especially unorganized. Tables squished together. Shoe boxes stacked unevenly. Shoe genres all mixed up. You just can't put sneakers next to formal pumps. I might handle my closet that way, but I wouldn't if I were selling shoes out of it. Yuck.

I couldn't concentrate on the scattered tables of the few I-would-be-settling possibilities. Ann was distracted by the huge plastic sheets and the sheer volume of shoes.

"Let's go back to White House Black Market," she said.

"Well, I guess I could look for some black dresses on the sales racks. I do need one."

"They had such cute stuff," she said. "I was going to treat you to shoes; I'll buy you a dress."

"Ann, no. You can't buy me a dress. They're so expensive."

"I can. I can't all the time, but I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to."

I hesitated. Was this taking advantage? Well, we are family. And when I can, I do things for my family that they wouldn't do for themselves...

"Rebekah. I want to do this," she said. "Come on, it can't hurt to try on a couple."

And shopper that I am, that's logic with which I could not argue.

I tried on a fun, full-skirted, frilly dress first. It was cute. But it was just cute. I wanted elegant.

I tried on a few dresses that were pretty, and I could tell I might have trouble deciding.

"Oh my gosh," one of the associates said a little bitterly. "They all look good on you."

"They're well made, and I know my size," I said.

She brought out a necklace and shoes to try on with the dresses. Just for fun.

And then I tried on this:

This is not me. I would not pair the dress with those shoes.

I came out of the dressing room, and everyone stopped. No lie. They stopped. The associates, the other customers. Everyone looked.

"Wow," one of the associates finally said. "Look at yourself."

I turned to the mirror -- and I was surprised. "Oh!" I said, almost not recognizing myself.

Never in my life have I felt gorgeous. Wedding day is a given -- I was beautiful, sure, but mainly radiant because I was so happy, which made me beautiful.

But this was a whole different kind of pretty. This was a dress that hugged curves I didn't know I had. My unstyled hair, curling slightly and unattractively in the humidity, and light makeup looked misplaced atop the dress.

I looked better in this dress than I did in my wedding gown.

"You stand differently in that dress," the associate said. "You know you look good."

It came down to two dresses -- the silver and black one and an all-black one with a little ruffle detail -- because I don't have a black dress.

Ann, at this point, was having a fabulous time. "OK, ladies!" she said to all the associates and customers. It was almost closing time, so I wasn't embarrassed enough to crawl under the ottoman in the dressing area. I never involve other shoppers in my choices. "We need a vote."

The silver won unanimously.

"We're getting the whole outfit," Ann said. "Don't argue."

And I was absolutely giddy with excitement to wear it until the wedding. And after the wedding, as much as I wanted to take off my heels that were giving me monstrous blisters and heavy jewelry and crawl into the big soft hotel bed in a T-shirt, I was a little sorry to take the dress off.

It did its job. I don't know if people looked at me and said, "That is not the nerdy Rebekah I remember from high school."

But my husband said I looked smokin' hot. And more importantly, I felt gorgeous.

Don't get me wrong. I'm big on inner beauty. I realize what's on the outside isn't what's important and all that.

But every once in a while, you find a dress that's just magical. This was mine.

[Pardon the unfortunate pictures. They were taken after the wedding. Michael was convinced we were late even though we had 30 minutes more than he believed, so he rushed me out the door with no pictures before the wedding. By the time we got pictures, the Charleston air floating off the Ashley River -- the backdrop for the ceremony and reception -- had done a number on my hair. And I remembered why I never owned a straightening iron until I moved away from the coast. Straightening hair in Charleston is wasted time.]

Also, I never pose like this. It's the dress. ... And maybe also the champagne from the wedding ...

And this is Michael and me celebrating our first anniversary in Charleston after we watched some friends do what we did a year and almost two months ago: