Resolved to Just Let It Ride

This time last year, I had no thoughts about where life would lead me.  I was about to be 35.  I was about to hit the 10-year mark with the Supreme Court.  I was about to take down my Christmas tree.  And that was all I really knew as I prepared to ring in 2010. 

He Who wasn't even thinking about leaving his alma mater.  We weren't talking about marriage.  I wasn't ready to leave my job.  I had no intentions of putting my little house on the market.  But within 3 weeks, He Who had accepted a new job.  Two weeks later, we found ourselves in Lexington trying to find him an apartment.  I was sure that the move would prove the end of us.  Just a month later, though, he surprised me with a proposal.  We were married 5 months later, but not before I quit my job, put a "for sale" sign in front of my first house, and moved to Kentucky.   

When I look back on the last year, it all seems so...surprising.  Still.  I never dreamed of all that would happen in the course of the year.  I just decided to see where life took me, and you know what?  It worked out very well.  So that's my plan for this year -- just see what happens.  (But here's hoping that it turns out equally well!)

The Need to Push Past

If you "google" my brother's name, you might come under the mistaken impression that he wasn't an original.  In fact, according to whitepages.com, there are 37 people in the United States with his name.  LinkedIn lists Michael Rs in South Carolina, Chicago, Georgia, Maryland...and in fields from newspaper publishing to motel proprietorship.  Michael R. is even counted as a past president (2001) of the National Bar Association.  But these men are all impostors.  Without even seeing them, I can tell you that they aren't as handsome as my Michael R.  Without sharing a single conversation with them, I know that they aren't as witty or intelligent as my  Michael R.  Without spending any amount of time with them, I know that they don't have the kind and all-accepting soul that my Michael had.  There may be 37 people in this country pretending to be Michael R., but my Michael was a one-and-only.

So I don't know why I "googled" his name this morning.  I don't know what I thought I'd find.  I knew he wasn't there.  He is only in my memory now.  And this year, I am determined to make that memory a happy one.  I am dedicated to pushing past all the ugliness and pain of the last week of cancer.  I am going to overcome it all and focus on the Mike who disappeared from my mind somewhere between the yellowing skin of a failing liver and the stiff jaw of sheer pain. 

But, God, I'm afraid it's going to be so hard.

Why can't I just remember the good stuff?  Why can't I just think about Easter egg hunts and lessons on how to throw a football and weekends camping out in the living room of his college apartment?  Believe me, I would much rather focus on those things.  So far, though, it's all been cancer.  Sickness.  Death.

I really want this year to be different.  I really need this year to be different.  It's been three years.  Four Christmases.  A million miles.  It's time to stop with all the blackness.

Judy Garland is a Liar (or It's Been THREE Years, and We AREN'T All Together)

I'm going to have a Bitter Betty moment, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

I once loved the Christmas theme from "Meet Me in St. Louis."  You know..."Have yourself a merry little Christmas.  Let your heart be light.  From now on our troubles will be out of sight."  What an incredibly lovely and hopeful sentiment.  It was always one of my favorite Christmas songs.  And then there was that last week of Mikey's life.

I drove home at my mom's urging, knowing that this was "it."  I drove home knowing that I was going to watch my only brother die.  And as I drove along the icy highway toward home, I heard Judy Garland's velvety strains about how "in a year we all will be together...if the fate's allow."  And I thought, The fates won't allow.  We will never "all be together" again.

It's been three years now -- three years tomorrow, to be exact -- and I was right, and Judy Garland was wrong.  Not only are we not all together, but it's just not the same.  It never will be.  Ever.  Eventually we'll all "move on" (whatever that means), but there will always be the perfect absence of Mike.  The teasing, the jokes and stories around the dinner table, the carefully selected gifts, the smile, the wide eyes of feigned disbelief, the goatee speckled with grey, the unconditional love and acceptance -- all of the things that characterized Mikey can ever be replaced or replicated.  Mikey made them all uniquely his.  He loved and lived life like no one I've ever known, and no matter how the rest of us try to carry on for him, we just can't make up for his absence.  And I'm really sad about that because I think he would want us to.

When I Think of Hobo Buns, I Think of My Dad. Wait...Huh?

A friend just posted on Facebook about how her son, who loves hot lunch at school, has been on a two-day brown bag strike because the regular cooks have been out sick, and the subs just don't cook as well.  I hear ya, kid.  There's nothing worse than a substitute cook in a public school cafeteria.  Anyway, it made me think about my old elementary school cafeteria, which made me remember one of my favorite memories of childhood -- having lunch "with" my dad and his best friend.

See, my dad was the assistant superintendent of schools, and his best friend, Gary, was the director of elementary education.  The Board of Education building was just around the block from my elementary school, so every once in a while, they'd pop up at school.  And by "every once in a while," I mean on chili and hobo buns day.  (If you're asking what in the hell a "hobo bun" is, it's basically a sticky bun.)

Dad and Gary were fiends for chili and hobo buns, and I knew they'd walk down to the cafeteria from the office for lunch on chili day.  All morning, I'd be itching to get to the cafeteria to see my dad.  Of course, it went without saying that I never approached them, and they never approached me.  It wasn't because I was embarrassed to be seen with my dad or because he didn't want the faculty and staff to feel like he was trying to say, "In case you didn't know, this is my daughter."  It was because if I was standing in the tray line, and he was sitting off in the corner with Gary, all we could do was acknowledge each other from afar.  I would stand on my tiptoes and crane my neck and give a semi-clandestine wave, and he would smile and crook his index finger at me.  And that crook of the finger was the best part of my day.  I could get a hug any old time, but the finger crook was a special ritual of affection that only came when my dad was "on the job." 

Besides, my mom was always way better with the hugs.

Hullo? Are You Still There?

Lord, I've gotten really bad at this blog thing.  It's been months.  But I've been busy...you know, turning my life on its ear!  

So just to catch you up to speed:  I quit my job.  I moved to Kentucky.  I got married.  I honeymooned.  I started a new job.  And then I took to this little corner to curl up in a fetal position and suck my thumb because of the enormity of it all, and that's where I've been for the last several weeks. 

Anyway, this week, I was asked to "guest blog" on an associate's blog about life working for a non-profit.  You can check it out at My Nonprofit Experience.  I think you'll start to understand why I've been a little quiet.

*Sigh*

And if you are a writer who is trying to give tips to other writers on how to boost their credibility, you may want to proofread your blog post title before clicking "publish." 

My New Favorite Photos

Oh, so much has happened in the last several days.  He Who Bleeds Green and I (who bleed Gold and Blue) tested our marriage at the annual WVU-MU match-up.  We became de facto Kentucky Wildcats fans.  I started a new job.  HWBG traveled...a lot.  And I officially became a "formerly known as" with a visit to the Social Security Administration.  But, honestly, I'm too tired to get into all of that, so, instead, I'm just going to post some of my favorite pictures from the wedding.

The handkerchief is Belgian lace.  It was given to me by my mom's best friend, Pat, over 20 years ago.  She told me then that I should put it away and save it for my wedding, and I did.  The locket on the bouquet is a Limoges box that HWBG bought me in New Orleans while celebrating his bachelor party.  We had gone into this little shop that sold Limoges boxes when we were in New Orleans earlier this summer, but I didn't buy anything then because the little porcelain boxes were all pretty expensive.  I was so surprised (and touched!) that he went back to buy me one when he was in New Orleans for the bachelor party.

This is the Willow Tree "Big Brother" figurine I put on the altar in memory of Mikey.

Yes, folks, that is my immediate family.  Minus Baby Lucy.  This is what our holiday table looks like.

The Best Man is HWBG's best friend from high school.  My sister, Leslie, was the Matron of Honor (loved the dress she picked from anntaylor.com!), and, of course, Lily was the Flower Girl.

At the rehearsal, Lily said, "I am not very excited about this."  But at the wedding, right before she went down the aisle, she said, "Momma, I'm really excited about this!"

HWBG loved the series of shots in the doorway.

I'll post pictures from the reception later, but for now, laundry calls. Being a wife is so very glamorous.

Ten on Tuesday: Life Anew

For a moment there, I toyed with the idea of changing the title of my blog.  "This Is Not How I'd Planned My Life" seems almost negative, regretful.  I think it goes without saying that I'm anything but regretful these days; however, at the end of the day, this isn't how I'd planned my life.  I hadn't planned to be just married at 35; I'd planned to be sending my youngest child off to kindergarten at 35.  I hadn't planned to be starting a new life and a new job in a new town all at one time; I'd planned to slip into a new routine little by little...and with the energy and enthusiasm that is only known to a 23-year-old.  I hadn't planned to have to decide just 10 days after my wedding whether I should go off the pill and try to have children; I'd planned to take a year or two to enjoy married life first.  So, no, this isn't how I'd planned my life.  But I'm not regretful about that. 

On with the show...

1.  I have a new last name, and it's soooooooo weird to me.  Not the new name.  The new name is perfectly lovely and normal, if not a bit Anglo.  It's the concept of having a new name that's so weird because, really, it signifies that I'm a new person.  I'm no longer Lara R., single, selfish, and accountable to no one but myself.  I'm now Lara B., married, giving of myself, and accountable to a life partner.  Eek!  I hope that doesn't mean that I have to give up my Marshall's shoe habit...

2.  The other day, I updated my Facebook account to reflect this new life.  I put in my bio that I am now a Kentuckian.  It made my stomach jump into my throat.  I've since decided, though, that I'm not a Kentuckian at all.  I'm still a West Virginian; I just live in Kentucky now.  Does that mean that I don't love my new town?  No.  But the fact of the matter is that I will always be an outsider here.  Lexington and Kentucky will always be a little unfamiliar to me.  I will always be a West Virginian.

3.  My new Lexington address is a penthouse apartment in the middle of downtown.  From the 21st floor, I can see all the way from UK's campus on the left to the home of the Lexington Legends on the right.  Actually, I can see farther than that, but I'm not sure what I'm seeing just yet.  I need to get my bearings.

4.  I have to admit that it's kind of hard transitioning from weekend-visit-girlfriend to live-in-wife.  I mean, I know that I live here now.  All my clothes and worldly possessions are crammed into the closets here.  But after 6 months of driving back and forth, back and forth, I still feel like at any second now, the weekend is going to end, and I'm going to have to go back to my home in Huntington and wait out the week for the next Friday.  It's kind of like how when you first get off of a treadmill, the floor feels like it's moving under your feet.  Eventually, you walk it off, but it takes a couple of strides. 

5.  I walked around my new neighborhood today looking at some of the Horse Mania 2010 horses on my block.  If there's one thing I already love about this town (besides the dining and pubs within spitting distance of my balcony), it's that Lexington celebrates anything and everything.  There is always some parade down Main Street (including a massive Halloween "Thriller" dance) or some festival on the courthouse square or some farmers' market to keep you entertained, but Horse Mania is just so different and fun because around every corner is a new horse.  LewHorse Carroll is probably my favorite so far, but I also love Bourbon Barrell.

6.  It's a little hard to think that I am now 6 hours away from home, but as my mom is quick to point out, I'm still 4 hours closer to home than my younger sister is.  Isn't it funny, though, that just 2 extra hours on the end of a trip can make it seem like you're driving to the other side of the earth?  And make no mistake:  That 6-hour trip includes 2 of the most boring hours of landscape in Kentucky and 3 of the most boring hours of radio time in West Virginia. 

7.  He Who Is My New Husband had to go back to work today, and (clearly) I don't know what to do with myself.  I moved in the week before the wedding and immediately unpacked 96.7% of everything that needed to be unpacked.  (I'm not a girl who can live out of boxes for more than 12 hours.)  The things that remain to be put away simply have no space at this point.  Of course, there are plenty of thank-yous to be written, and dinner begs to be cooked, but I can't seem to find my motivation.  I think I'm still on Vegas time, only with no one to sit next to me at the pool and read me random quotes from Rolling Stone magazine. 

8.  Next week, I go back to work myself.  It will be my first day at a new job in 10 years.  How scary is that?  No, no, let me tell you just how scary that is:  I am beginning a new job in a whole new profession in a new town.  I feel like the only English-speaking kid on the doorstep of a kindergarten classroom in Beijing (if they even have kindergarten in China -- I think their 5-year-olds just go straight to a university chem lab.)  I'm starting to have major jitters and longing for my old job that I thought I had grown tired of before I knew I had to quit it and find a new job.  What have I gotten myself into?

9.  HWIMNH is doing just fine, by the way.  He's having to contend with my homesickness and fears and moodiness and the fact that I prefer to sleep with the closet door closed so as to keep the evil sock monster from spying on me in my sleep.  I sometimes wonder if he ever wonders what he got himself into, but then I hear genuine emotion in his words when he tells me that he loves me and is happy that I'm here.  I guess he's one of those strange people who is drawn to homesick, moody, scaredy-cats with weird closet phobias. 

10.  Despite all the life-altering changes and the craziness of the last several weeks, I am very, very happy and ready to take it all one day at a time.  Or maybe one chore at a time.  Like those thank-yous.  And dinner.  It won't cook itself.

Free and Clear to Marry in the Catholic Church

There were two major hurdles to clear before He Who Is My Fiance and I could be married in the Catholic church.  First, there was the matter of HWIMF's previous marriage...s.  Marriages.  That's right, there were two.  What of it?  One was an impetuous, youthful, immature decision; and the other was...well, it just didn't work.  (People really do just grow apart sometimes.)  Luckily, neither marriage occurred in the Catholic church, nor was either marriage blessed by the Catholic church (because, at the time, HWIMF was a non-practicing Catholic), so there was no need for HWIMF to seek an annulment of either marriage.  Rather, he simply had to verify that the marriages fell under "lack of form."  Well, Friday afternoon, two letters arrived from the Diocese congratulating HWIMF that his prior marriages had been declared a nullity for lack of form.  Is it really all just a game of semantics and pandering to the Catholic church?  Yes, but...here's me pandering and talking in circles with a little YIPPEE-KI-AY, MOTHERTRUCKERS! to boot.

The second hurdle we had to clear was the required Marriage Encounter Weekend, wherein we would be forced to expected to attend a 3-day retreat at the local pastoral center to open up to each other and a dozen strangers about our relationship, while at the same time being taught to find our "language of love" and how to fold a towel so as not to start World War III in our little homes.  Of course, these weekends are only scheduled about 6 times a year, and by the time we got engaged, there were only 2 dates remaining before our wedding date:  One in June and the other the weekend before our wedding.  Well, the June date didn't work.  We were to be in Alabama that weekend.  So I double-checked to make sure that it was OK that we didn't do this ridiculous exercise complete the retreat weekend until the very week before our wedding, and I was assured by the Monsignor that he didn't "care when you do it, just do it!" 

So right after we returned from our vacation, I went online to sign-up for the August Marriage Encounter Weekend.  To my horror, I discovered that the weekend had been moved from the weekend before our wedding to the weekend of our wedding.  My stomach lurched up into my throat.  I scanned the website for a phone number to call, but there was none, so I Googled the pastoral center and found a number there.  The woman who answered was very sweet, but not at all helpful.  "Well, it's not really our fault that we had to reschedule the weekend," she offered.  Practically in tears, I squeaked, "Well, it certainly isn't my fault.  What am I going to do now?"  "Hmmm," she said, "I don't know what to tell you.  Maybe call the Diocese?"   So I did.  Only they were of no help either, suggesting that I call my local priest.  So I called my church.  The secretary there suggested I call the pastoral center.  At wit's end, I cried, "But I already did!  And they couldn't help me!"  She said, "Now, just calm down.  You'll figure this out.  Call again, and ask for Gary Lane." 

Gary, who is a deacon and the director of the pastoral center, was out for the week on vacation, so I left a long, rambling, tearful message on his voicemail.  He called the very next day, to which I expressed my surprise given my understanding that he was out on vacation.  "I am on vacation," he said, "but you sounded pretty...desperate."  (There really was no more delicate way of putting it.)  He assured me that he would work with HWIMF and me on an individual basis, and that we could do that prior to our wedding date.  Within the next week or so, we had picked our dates and made arrangements to meet with Gary over an evening and a day.  And let me tell you, we kicked that Marriage Encounter's ass and made it our bitch! 

Before we met with Gary, we each (separately) took an online survey dealing with everything from communication to our feelings about the church to disciplining our children.  It was 173 detailed and prodding questions-worth of information that was designed to pick us apart and see if, in fact, we could be put together.  According to Gary, if a couple scores in the 60%-70% range of compatible answers, they are considered a "pretty good" match.  Well, folks, HWIMF and I scored 90%.  How d'ya like them apples?  On top of that, when we took our "language of love" quiz, not only did we fall into the same language category, but we got the same score!  As Gary pointed out, the good news is that we are perfectly ready and well-matched to marry one another.  The bad news...if we ever want to get an annulment from the church, Gary will have to testify against us to the tribunal because we are so perfectly ready and well-matched to be married.  Meh.  I don't think we'll have need for an annulment anyway. 

So now we are free and clear to marry in the Catholic church, and it didn't come a moment too soon...we're down to just a little over a month to go!  Of course, we couldn't have done it without Gary's help.  He was so very kind to us, and, truth be told, he made it an enjoyable experience.  And though it shouldn't matter what some stranger thinks about our relationship, he really did reinforce for HWIMF and me that we have what it takes to make a long and happy life together.  Hey, the dude's been married for 35 years -- I think he knows whereof he speaks!

Edited Content

I guess the University of Phoenix couldn't figure out how to make "reason" plural, so it just re-worded the ad altogether.

I'm Just Sayin'

If you are running an advertisement to promote your "institution of higher education," then you probably ought to double-check for typos before you publish it on the interwebs.  I'm just sayin'.

Fashion Sense

Me:  It's a good thing you aren't going with me to this graduation ceremony.  I'm going to wear that dress you hate.

He:  *scrunched up face* It really is awful.  It looks like something a 3rd grader would wear. 

Me:  Huh?

He:  It has absolutely no sex appeal whatsoever.  It's plain and unflattering.

Me:  Um, I'm going to be in the same room as Bill Clinton.  Do you really want me to wear something with sex appeal? 

He:  Good point.

[Aside:  Bill Clinton is speaking at my niece's graduation from the Eberly College of Arts and Sciences at WVU today.  Not too shabby, WVU!  Not too shabby!  And Erica is graduating summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa!]

The Circle of Life

Yesterday was primary election day in West Virginia.  Of course, for those of us lucky enough to work for the State, that meant that yesterday was a holiday.  (Oh, sweet State employment, I do heart you.)  Don't be too jealous, though, because, really, State holidays inevitably become let-me-catch-up-on-every-errand-I-haven't-been-able-to-run-for-the-last-6-months days.  Such was the case yesterday. 

As I was leaving the house to start crossing things off my list, I noticed a cat across the street stalking something in the grass.  The grass was tall enough that I couldn't tell what it was watching, but it clearly wasn't a mouse or a mole because the cat wasn't pouncing or moving quickly.  Instead, it was carefully creeping through the grass, batting at something every once in a while.  And then I saw it's prey -- a small robin (maybe a baby?) missing half a wing, which was hopping through the grass toward the edge of my neighbor's yard.  Just then, the little robin tumbled head over feet down the hill at the edge of the yard.  Awww, I thought, now that's just sad!  The cat pranced over to the neighbor's walk way and bounced down the steps.  Smarmy little bastard with all of his limbs functioning perfectly.  I mean, how hard is it to hunt a bird with a busted wing? 

Anyway, the cat jumped in front of the little bird, which turned and started hopping across the street.  The cat followed slowly, batting at the bird every once in a while.  As the bird continued hopping across the street, three other cats came out of nowhere (I say "nowhere," but this neighborhood is practically overrun with stray cats these days) and lined up on the steps of the neighbor's walkway.  Seriously?  This cat has an audience now?  This just gets sadder and sadder to watch, I thought.  Yet, I did.  I was oddly fascinated by the whole sad scene. 

The bird hopped right over to the edge of my yard, and the cat cornered him against the curb, batting away at the wounded bird.  Then, all of a sudden, I heard this horrible chorus of screeches.  I looked up, and birds started flying in from every direction, settling on the utility wires around my house and the neighbor's house.  Robins, mourning doves, bluejays...they all chirped and shrieked at the cat.  The hunter and his three feline fans looked up at the birds...and then they all skulked off.  The birds had made their point, whatever that was.  Of course, it mattered little for the wounded bird.  With only one good wing, it was bound to die. 

And I was bound to have nightmares about the whole Hitchcockian scene for weeks.

Ten on Tuesday

1.  Last night, I went on a wedding bargain hunting trip.  My goal:  To find a vessel of some sort to hold the reception centerpieces.  I struck out on that one.  However, I did manage to find all of the glassware I need to set up a candy bar at the reception, and I snagged it for just $36!  But wait!  I also got a cake cutting set for $10!  The cake knife and cake server have porcelain handles sculpted in the shape of a groom hugging his bride, and the set has a matching porcelain cake plate.  Gotta love Big Lots!

2.  We have nailed down our reception venue and our caterer.  I also have a dress, veil, and shoes.  Now to find a photographer and someone to provide music at the reception...

3.  I have decided to make tissue paper flower centerpieces for the reception.  I know that sounds crazy, but believe me, it's going to be great.  (Damn you, Martha Stewart!  How can someone so evil be so genius?)

4.  We still haven't settled on a honeymoon location.  We have at least eliminated overseas destinations because we don't want to spend half of our honeymoon just getting there.

5.  I can't believe I will be married in just 4 months.  4 months!

6.  The wedding can't come soon enough.  Now that I have had to eliminate all personal touches from my house for potential buyers, it feels very lonely.  I live for the weekends. 

7.  Speaking of the house, aside from the couple who looked at the house just 48 hours after it was listed (and well before it was ready to be seen!), I haven't heard a word about anyone else wanting to see it.  There was an open house on Sunday, but I have no idea how that went.  Seeing as my realtor hasn't called, I assume it didn't go well. 

8.  In the meantime, I have been busting my butt to clean this place out!  I've hauled out at least 6 bags of trash, I've taken at least 3 bags of stuff to Goodwill, and I'm about to take a second load of stuff to the Junior League rummage sale.

9.  I can't wait to move.

10.  Things have fallen into place so perfectly.  This is the first time in my life that I haven't felt the need to try to engineer my life.  It's all unfolding so nicely that I don't need to engineer it.  I'm just letting it happen.

"One Ring to Bring Them All and in the Darkness Bind Them"

That, my friends, is the inscription on the One Ring in "The Lord of the Rings."  When He Who Can Recite That Line From Memory first moved to Lexington, we decided to take a little stroll over to Molly Brooke's, an Irish pub we spotted from the balcony of HWCRTLFM's new apartment.  And there along the way, just a few doors down from Molly Brooke's, was a little jewelry store called Mithril.  While I'm not yet an official "nerd," I did love "The Lord of the Rings" movies, so I immediately recognized Mithril as the magical chain mail that saved Frodo from the sword of an Orc.  I pointed the store out to HWCRTLM and then immediately regretted it.  Ohmigawd,I thought, why did I do that?  What if he asks me to marry him some day and he buys me a replica of the One Ring from Mithril to propose to me?!  I needn't have worried, though.  When he proposed, he bought me the most beautiful ring, and it doesn't have any creepy inscription about binding us in darkness at all.

Now that old lady hand, it's pretty creepy.  But the ring is beautiful, and I love it almost as much as I love the man who gave it to me. 

Eep!

I guess it's officially official.  My house is for sale.  Oh, my little house.  When I bought it four years ago (in June), I had no idea how long I would be here; but I didn't think I would only be here for four years.  I loved it so.  I woke up every morning with a smile, happy as a lark and enamored with the charm of this little house.  And then one day the sewer backed up into my basement.  That wasn't happy or charming.  But then just two months later, it was Christmas; and who doesn't love their first Christmas in a new house? 

And then the summer rolled back around...and brought a bat into my house.  My bedroom.   Four months later, I was missing the bat because bats eat bugs, and I had termites.  $1200 termites.  And two weeks later, the water company broke my gas line.  That was another $1200.  Things were pretty quiet, though, for the next year.  Of course, that quiet was shattered by a giant limb from the giant tree in my front yard.  Holy. Crap.  If I thought the termites and the gas line were expensive...

At that point, the shine was off the apple.  I've spent the last year wondering why I ever took on the responsibility of a house.  Renters don't have to worry about backed up sewer lines or termites or gas lines or dying trees. 

But then tonight, a realtor came over to talk about putting my house on the market in preparation for my new life in Kentucky with He Who I'm Going to Marry.  I was prepared to hear that it could take months.  I was prepared to hear that I would need to do a little work over the next few weeks before my house would be ready to list.  I was prepared to hear that I should be patient.  I was not prepared to hear that the market in Huntington is pretty hot right now.  I was not prepared to hear that my house could be under contract sooner than later.  I was not prepared to hear that I needed to have my house ready to show by Monday.  I started to wonder if I was ready to leave my little house after just four years.  But I have to say, that moment of wonder was fleeting.  I am so ready to get moved into HWIGM's apartment.  I have no flutters of doubt, no regrets, no second thoughts.  It's time to turn the page. 

Men, Look Away Now...

I think every woman in America saw this commercial the first time and said, "That's right, Always!  Take your 'Have a Happy Period' ads and shove them up your ass!"

Ten on Tuesday

1.  First and foremost, please pray for the 25 souls lost to the mine explosion in southern West Virginia and the 4 souls that may yet (God willing) be alive.  Pray also for the families whose hearts are broken and lives are shattered.

2.  The weather has been so incredible lately.  Why can't it be 80 degrees with zero humidity every day?

3.  I think we have finally picked a wedding date.  I had no idea how hard it would be to find a date!  Of course, when you are juggling three football schedules...

4.  My ring should be in soon.  I can't wait to see it!

5.  I am hopelessly addicted to "16 and Pregnant" on MTV.  I love it when the girls say, "I don't have any time to just be a teenager anymore.  The baby requires all my time.  This is so hard."  Well, no shit, Sherlock.  Exactly how did you think it was going to be when you were having unprotected sex with the boyfriend who breaks up with you every other Thursday?

6.  After 10 years with the Court, I had come up with a resume.  Ohmigosh, it was hard.  How do you cram 10 years into one page?

7.  I am fighting the urge to turn on the A/C already.  It's only April for Pete's sake.  But holy crap, it's hot in this house.

8.  I am seriously coveting He Who's new car.  It's a 4Runner, and I really, really want one myself.  Of course, I am 3 payments away from owning my car free and clear, so I'm not getting a new car any time soon.

9.  I cannot wait to move to Lexington.  I miss He Who, and, honestly, I'm done with this pop stand.

10.  I don't get the Duggars.  How is it that they have 19 kids and no debt? 

Impossibilities

Just like that, the dream of a national title is over.  After an improbable run through the Big East Conference and a stunning dance to the Final Four, the Mountaineers lost to Duke, who played the game of their lives while the 'Eers played one of the worst games of theirs.  The end result?  A 21-point drubbing. 

I'm not afraid to say it:  I cried.  But it wasn't because we lost.  Frankly, I'm satisfied with a Final Four appearance.  After all, only three other teams in the country can say they were there.  No, I cried because I know how badly those kids wanted one more game, one more title, one more banner.  I cried because they cried.  I cried because Da'Sean Butler was injured in his last college game.  I cried because Da'Sean's future in the NBA fell into question with that injury.  And I cried because Bobby Huggins was so tender and loving with Da'Sean and Wellington Smith and Kevin Jones and all the others. 

There was impossibility in the possibility of a national title.  I guess I knew that all along.  But that impossibility was the very thing that showed how very special this team and this coach are, not only to each other, but also to fans like me. 

Thank you, Mountaineers, for a wonderful season and for giving your fans so many reasons to be proud.

Possibilities

At the beginning of the college basketball season, all the talking heads were talking about WVU as a Final Four team.  I loved the idea.  I  believed the idea.  And then the Big East schedule started.  Close calls.  Come-from-behind wins.  Buzzer-beating shots.  The 'Eers were not a Final Four team, at least not as far as I could tell.  But December and January gave way to February and March, and the 'Eers began to find their feet. 

Still, going into the Big East tournament, WVU wasn't a favorite to win.  They weren't even a second favorite.  The talking heads had long since turned on the 'Eers.  I was back to believing, though.  So when WVU sprinted through the tournament and cut down the nets for the first time ever, I wasn't surprised.  I knew they had it in them. 

Next stop:  The NCAA tournament.  By then, I knew the 'Eers were a Sweet Sixteen team.  I was confident that they were an Elite Eight team as well.  But standing between the 'Eers and the Final Four were the Kentucky Wildcats.  Now, all season long, I had whined and complained about how overrated the 'Cats were.  (Three letters for you:  RPI.  Three more:  SOS.)  So I knew we could win.   I just didn't know if we would.  And then we did.  And I was so happy, so proud, so excited that I couldn't even scream and shout about it.  I just had this feeling of, Aaaahhhhhhh. 

Of course, that gave way to a feeling of, Aaagggghhhh!  I mean, WVU is going to the Final Four!  Holy crap!  Dare I dream of a victory over yet another team that WVU isn't supposed to beat?  Dare I dream of a trip to the championship game?  Dare I dream of a championship?  I hate to say this "out loud," but just like the Elite Eight game, I feel like we could win it all. 

And if we do, God help Morgantown...

He Who Buys Me Handbooks

Well, it's really just the one geek that I love, but you get the picture. 

Ten on Tuesday...Because It's Been a While

1.  I hate to be "that girl" who can't stop talking about love and rainbows and hearts now that I'm engaged, but all I can think about now is heart-shaped rainbow love.  I mean, do I love He Who Loves Me any more today than I did this time 2 weeks ago?  No, and I couldn't have loved him any more than I already did.  But it's so exciting to think about melding my life into his and having our own little family somewhere.

2.  "Somewhere" is Kentucky, of course.  For now anyway.  I am so excited to make the move.  I didn't realize how itchy I was to get out of this place until HWLM moved last month.  Except for my hometown, I have never lived anyplace for 10 whole years.  Even typing that made me itchy...

3.  As for the impending nuptials, they won't be short (we're Catholic, after all), but the wedding party will be.  It will just be my sister, HWLM's oldest friend, an usher, and a Lily.  (When your flower girl is named after a flower, you can just identify her by name.) 

4.  The roses are finally starting to fade.  A few are just as beautiful as when I received them, but a few others are completely lost to time.  So I carefully cut off the bloom of one of the still-beautiful roses and pressed it in my Bible. 

5.  You would think that I would be sad about the prospect of selling my sweet little house, but, for now anyway, I'm more anxious about it than anything else.  Will it sell?  And if it does, will I be able to get the price I want (enough to repay the bank and my parents, who generously gave me a down payment)?  And what if it doesn't sell?  Should I rent it out? 

6.  And while I'll freely admit the virtues of owning as opposed to renting, I have to be honest:  I will not miss worrying about why the tub drains so slowly or whether the mail man is going to slip and fall on my icy walk or about how many more years I can get out of the roof.  It'll be nice for those to be someone else's problems for a while.

7.  The weekend thing is working out well for HWLM and I, but I have to say that it gets harder and harder to say goodbye on Sundays knowing that I will, at some point, be moving there to live with him.  It feels like I should just say, Screw it!  Let's call Watts Brothers and pack up my stuff right now!  Of course, I can't really go until I either find a job or sell my house (and preferably both).  So for now, I just have to remind myself that 5 days isn't so long.

8.  Besides, for the last two weeks, I have had the pleasure of a mid-week visit from HWLM because he has had business back here in West Virginia!

9.  Shit.  I've totally turned into "that girl," haven't I?  OK.  Refocus.   

10.  I am using my alone time to hone my attention on WVU basketball and what I hope will be a run at the Final Four or even -- dare I say it? -- a national title. Will I ever love another team more than this team? I can't imagine it; but then again, I never I thought I'd love any team more than Beilein's Elite Eight team...or Darris Nichols and the NIT champion team.

Just to Tide You Over...

Today, I went to look at some diamonds for my engagement ring.  I may have found a winner, but the jeweler is going to have a few more sent to the store for me to look at, just to be sure.  After all, this diamond is forever!  In the meantime, here's a shot from Saturday, right after He Who Proposed made me the happiest girl in the world!

March 13, 2010...The Best Day EVER!

When I told He Who Never Ceases to Amaze Me that I had lost my bracelet, he suggested that we go to the jewelry store to buy a replacement.  I felt terribly about that and did not want him to buy me another bracelet, but he insisted that we at least go and look to see if they had another one.  So yesterday afternoon, we drove over to the jewelry store to take a look.  Unfortunately, they did not have another bracelet like the one I had lost.  The ladies in the store offered to look for the bracelet in their catalogs.  Again, though, we came up with nothing.  While they looked for a copy of HWNCAM's receipt to pull an item number for the original bracelet, I spotted a bouquet of roses on the counter.  "These roses are beautiful," I said.  "Aren't they?" the store's owner said, "And they smell wonderful, too."  The next thing I knew, HWNCAM was plucking the card off of the bouquet.  I. Was. Mortified.  I thought, What are you doing?  It is none of your business whose flowers those are!  And then he said, "Hey, look at that...this card is addressed to you!"

I opened the card and read its simple message:  I love you.  I turned around, and HWNCAM said, "I thought while we were here, we could pick out a ring.  I want to marry you."  I told him that I wanted to marry him, too.  And then, after a very long hug, I said, "Did you steal my bracelet to set this whole thing up?"  He didn't.  Dang it.  So we picked out a beautiful ring, which, of course, we don't have at the moment because it is being custom made.  But the flowers are beautiful! 

And more importantly, I am terribly, blissfully happy!

And Then There Was the Time Dean Fisher Said We Were All Worthless

Because I didn't learn a big enough lesson when I helped plan my high school reunion two years, I volunteered to help plan my 10-year law school reunion this year.  I know, right?  How can it have been 10 years since I graduated from law school when I'm only 29?  I can't explain it really, so let's just leave it there, shall we?

Anyway, the other day I was uploading pictures of our old professors and of the dean to the Facebook page I set up for the reunion, and it made me think of the time that Dean Fisher gave us a dressing down in property class.  It was our first year and our first semester.  I want to say that property was our second class of the day, but I can't really remember at this point.  Whenever it was, people always came straggling in late.  Five minutes here, eight minutes there...someone was always late.  And then there was Jake Nutter.  He never came to class at all.  Every day, Dean Fisher would call roll, and every day, he would say, "Jake Nutter?  Mr. Nutter?  Mr. Nutter?"  And every day, we would all snicker, in our minds or under our breath reciting, "Bueller?  Bueller?" 

Well, one day in particular, Dean Fisher came in, opened up his notes, and began taking roll.  As he called roll, people continued to straggle into class.  "A"s came in well into the "N"s, and you could see the frustration on Dean Fisher's face.  Naturally, and as always, the call of Jake Nutter's name drew crickets.  Dean Fisher sighed, finished calling the roll, and began class.  About five minutes into our class discussion (they don't "lecture" in law school), someone came in late, causing a commotion as the door shut behind him.  The dean appeared very annoyed.  And then he asked a question of one of my classmates.  "I'll just be honest, Dean Fisher, I didn't read this case," the classmate said.  Just then, another student came dragging in late.

All at once, Dean Fisher closed up his books and started to walk out of the room.  He paused and came back to the front and said, "I just want you to know that you are, by far, the worst first year class of students that I have ever seen in all my years here.  [At that point, he'd been at the law school for 30 years or so.]  None of you will ever amount to anything.  You are lazy and disrespectful, and you don't care about anything.  If half of you manage to graduate, I will be surprised."  Then he walked up the stairs and through the door, books tucked under his arm and steam rising from his ears.  We all just sat there, looking at each other in silence.  Finally, someone said, "So...how long do we need to sit here before we can leave?"  We decided 10 minutes was a reasonable time to determine whether the dean was coming back, and when he didn't, we all left. 

Of course, in the end, the great majority of us did graduate.   And, of course, Jake Nutter was not included in those ranks.  In fact, I don't think I ever laid eyes on him again.  I can tell you this much, though:  No one was ever late or unprepared for Dean Fisher's class again.

The True Story of St. Anthony's Big Save

When I was in Italy -- Padua, to be exact -- we stopped at a church with a reliquary containing the tongue and vocal cords of St. Anthony.  To the non-Catholics out there, I should explain that articles associated with saints (relics) are often displayed and venerated in churches and basillicas around the world.  In Italy, I saw a link of a chain that was purported to have been worn by St. Peter when he was dragged back to Rome to be crucified, the mummified remains of a nun still dressed in the nun's woolen habit, the original chapel built by St. Francis of Assisi, and the tongue and vocal cords of St. Anthony.  It was that last one that kind of made me go, Um, do I really want to see this?  Because although these relics are always described as "perfectly preserved" and "as they appeared in life," they often are not (the mummified nun is a good example).  But Monsignor Luciana was hovering over the group, telling us all what a wonderful opportunity this was, so I stood in line and waited my turn to lay eyes on St. Anthony's "perfectly preserved" tongue and vocal cords, which were arranged on the altar of the church in glass vessels, the tongue perched above the vocal cords of course.  Was it a religious experience for me, so to speak?  Maybe not, but it is intiguing to think that this simple Franciscan monk's tongue and vocal cords remain intact some 800 years after his death. 

Anyway, on the way out of the church, my mom told me that St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost things.  She said that when she was a child, her grandmother taught her to say a little "prayer" whenever she lost something:  "St. Anthony, St. Anthony, have a look around.  Something has been lost, and it must be found."  As simple as it was, I committed it to memory immediately, but I never used it. 

Then a few years ago, my nephew, Ryan, had gotten a new WVU jacket for Christmas, and just a few weeks later, it came up missing.  Thinking that Ryan had probably left the jacket on the bus or on the playground or some place like that, his mom was frustrated and said, "You better hope you find that jacket!  I can't believe you've already lost it!"  The two of them combed through every closet in the house, pulling hangers off of racks and turning everything upside down.  Ryan's mom finally gave up and went off to finish getting ready for work while Ryan sulked over his lost jacket.  And then Cherie heard him recite the St. Anthony "prayer."  A few minutes later, Ryan bounded into the bedroom with the jacket in hand.  "Mom, it worked," he said, "I prayed to St. Anthony like Grandma taught me, and when I went back and looked again, the jacket was in the coat closet!"  Cherie was utterly amazed because she had scoured that closet, too, and had not seen the jacket.  Certain that the "prayer" had worked, Ryan immediately called my mom and told her about St. Anthony's big save. 

I thought of that story this morning as I combed the capitol grounds, looking for the bracelet I lost yesterday.  It was a Christmas gift from He Who Is Remembered By Me Whenever I See That Bracelet on My Arm, and I loved it.  I distinctly remember putting it on yesterday morning before leaving for work, but when I got home last evening, it was gone.  I searched my house and my car last night and then my carpooler's car this morning.  I retraced all of my steps from yesterday and e-mailed and called anyone and everyone who might have a collection of lost items in the capitol.  No one has seen it.  So as I made my last desperate inquiries at lunch time, I stopped and said the St. Anthony "prayer."  I'm hopeful that my bracelet might turn up at any minute...

Fear-Monger Fail

So I saw this picture for the first time in relation to a story titled, "GOP Portrays Democrats as 'Evil Empire,'" and I thought, If that's the case, then is this the image you want to use?  Because, really, didn't everyone love Heath Ledger's "Joker"?  I mean, I get where they're going with this.  At base, the Joker was a villain.  But this particular incarnation of the Joker is a pop icon now, beloved and immortal.  And portrayed by some 2.3 million Halloween party attendees in 2009.  So I kind of feel like this image isn't really giving the effect that its creator probably intended.  I bet there are 20-year-old kids out there looking at it right now and saying, "Dude, Heath Ledger was AWESOME in that movie!  I'm totally down with socialism!" 

Ten on Tuesday

1.  So I survived my first week as a long-distance girlfriend, and if I'm honest, it really wasn't so bad.  He Who Was Swamped All Week and I talked on the phone at least three times every day.  We were both busy enough that the week passed by very quickly...and then it was Friday!

2.  I hosted a going away party for HWWSAW on Saturday, and it turned out perfectly.  The food was great.  The friends were great.  The suprise gifts (I had said no gifts) were great.  HWWSAW was really, really happy. 

3.  One of the local movie theaters downtown is showing classic movies on the big screen every Monday night for the next several weeks.  I have marked my calendar to see Breakfast at Tiffany's, The Breakfast Club, The Godfather, Citizen Kane, Gone With the Wind (which is actually showing on a Sunday since it's so long), and The Shining...but only if I can find someone to go with me and hold my hand. 

4.  I posted yesterday on Facebook that I knew HWWSAW was "serious" because he listed me as his emergency contact when he bought a plane ticket the other day.  The next thing you know, HWWSAW and I were bombarded with inquiries as to whether we are getting married.  It was meant to be tongue in cheek, people!  No, we are not getting married!

5.  I finally got my tax refund, so I went ahead and paid off a small loan I had to the tune of $125 a month.  I'm going to roll that money into my car loan now and get it paid off in 4 months or so.  Then I'll have $525 a month that I can use to pay off other things.  Sometimes this "responsible adult" thing is pretty sweet.  (But most of the time, it blows.)

6.  Just in case you were wondering, Lipton Rice & Sauce mixes do go bad.  I fixed one for dinner last night that said, "Best if used by April 9, 2009."  I figured it was just rice and powdered sauce mix, what could be bad about it?  Um, the taste, that's what can be bad about it.  It tasted like cardboard, which is really disconcerting considering Lipton Rice & Sauce mixes are packed in a foil-lined pouch, not a cardboard box.

7.  The Big East Tournament starts soon, and my stomach is already getting twisty and nervous...

8.  In the spirit of Lent (i.e., since I haven't done a very good job of keeping my Lenten promises), I downloaded 4 new Catholic apps to my iPhone last night.  One of them is a Stations of the Cross app, which is pretty cool.

9.  My dimpled butt is so out of shape that I thought I was going to have a heart attack from climbing the 4 flights of stairs to my office this morning.  I need to do something about that.

10.  Only 2 more days until I get to see HWWSAW again!  I'm going over there this weekend to help him unpack and get settled into his apartment. 

Where's All That Money I Could Be Saving By Switching to Geico?

I always feel like somebody's watchin' me...

OK, so I know I said I was removing all the pictures of He Who's face from my blog, but then I took this picture at work today, and it kind of cracked me up, so I'm posting it. 

Ten on Tuesday

1.  My computer at work was infected by a virus today (XP Antispyware 2010), and it took FORE. EVER. to get it fixed by IT.  I had to break out the bitch to finally get someone to take care of it.  The first solution offered to me when I called the IT help desk?  "Just shut down your computer."  No, really. 

2.  He Who Slept on an Air Mattress for Two Nights had all of his worldly possessions delivered to Lexington today.  I guess that makes it officially official. 

3.  I had a good hair day today, even though it started out looking like it was going to be a very bad I-wish-I-hadn't-slept-that-extra-20-minutes day.

4.  On our way to work this morning, one of my carpoolers and I got squeezed out by a car drifting into our lane.  When my carpooler looked over to see what the problem was, the man was wearing a bear suit.  A bear suit!

5.  I am down to my last roll of toilet paper, but, ohmigosh, I do not have the energy to face a Wal-Mart run.

6.  HWSAMTN just called.  I really miss him.

7.  After two straight weeks of snow days, my nieces are finally back in school.  Can you believe that?

8.  Pitt is evil.  It's all carefully documented right here. 

9.  I have absolutely, positively no interest in the Olympics.  I think it stems from the fact that every time I saw an Olympian on TV prior to the opening ceremonies, they were hawking some product or another.  Seriously, they were all talking about this sponsor or that sponsor.  Here, I thought the Olympics were about fulfilling life-long dreams, not endorsement contracts.

10.  It would be stupid to drive over to Lexington tonight, right? 

The Rest of the Story

For Valentine's Day, He Who Never Fails to Amaze Me announced that he had procured us 2 box seat tickets to see Harry Connick, Jr., at the Clay Center in Charleston on February 17th.  Frankly, Harry isn't really HWNFAM's style, but he gladly went as my date for the evening; and we both loved it!  I literally smiled through the entire show, it was that good. 

Of course, as is par for the course in West Virginia, there just had to be a jackass who derailed the show for a few minutes.  Here, read this, and then I'll tell you the rest of the story...

Connick Fan Sheepish After Crooner Confiscates Phone

I read this article, and I thought, Really, dude?  Are you really that arrogant, or are you just that stupid?  I mean, the guy acts like he had no idea that we weren't supposed to take photographs at this show, but it was announced very loudly over the sound system right before the show started that no photography, video recording, or audio recording of any kind was allowed during the performance.  Actually, I'm told that announcement was made several times before the show started.  I only heard the announcement made once because the ushers got lost taking us to our seats, and we sat down mere moments before the show began; but a friend of mine who sat down earlier said the announcement was made several times.  I know that Mr. Callaghan had to have heard at least that last announcement because he and his girlfriend were already seated in their front row (center) seats when he finally found our way to the box (overlooking their seats). 

Now, I will grant Mr. Callaghan that when the show first started, I did see several people snapping pictures on their phones, and I even saw a few flashes.  However, after Harry made such a big (although gracious) deal out of the woman "with the brightest flash I have ever seen on a camera" (in the words of Harry), everyone else put their cameras away.  They all seemed to get that, while jocular about the whole thing, Harry was annoyed by all the picture-taking.  I will also grant Mr. Callaghan that he didn't really start taking pictures with his iPhone until Lucien Barbarin came down to sit on the edge of the stage and sing directly to Mr. Callaghan's girlfriend.  But after that little ditty was over, Mr. Callaghan should have put the camera away.  He didn't.

And while Mr. Callaghan claims that he did not take 50 pictures or any video, insisting that he only took a half a dozen pictures, from my perch above Mr. Callaghan, I personally saw him take at least several dozen pictures.  And when Harry stopped the show to ask, "Dude, are you videoing my performance on your iPhone now?" Mr. Callaghan seemed to acknowledge that, yes, he was recording the performance.  Disgusted, yet still gracious, Harry explained, "You know, I like to think that my performances are special.  I like to think that the fans who come here and buy a ticket to hear us perform are seeing a one-time performance.  I don't want to think that just anybody in the world will be able to see it on YouTube later."  See, this wasn't about Harry Connick, Jr., being a prick.  This was about Mike Callaghan being a prick. 

Don't you think I wanted to take pictures of Harry?  Don't you think I wanted to make a voice note on my iPhone of Harry's lovely voice?  Don't you think I wanted to jump from my box seat on top of Harry and molest him?  Wait...I think I got a little off track there for a second.  The point is, everyone in that theater would have loved to take a little piece of Harry home with us that night.  But the vast majority of us restrained ourselves and respected the request of Harry, his orchestra, and the Clay Center.  To think that Mr. Callaghan -- a lawyer, former head of the Democratic party in West Virginia, and former Congressional candidate -- would play dumb and act like he didn't know he had done wrong is just insulting, almost as insulting as that stupid Crocodile Dundee hat Mr. Callaghan wore to the show.

Of course, what's most likely at play here is that Mr. Callaghan is an attention whore who wants to get a little attention for himself by playing dumb and shoving a finger in his dimple while insisting, "Golly, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to take pictures."  Either that, or he's arrogant enough to believe that the rules just don't apply to him.  After all, he's Mike Callaghan:  Lawyer, former leader of the Democratic party, and former Congressional candidate. 

So...Now What?

Well, it's official. He Who Took a New Job is now a Kentuckian. He moved to Lexington yesterday. Of course, I did not. I'm here. Alone. For the foreseeable future.

I'm past the crying and the feeling sorry for myself.  The problem is, I don't know what to do with myself.  I mean, I've had evenings alone in the last 17 months, but they were sort of few and far between.  So when I had a free evening, I knew that I'd have to do laundry or catch up on my house cleaning or something equally constructive.  Now I'm facing hundreds of free evenings, and I don't know how to fill them. 

I could go back to my pre-HWTNJ life, but, um, I don't want to.  Wasted nights sitting in smoky bars talking to drunk people who I know only by first name or trivia pseudonym?  No, thanks.  Ohmigosh...did I just become...an adult???  Have I crossed that magical line where sitting around drinking all evening no longer seems like a good way to spend an evening?  Wow.  It's empowering and yet boring, this adult thing.  Guess I'll catch up on the last 4 seasons of "Lost."  I honestly have no idea what else to do.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Sometimes, when you love someone, you do things you wouldn't normally do. You wear green or get your picture taken with anthropomorphic buffaloes. You smile politely and cheerfully greet people you otherwise abhor. You try to cook carb-conscious meals. You bite your tongue when asked, "Do these socks look OK with these sandals?" And, sometimes, you censor your blog...and close it to all but invited readers.

In light of He Who's new job and the fact that my otherwise relatively unknown blog was cited in a recent comment to an article in the Charleston Daily Mail), I have decided to remove any and all posts that are even remotely political in nature and to remove any and all pictures of He Who's face. Now the picture of the sandals and socks...that stays. And the blog about the bloody chicken stays, too. That's just an out-and-out public service message.

It's 17 Years Later, and I Am My Father

When I went off to college in Virginia, my dad sat down at the kitchen counter with me and unfolded a map. On it was a highlighted route through the mountains and into the Shenandoah Valley. He had studied the map carefully, run all the traps, and decided that this was the most efficient route for me to travel to Bridgewater College. It would take just about three hours. Of course, he would only be leading the charge on that first trek. From then on, I would be on my own, navigating the wilds of West Virginia and Virginia with nary a soul to protect me. That troubled my dad, so he went out and bought me a cell phone. It was a bag phone. Remember those? The battery was as big as a brick and twice as heavy. The phone itself was shaped much like a landline receiver and had lighted numbers on the top. The antenna was attached to the roof of the car with a magnet and had a long, thick black cord that snaked through the rear window and then through the car, where it was plugged into the bag. Still, when I was 18, it was a wondrous piece of technology.

It cost something like $1367 per minute to make a call back then, so my parents admonished me that the phone should only be used in emergency situations. To me, that meant the phone only needed to be turned on in emergency situations. I mean, why have it on if you aren't going to be using it? But then one day, I took an extra 15 minutes on one of my potty breaks in Petersburg, WV, so that I could stretch my legs and eat a pepperoni roll before I hit the road again. That meant that I didn't arrive back at Bridgewater exactly three hours after I had pulled out of my parents' driveway. And since I was still on the road at the three-hour mark, I hadn't called my dad yet to tell him that I was back in my dorm room, safe and sound. Naturally, my dad assumed that I had plunged over the side of the mountain and was trapped in the steaming remains of my smashed up car. He picked up the phone and tried to call my cell phone. There was no answer. Well, of course, there was no answer! There was no emergency which would justify making a $4101 three-minute call to tell my dad that I had stopped to stretch my legs, and since I wouldn't be making said $4101 call, I didn't have my cell phone on.

When I finally arrived back at my dorm and unloaded my car -- some 3 hours and 20 or 30 minutes after leaving home -- I called my parents to tell them that I had arrived safely. "I tried to call you!" my dad bellowed. "Sorry. I didn't have my cell phone on," I offered. "What is the point of having a cell phone if you don't leave it on?" he asked, rhetorically of course. Then he told me that from then on, I was to have that cell phone turned on the entire time I was driving back and forth over the mountains. Message received. To this day, my cell phone (although much more sleek in design) is always on and always at my side.

My parents, however, are quite the opposite. Their cell phones are never on, unless they leave the house. Then, it's a likely bet that only one of them actually has their phone on. That's usually my mom. And, of course, my mom's phone has usually sunk to the bottom of her purse, where its ring is likely to be drowned out under a mound of tissues and hand cream. When they're home, though, their phones are turned off and tossed on the back of the kitchen counter. Such is, apparently, the case today, and I just want to drive down to Florida (where they are wintering), bust up into their little cottage, and say, "What is the point of having a cell phone if you don't leave it on?"

See, about a month and a half ago, I nominated my dad as one of the Dominion Post's 100 Most Influential People in the north central West Virginia community. At the time, I was asked to provide contact information for my dad, in case he was selected. I gave the paper his home phone number, not thinking about the fact that he and my mom were about to leave for Florida. Then the other day, a reporter from the paper called me to say that they had selected my father, but that she couldn't get hold of him to interview him. I apologized for not thinking ahead and gave her the number in Florida. She called to set up an appointment to speak to my dad; however, my dad set the appointment for the same time that he had an appointment for a conference call with the sewer board back home, on which he serves. I'm sure it was just an oversight because let's face it, when you're retired, you don't pay that much attention to your calendar.

Well, the reporter called me this morning to say that she had an appointment to talk with my dad, but that she was having trouble getting through. She asked if there was something wrong with the phone. Having spoken to my dad earlier in the morning, I knew that he had been waiting for a call from the sewer board, so I told her that. Only the call from the sewer board ended up lasting well over an hour. The reporter called back, desperate to figure something out because, naturally, she is working a) on a deadline and b) on other stories. So I assured her that I would call my mom's cell and make sure that they stay put at the house this afternoon and wait for the reporter's call. Only my mom's cell phone went directly to voicemail. Because it is turned off. Because they never turn their cell phones on, unless they leave the house. GGGGAAAAAAHHHH!!! All of a sudden, I felt my dad's frustration of 17 years ago. Over and over, I redialed my mom's cell phone, hoping against hope that she would suddenly decide that this is the day that she let's go and turns her phone on for no good reason at all. She didn't. So I sat down and sent her a frantic e-mail, explaining that someone was trying to get in contact with Dad and that they needed to stay at home and wait for the call. Oh, and in the name of all things good and holy, turn on your cell phone, woman!

Lent in the New Millenium

When I was a kid, Ash Wednesday meant three things: 1) Worrying that the priest would mess up your perfectly teased bangs when he went to put the ashes on your forehead; 2) 40 days of twice-weekly fish meals; and 3) giving up candy, because when you're a kid and your only real vice is the candy aisle at the local drug store, you give up candy for Lent. Of course, times change, and you get older. My bangs are side-swept these days, the Church only asks you to abstain from meat on the Fridays of Lent now, and candy is far from my only vice. On top of that, the Church has begun to suggest that in addition to or in lieu of making a Lenten sacrifice, you should take something on, like volunteer work or charitable donations.

So this morning, my co-workers and I were discussing what we were all giving up for Lent. Honestly, I hadn't even decided at that point. For the last several years, I have tried to give up cursing for Lent. I believe my "concerted effort" record stands at 52 hours, 24 minutes, and 7 seconds. Listen, when you're commuting 100 miles a day on a road shared with Ohio and Kentucky drivers in the dead of winter, it tries one's moral fiber. Still, it's worth another shot, right? New year, new me. Of course, it's always good to have a back-up plan, so I said maybe I'd cut out beer, too.

One of my co-workers offered that she thought she might give up sweets. She said she felt like she should give up all junk food, but the very thought made her cry. So I suggested that maybe she take something on in addition to giving up her sweets. She could cut sweets; and then if she cheats, she could walk 2 flights of stairs as a sort of penance. In a show of my equal dedication, I told her that I would cut beer; and if I cheat, I will punish myself by doing a shot. Oddly, my co-workers didn't seem to think that was the same as walking the stairs. I think it's because they're not Catholic.

To the One I Love

You do make me laugh, and no man has ever made me feel as special as you. You're the one I love. Two hours and 129 miles won't change that.

And Then I Nearly Threw Up

A few months ago, as He Who Lives Downtown and I were walking to our favorite bar, we passed by a once-empty store front that was in the throes of construction. Hanging in the window was a sign: "Coming 2010...Huntington Prime." Several weeks later, we learned that Huntington Prime was to be a new restaurant. And who doesn't like a new restaurant? So we waited and watched and anticipated, and, finally, Huntington Prime opened its doors last Wednesday. So Thursday night, we decided to give it a try. Why not? We were hungry, and they had several empty tables. In hindsight, all those empty tables on the second night of business should have been a warning sign.

We sat in a corner table off to ourselves and began perusing the menu. I settled on eggplant stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes, couscous, and parmesan cheese. HWLD ordered the filet. He orders the filet wherever we go. While we waited for our food, HWLD spotted a bar piled high with bread and said, "Would you like some bread?" "I would," I said, "but according to the menu, you have to pay $4 for the privilege of getting some bread." That's right, you have to pay for the bread. Strike one. But we were hungry, so we sucked it up and got some $4 bread.

The waitress soon came back to announce to me that, a mere 24 hours after opening, they were out of the stuffed eggplant. So let me get this straight: You have run out of eggplant, sundried tomatoes, couscous, and parmesan cheese? All of which can be bought at the Kroger down the street? Now, I can understand running out of the West Virginia-raised lamb or the dry-aged steak, but eggplant? I asked to see the menu again and settled for the chicken thighs instead. They were supposed to be cooked in an iron skillet and then finished off in an oven. I figured the chicken would either be really juicy or really dry. I hoped for juicy. Oh, I got juicy.

About three bites in, I went to make another cut and pulled back a bloody knife. I looked down at the chicken, and it was bleeding. Not pink. Not slightly undercooked. It was bloody. Now, I like my steak medium rare, and I am not that picky about slightly undercooked poultry and pork, but this was so disgusting that I actually thought I might throw up. Strike two. As if on cue, the seeming manager came over and asked how everything was. I turned my plate toward her, and she immediately picked it up and took it away, apologizing as she walked back to the kitchen. She re-appeared a few minutes later and said, "We'll get you another plate shortly." I said, "You know, I think I'm done with the meat. Could you just bring me back my macaroni and cheese and my green beans?" By the time she brought those out, though, HWLD had already finished his meal. The beans were terrible, by the way. They tasted like they had been sauteed in burned olive oil. The macaroni and cheese wasn't much better. Except for an excessive amount of salt, it had no flavor.

Anyway, the manager came back over to tell us that dessert would be on the house for all of our troubles. Frankly, I just wanted to get out of there, but let's be honest...when have I ever been known to turn down dessert? So I waited and waited for the waitress to come back and run down our choices for dessert, but she didn't. Instead, the kitchen decided which free dessert we would have. The waitress brought out two pieces of cake. It was some sort of pecan cake, or at least I presumed it was some sort of pecan cake seeing as it had a pecan half shoved in a plop of icing on the top. I can't say for sure, though, because all I tasted was salt. And what if I had been allergic to tree nuts, by the way? Note to Chef: When you ruin someone's meal and try to make up for it by offering them a free dessert, you should allow them to choose the dessert. Strike three.

Fortunately for Huntington Prime, I'm a sucker, and I will likely give it a second shot, but the chef/owner better get on the stick and work out the kinks. Namely, don't charge for bread; don't serve bloody chicken; and don't make dessert choices for your customers, especially customers you tried to kill by poisoning them with salmonella. In the style of Chris James, I give it 1/2 out of 4 forks with trees growing out of them.