Perfect For The Job

At my first newspaper job, one of my duties was to type up and edit the letters to the editor. Most of them were incoherent rants that, had I been in charge, I'd never have printed, but unfortunately, those decisions weren't mine to make. So instead, I would simply read and laugh at the letters with anyone who would listen, most of the time a guy named Lou. Lou was, direct, shall we say, with his comments, never hesitating to say just what was on his mind. And his response to most of these letters was the same.

"Never underestimate people's power to be stupid."

How right he was. I could probably write a hundred blog entries about stupid people (and probably a hundred more about Lou, who was quite a character). However, today, I choose to focus on a story in which I am assumed to be the stupid one, which is both annoying and insulting.

A month or so ago, as I was updating my bank account, auto loan, credit cards, etc. with my new, married name. While I was at it, I figured I'd hit the staffing agencies and job search Web sites on which I'd posted my resume, so that when I'm ready to look for a new job, the information will already be current and correct. Had I known about the deluge of spam I would receive from one particular site, I might have removed my resume entirely.

Since I updated my information, I have received about five e-mail messages that might as well have "spam" in the subject line. The "job," according to the "employers," is transferring money from offshore bank accounts to theirs, via your own. You transfer the bulk of the money and keep a percentage. The take is bucketloads, and the only requirement for the job is a bank account.

Hey, I have a bank account. Sign me up, baby!

Really -- how stupid do these people think we are? Identity theft and internet crime have been discussed so much in the media that even people who can't think for themselves should certainly know by now that these operations are scams. Please -- money transfer via your bank account? Anyone who falls for that deserves to be ripped off.

I read an article this morning about a new scam in which a person receives an e-mail message from someone claiming to be a mafia hitman. The recipient of the message is next on his list for a hit, he says, but he'd be willing to call it off if the recipient pays him anywhere between $30,000 and $80,000. Hey, at least that one is creative, but according to the article, one of the messages reported to the FBI included personal contact information and names of family members. That is downright scary.

But for the most part, the thing that scares me is the fact that some people actually fall for these schemes. They really believe that a legitimate company wants to pay them top dollar to sit at home and transfer money, or they really believe that someone has ordered a hit on them. I don't know a lot about mobsters, but I'm pretty sure they don't just kill people for no reason, especially regular people.

There is a lesson to be learned in all of this, though. People will fall for anything! Why haven't I thought of an internet scheme that would trick people out of millions? Why have I ignored this fantastic opportunity for so long?

Guess I've just been stupid.

The Clue In The Mysterious Message

When I was younger, nothing in the world made me happier than books.

I loved to read, was always reading; in fact, I actually got books taken away from me as a punishment because I was reading instead of doing schoolwork. The characters in my books were like friends; I knew them so well, knew everything about them and couldn't wait to go on more adventures with them.

One of my favorite fictional pals was Nancy Drew.

I loved Nancy Drew books; I relished every one I read. I remember the first one I ever opened, "The Secret of the Wooden Lady," a hand-me-down from my mom or one of my aunts. I even remember my mom recommending Nancy Drew to me, telling me how much she'd once enjoyed reading them. I even played Nancy Drew on the elementary school playground with my (real live) friends Krista and Kelly. (I took the part of Nancy's friend George Fayne).

When I saw the previews for the new Nancy Drew movie recently, I couldn't help feeling nostalgic -- so nostalgic that on a visit to my local library, I found myself in the young adult section and chose two of the old mysteries to take home and read. They were just like I remembered. Sure, my reading tastes have evolved, but opening a Nancy Drew book was like stepping back into my childhood, if only for a little while, until I realized that while the books are the same, I am not.

Even when I was little, I recognized the dated quality of the books -- particularly some of the language (in one, George's favorite expression is "hypers," which even at age eight I would have found goofy) -- I'm not sure I fully grasped the ridiculousness of the whole thing when I was young. Back then, it didn't occur to me how weird it was that all the folks around town all the 18-year-old Nancy as an amateur sleuth or that she and her friends hardly ever called the police or that her father actually condoned her going into potentially deadly situations. Now, of course, I have a more realistic view.

But that doesn't mean I'm feeling any less nostalgic, especially after a mysterious phone call I received two days ago. I was on my way home from work when my cell phone rang. I fumbled for my phone but missed the call and ended up with an automated voice mail message from Emma Roberts, who plays Nancy Drew in the new movie. Whoever sent the message entered details about me on a Web site, provided my phone number and the system generated a "personalized" message for me. While it wasn't as cool as the automated Samuel L. Jackson message promoting last year's "Snakes On A Plane," this voice mail entertained me...but it perplexed me as well.

Who sent me this message? And why did they get so many details about me wrong?

Suddenly, I found myself embroiled in a real life mystery! Hypers!

The only clues I have are quotes from the message itself.

"One of your friends wanted me to check up on you in Indiana." Actually, I don't live in Indiana. When I first listened to the message, I thought she'd said something about my friend being in Indiana, so I called the only friend I have who lives there, but she insisted she hadn't done it. I listened again and realized that the person who sent the message doesn't live in Indiana but thinks I do.

"You've got an ipod crammed full of classic rock, you're up to your ears in the newest Us Weekly and you've got more friends than you can count on AOL." While I do have some classic rock on my ipod, I wouldn't call myself a big classic rock fan. I have read Us Weekly about three times my whole life, and actually, I can count the number of my friends on AOL -- one one hand. I'm not sure who would have thought of me as a classic rock and Us Weekly fan, but I suppose whoever it was could have chosen AOL because he or she is on AOL, which leaves exactly four suspects.

"I hear you have awesome taste in clothes. So throw on your favorite designer outfit and call up your friends, you know, the in crowd, and tell them to forget getting a mani pedi. Instead, you want to go see 'Nancy Drew.'" This clue was the most telling. Obviously, whoever sent me the message does not know me at all. Awesome taste in clothes? Designer outfit? Mani pedi? Well, maybe the mani pedi thing could fly -- I do enjoy a little girly pampering once in awhile, but the closest thing I have to a designer outfit is my Nick and Nora pajamas.

One additional clue was provided by someone who called just a few minutes after I received the mysterious Nancy Drew call and didn't leave a message. Did this person want to know if I'd received a strange voice mail? Perhaps.

I'm still reviewing the clues. I have it narrowed down to a few suspects, but I wouldn't want to falsely accuse anyone. But I vow to get to the bottom of this mystery -- I wouldn't want to let down my favorite girl sleuth.

We Are The Goon Squad, And We're Coming To Town

I'm no fashion plate -- in fact, I am one of the least fashionable people I know. I've committed many a fashion crime in my time, but even I can spot a faux pas when I see one. Here are a few that I find particularly annoying.

1. Use of fancy store shopping bags as purses -- Once you've gotten the merchandise home, you need to be done showing off the bag. I'm all for reusing bags, especially the sturdy handled kind you'll get at a fancy store, but you've gotta use them for something like taking a bunch of your old books or clothes to a friend. These bags should be reused as a transportation vehicle only. Carrying a fancy store bag around town like a purse just looks sad. You do it because you want people to know you shop at nice stores, but all it says is, "I shopped at a nice store once and want to relive the dream."

2. Bermuda shorts on fat people -- I know that sounds mean, but clothing with lean lines should be worn only by lean people. Just because it is in style doesn't mean it will look good on everyone, and wearing classic, timeless clothes that look good on your body type always looks much better than donning trendy stuff that doesn't suit you.

3. The thrown-up-in-a-hair-tie-non-ponytail -- If you're going to go to the trouble of putting your hair up, at least make it neat.

4. The low cut tank top over a tee shirt -- If you don't have the boobs, or if you're too young to show them, don't wear the tank top. Wearing a tee shirt underneath a tank top is like wearing a tee shirt over your swimsuit when you go into the pool -- everyone knows you're only doing it because your mom told you to, and you look really dumb in the process.

5. Half-polished nails -- If it's wearing off, then take it off. Leaving your nails half-polished is like putting shadow on just one eye.

6. Too-small sandals -- If they don't have them in your size, look in another store. Toes spilling off the front of your shoes looks terrible.

Forget Paris

I've been reading with great interest the many, many news stories that have come out the past few days regarding Paris Hilton and her jail time.

Oh, wait...no, that's wrong. I haven't. Because I don't care.

I try to keep up with the news, to keep myself informed about what's going on around the world. But each day I become increasingly annoyed and perplexed by the amount of celebrity garbage out there. This person got arrested, that person is in rehab, this person made ethnic slurs, that person may or may not be pregnant. It's dizzying.

The thing is, it's not even Paris Hilton's fault. Sure, she does what she can to keep herself in the headlines, but it's not like she owns all the news outlets in the world. Personally, I think the Associated Press had the right idea when they adopted a Paris Hilton moratorium. I wish the ban had lasted longer, like forever.

It's not even that legitimate news stories are pushed aside for this crap, it's that the reason they do is because there's a huge market for celebrity gossip. People eat this stuff up, and for the life of me, I cannot understand why they find it so darned interesting. Why is it so important to know that Britney Spears shaved her head, or that Lindsay Lohan is in rehab? It's a mystery to me. I have never read a celebrity gossip story and thought, this information is very crucial to my life. Some people tell me they think it's funny, but I think it's more than that. I hope it is, anyway, because watching the train wreck that is today's Hollywood for pure pleasure is downright sadistic.

I don't feel bad for Paris Hilton. She broke the law and should be penalized for it. But I don't feel any pleasure at seeing her sitting in the back of a police car. Why would I? I don't know her, and I don't really care what happens to her.

Personally, I find that I enjoy the work of celebrities less when I know too much about their personal lives. There are certain actors whose movies I won't even watch, simply because I can't see anyone but the actor. Like Tom Cruise. They might as well just name all of his characters Tom Cruise as well.

I'm sure there's nothing I can do to stop the obsession, and some might argue that even mentioning it is fueling the fire. But honestly -- when will people be satisfied? At what point will people say, yes, I think I've had enough of Paris Hilton, or Lindsay Lohan, or Britney Spears, or whoever else comes along.

Probably never.

But a girl can dream.

Movie Scenes That Make Me Cry Every Time

"Oh Captain, My Captain" -- The last scene in Dead Poet's Society. I don't even have to see the rest of the movie; just seeing those boys standing on their desks is sufficient to open the floodgates. My senior year of high school, my idealistic English teacher showed us this movie, and, having seen it (and cried with it) many times before that, I knew I would bawl, so I made sure to find something else to look at during that scene so my classmates wouldn't know my secret.

"Anything You Want, You Got It" -- The last scene in Boys On The Side. It's harsh enough seeing Mary Louise Parker's gaunt face and emaciated body, pathetically sitting in that wheelchair, but when they go around the room and show the party guests, then go around again and show the empty room and empty wheelchair, it just makes me weep.

"Did I Ever Tell You You're My Hero?" -- It's such a classic tear-jerker that I'm almost embarrassed to admit it, but the scene in Beaches with "Wind Beneath My Wings" in the background, where one second, Bette Midler and Barbara Hershey are spending their last time together and the next, pallbearers are carrying Barbara Hershey's casket just breaks my heart. I don't even like that song, and it breaks my heart.

"They'll Be So Happy, Now And Forever" -- This is even more embarrassing, but Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy's wedding in The Muppets Take Manhattan. My flimsy excuse for this is that once when I was little, I was watching this movie and fell asleep, waking up just in time for the end, so I was all out of it when I saw the scene and heard their wedding song. For some reason, that day, it hit the right nerve, and ever since then, it just hasn't been the same. It's not so much the scene but the song that really gets me; even looking up the lyrics just now I got a little misty.

"Live In My House, I'll Be Your Shelter" -- I listened to the Rent Broadway soundtrack nonstop during the most lonely, excruciating summer of my life, so just about every song from that show gives me that weird sense memory thing, so even if I'm having the best day, all I have to do is hear one of its more tender songs (particularly the reprise of "I'll Cover You," sung at Angel's funeral), and I'm crying like a baby. I think I've grown out of Rent, having realized that I'd rather have food and heat than artistic principles, but hearing that music takes me back to the day when I didn't mind eating Ramen noodles if it meant I could create mediocre art.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go find a box of tissues.

And Then...A Less Appetizing Thought

A coworker just asked me if I wanted to see "the biggest fly eyeballs ever."

At first, I thought she was using a euphemism I hadn't heard before, but then I saw that she was holding, on a ruler, a fly whose life another coworker had recently cut short.

"This fly has the biggest eyes I've ever seen!" she exclaimed. "Do you wanna see?"

I didn't. I politely declined my coworker's offer, and I think I actually might have hurt her feelings a little bit.

But when it comes right down to it, there are some things I just don't mind missing.

Still There For The Food

As loyal Stapling Jello readers know, I'm not really into sports.

But compared to a few years ago, when I considered looking at the TV just long enough to figure out which team was wearing what color "watching the game," I'm a regular sports fan today. With this transition, I credit my husband and kosher hot dogs.

When we first started dating two years ago, I let my sweetheart know that the only way to guarantee my attendance at a sporting event was to buy me a hot dog at the event. He's always enjoyed sports, especially baseball, and, being a kosher dog fan himself, he happily complied. Thanks to his willingness to feed me, and a fantastic World Series winning 2005 season of my adopted hometown team, the Chicago White Sox, I actually started to enjoy watching games.

Two years later, I still enjoy going to baseball games. Sure, much of my enthusiasm is still brought on by kosher hot dogs, but I have fun actually watching the game as well. I still don't understand all of the rules and am constantly asking questions that make my sweetheart roll his eyes at me, but I think he privately is happy that I'm interested enough to ask.

Last year, I decided that I wanted a White Sox tee shirt. I'd watched the team for awhile, knew the names of most of the players and even imagined what each person would bring if I invited them to a backyard barbecue; I thought that made me enough of a fan to merit sporting Sox fashions.

My sweetheart disagreed, telling me I wasn't ready yet. He didn't say exactly why until the night before last, as we discussed our plans to attend our first game of the season together the next day. Over dinner, I said that I think since this is my third year following the team, I should be ready for a tee shirt now. He considered this for a moment and told me that he didn't think I would really be ready until I could go to a game and not have a kosher dog be the main event for me. Fair enough, I suppose, but I don't think that's the whole reason.

It has always disappointed him that I'm not a big cheerer. I grew up attending events like plays and the symphony concerts, where "inside voices" are used and polite clapping is the best way to show appreciation. And, being a pretty reserved person by nature, I couldn't easily make the transition to the screaming and jumping up and down commonly seen at sporting events. I used to clap during baseball games, but I was made fun of because I clapped politely like I would at a play, so now, I just watch quietly and let my husband do the cheering for both of us.

Last night on the way to the game, however, I proved myself without even trying. It had been raining for awhile, and my husband asked if I even wanted to bother going to the game, because he thought it might be called off. I said we ought to try; we'd been looking forward to this for awhile, and it wasn't raining all that hard, so maybe they wouldn't call it off. I realized how impressed by this he must have been when we passed a sports memorabilia shop and he said, "if the game does get rained out, we should go there and get you your tee shirt."

The game went on, the White Sox beat the Yankees 6-4 and my husband ate a kosher dog and curly fries while I enjoyed a funnel cake. My sweetheart, obviously noting the fact that I had not eaten a kosher dog myself, pointed to a fan's shirt halfway through the game and asked if that was the design I wanted; he even asked if I might want a hat as well. But now I'm wondering if he wasn't right the first time, that I am really not worthy of wearing the White Sox garb.

Like many ballparks, US Cellular Field entertains the fans between innings with various contests, including a race of a certain sponsor's products, in cartoon form. When fans walk in, they get a coupon for a pizza establishment, good only if the type of pizza noted on the coupon wins the race. Last night, my husband and I both got "cheese," and I was disappointed. Had one of us gotten "pepperoni" or "sausage," we would have had a two out of three chance of winning. But when I realized that also meant that a "cheese" victory would mean two free pizzas, I began to get excited.

When the race of the cartoon pizzas finally began, I watched, enraptured. Cheese ran to the front right away, but then Sausage and Pepperoni took turns passing him. It was a nail biter. Two pizzas were on the line here, and before I knew it, I found myself clapping and yelling, "go Cheese! Come on, Cheese, you can do it!" Even in the midst of it, I felt a bit sheepish. I'd been silent the entire first half of the ball game, yet here I was, screaming for a cartoon pizza, and high-fiving my husband when Cheese won.

I didn't even clap for the two Sox players who hit home runs.

Yeah, maybe I'm not ready for that Sox shirt just yet. But until I am, I think I'll try to find out whether that pizza place sells clothing.

Aunt Erika

I'm an aunt!

...again...kinda.

At 9:22 a.m. today, my husband's brother's wife gave birth to a 6 lb. 15 oz. baby boy. This is a very exciting time for the whole family, of course, but for me, it has a very different significance.

Today is the day I really became an aunt. At least in my mind.

This is the couple's third child, so technically, as soon as I got married, I had a niece and nephew. But I didn't really feel like an aunt. The other two were born way before I came along; they were established members of the family when I became a part of it. And frankly, it's been weird enough getting used to calling myself someone's wife; I couldn't even think about the other corresponding titles that carried.

Until now. Now that I've settled into married life, I am firmly cemented in my husband's family. This new little baby has firmly cemented me in aunthood as well.

I hope to be a good aunt. I don't really know much about aunting, although I crocheted him a blanket, which seemed to me an aunt-like thing to do. I hope he likes it, and I hope he likes me.

But I have a hunch we'll get along just fine.

I Want To Ride My Bicycle, Bicycle, Bicycle

When faced with a task one hasn't done in some time, the comforting phrase often uttered is, "it's like riding a bicycle."

The meaning, of course, is that once you've learned how to do certain things, you never forget how to do them, no matter how long it has been since you've last done them.

Yesterday, I learned that, despite the expression, riding a bicycle is not one of those things for me.

Granted, I don't have that much experience. Growing up, I lived on a hilly road with no berm, hence no good place to ride a bicycle. The only time I ever did much riding was around the state park my family visited for a week each summer, because it was the only time bicycling was a viable transportation option for me. I've never even had my own bike, always having used my sister's hand-me-downs.

Since I reached adulthood and moved to the Prairie State, where hills are never a problem, I have thought a few times about buying a bicycle, but having no urgent need for one, I always pushed the idea aside.

Then, on our honeymoon last month, my new husband announced his plan to buy me a bicycle as a wedding gift. He has one, he knew I'd been wanting one, and he thought it would be fun for us to ride together. I thought that was a great idea, especially now as summer approaches. There are all sorts of trails in our area, and even just riding around the neighborhood together would be a nice summer pastime.

Yesterday, we finally got around to looking for a bike for me. I sat on a few, and my husband urged me to take one for a spin inside the store. The bicycle area wasn't very big, but I gave it a whirl.

It didn't work out so well. I couldn't get my feet on the pedals before I reached the end of the aisle, and I couldn't go very fast, because the aisle was short. Each time I tried, I wobbled back and forth before putting my foot to the ground to stop.

"I can't ride a bicycle!" I exclaimed in awe. "I can't believe I can't ride a bicycle!" Suddenly, my hubby was rethinking his gift idea, worrying I'd end up with bloodied limbs and a cracked skull.

I insisted it was just because the aisle was so short (you can't really go fast enough to stay balanced when your "course" is only 15 feet long), but deep down, I wondered if I really had forgotten how to ride. By my best guess, it's been about 14 years since I've taken a spin on a bicycle, and considering that I didn't even learn to ride until I was eight, that's saying something.

But I'm not ready to give up just yet. I'm excited about the prospect of riding around the neighborhood this summer, and I certainly wouldn't mind having a way to get around that does not require the purchase of gasoline, although I think it will be a good long while before I am ready or willing to take my bike on anything but the backest of back roads.

Besides, I think I'm due this. I didn't get to do the whole bike riding thing as a kid, and I always wanted to. My friends who lived "in town" rode their bikes together all the time, and I never got to do that. It's like I missed out on a part of childhood. And if I end up with some scraped knees and elbows, well, that's just part of the experience.

The Key To One-Eyed Willy

I don't know if I'm thrilled or horrified by the news that there may be a Goonies musical on the horizon.

I haven't really been all that eager to see musical versions of popular movies, a Broadway trend of late. I've heard good things about The Wedding Singer and Legally Blonde on the Great White Way, but I don't really have a desire to see them.

But The Goonies might be different. That was my all-time favorite movie for years, until Waiting For Guffman came along. I vividly remember going to see it in the theatre with my parents when I was a kid, and spouting quote upon quote to anyone who would listen, which I still do on occasion. Even today, I could probably recite the entire script verbatim if pressed.

When the movie came out, it was the ultimate fantasy for me. I wanted to know the characters and be a part of their lives. I longed for a sequel that never materialized, wanting to know more of the story.

Now I might get what I've been wanting, in the form of a musical. It certainly has possibilities to be amazing -- even more amazing than that time Michael Jackson came over to my house to use the bathroom. The article I linked mentioned a "Truffle Shuffle" dance number, which I don't even need to say would be awesome. I would eat that up like a pint of Super Duper Chocolate Eruption.

I have a few song ideas, too.

- A Spanish duet by Mouth and housemaid Rosalita.
- A rousing musical listing of ice cream varities by Chunk. A reprise could include tales of pranks he'd played, culminating in the classic "fake puke in the movie theatre" gag.
- A song about inventions by Data, containing all sorts of mispronounced words.
- "Troy's Bucket," a heartfelt ballad by Mikey.
- And, of course, there would have to be a battle type song between the rich kids, lead by Troy Perkins, and the scrappy kids, lead by Mikey.

If it materializes, I think I'll have to check out the musical when it gets to Chicago. I just hope they don't ruin it. It's one of the few things from my childhood that still holds much of its original magic. But if it works, it will be the best invention since Slick Shoes.

Shouting Parlay In A Crowded Movie Theatre

I wouldn't want to break a promise.

Last July, I gave a lukewarm review of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest in this entry. At the time, I was disappointed at having seen a 2 1/2 hour movie with no resolution to the problem at hand and a cliffhanger advertising the next -- in short, I saw half of a movie. So I gave half of a review.

Last night, I saw the third movie in the Pirates franchise: At World's End. I wasn't expecting much, and that's exactly what I got.

First of all, the movie is three hours long. I am so annoyed by the trend of late to make movies as long as possible. I'm not sure if it's meant to make up for the fact that it costs so much to get in these days, or if today's filmmakers really think their stuff is so good that none of it can be left on the cutting room floor. It makes a good movie boring and my butt numb.

Secondly, it would have been so very easy -- with some much-needed-anyway editing -- to resolve the story at hand in Dead Man's Chest with the first part of the story in At World's End. And they would have had a fine cliffhanger opportunity there as well. The first hour or so was what should have been the end of the last movie, and I found myself annoyed about that all over again.

But my main complaint at this juncture is that they really don't seem to care anymore. They know people will come to see this movie, so they slap together as many swashbuckling special effects as they can, along with plenty of swaggering from Johnny Depp (who, beautiful as he is, loses some of his Jack Sparrow-ness as time goes on -- there were moments this time in which his character seemed downright serious). Taking the last installment into account, the plot of this one didn't even make sense. A couple of characters went through complete character changes, without any explanation whatsoever. It's like they said, well, we have to put these characters in these scenes, so let's give them something interesting to do, even if it has nothing to do with anything they've done before.

Taking it for what it was, I found the movie entertaining; I enjoyed the swashbuckling, and the swaggering. But I don't know if I'll feel the need to return to the theatre for another Pirates experience, should there be one. It looks like there will be, because although this movie settled the plot from the last movie, it never really resolved the issues that began in this movie. So I suppose that means each installment to come will simply be an advertisement for the next one.

Well, they'll have to get their booty somewhere else, 'cause I don't think I'm buying.

Don't Masquerade With A Girl In Shades -- Oh No

Someone has put a sunglasses hex on me.

It all started about eight years ago. I'd been wearing a crappy pair of sunglasses I'd gotten for free when I signed up for a Discover card on campus my first semester at college. (I was smarter then and never actually used the card they sent me). But I wanted better ones, so right before I began my senior year, I bought a pair at Wal-Mart.

Inexpensive but of fine Wal-Mart quality, they were perfect. They were stylish (but not too stylish, lest they go out of fashion and leave me stuck with stupid looking sunglasses), and they looked great on me.

As I began the semester, the future was bright. I was doing alright, getting good grades (you know the deal). Mid-September, however, something happened. My sunglasses disappeared. I don't know if they fell out of my backpack or I left them somewhere or what, but suddenly, they were gone. I went back to wearing my Discover card sunglasses for a good two years.

One night, I was having dinner at TGIFriday's, when I noticed something under the table. It was a pair of sunglasses. Cheap, certainly, but for some reason, I picked them up.

At some point, the Discover card glasses wore out, and I had to throw them away. (Or I lost them, I can't remember). I might have bought another pair to replace them, but if I did, I lost it too. So I started wearing the TGIFriday's sunglasses. Yeah, it's kind of gross to wear something I found on the floor at TGIFriday's, but they were just sunglasses, and I cleaned them and everything. I kept them in the car and pretty much only wore them when I drove anyway.

But I always wanted a nicer pair. I saw people with their stylish sunglasses that they'd bought brand new and got jealous. I wanted nice sunglasses, too. I looked sometimes, but I couldn't find anything that looked all that great or was of better quality than the TGIFriday's pair.

A month ago, I found them. I was determined to find them, because I was leaving for Hawaii the next day and wanted a better pair than the ones I'd found on the floor. It took a good long time to find them on the walls of sunglasses at Target, but I found them. They looked good, they went far enough back on my face that no sun would sneak in the side. They were perfect. So I bought them.

I was nervous; I hadn't had good luck with purchased sunglasses. But I managed to get through my trip without losing my perfect new shades. I rejoiced, believing at last that the curse was broken.

Well, the curse wasn't broken, but my sunglasses now are.

About a week ago, I was putting them in my purse and part of one of the stems broke off. I tried to superglue it, but it didn't work. I wore them for a few days with the broken stem (it was pretty much only the behind-the-ear part that was broken off, and when I had my hair down, you couldn't tell). But then yesterday, I went to put them on and the other stem broke off. Almost the entire thing. I had no choice but to throw them away and go back to the TGIFriday's pair.

I've got to break the curse. I've got to be free to wear nice sunglasses and not ones I got for free, either by bribery or eating at sit-down fast-food restaurants. So here's my plan.

I'm going to buy a new pair, a good pair, another perfect, perfect pair. Then I'm going to throw them on the ground in the parking lot of the store and walk away for five minutes. If they're there when I return, they're mine for good, or at least a reasonable amount of time that is more than a month.

If they're not, well...I guess it's back to TGIFriday's, unless Discover card has something better to offer.

The Huggy Huggy Dilemma

I never write about my job on this blog, mostly because nothing ever happens that is interesting enough to write about, but something happened today that gave me pause.

My boss and I went downtown to have lunch with two people from an organization we work with. I don't meet in person with clients very often, because they're all over the country, and there's no reason for me to meet them, although my bosses do occasionally. It's fine with me; I don't really like these meetings all that much, because I don't have a whole lot to contribute. These people already know what my part of the process is and what I need from them and what they'll get from me. And the questions they have are all better answered by my boss. I'm left trying to find any relevant comment to throw in just so it won't seem like I'm unfriendly.

Today's meeting wasn't bad, but at the end, something happened. When we were saying goodbye, my boss hugged the clients. She's very outgoing and very huggy, and like I said, she's used to meeting clients and befriending them, so it's totally natural to her. But I am not a hug initiator. I'll return a hug, but I'll rarely start one, especially with someone I just met. So when I saw my boss hug these people, my first thought was, am I supposed to hug them too? It didn't feel natural to me; these are business associates that I'd just met, and I'm not a huggy person. So I shook their hands.

But I am left wondering, how might I have better handled this awkward social situation? Should I have just hugged these people? Would that have been weird? Or was it weird that I just shook their hands after my boss hugged them? I wish there were a rule book for these things.

What's Your Name, What's Your Number?

"It's official!" my husband cried as he walked in the door, waving the mail in his hand.

I knew what he was talking about when I saw the return address on the envelope he was holding: Social Security Administration. I opened it up, and there it was. My new social security card, complete with my new last name. Official, indeed.

I've had bank cards with my new name for a week or so now, and I got new checks the other day. I've been using the new name at work since I got married. But social security really has the final say in what one's name is, so seeing it in print on this new card made me feel...well, official.

I'm pretty much used my new last name, although it doesn't really roll off the tongue -- not that my old one did, either, but I'd lived with it for almost 30 years, so it didn't sound strange to me. But with the new one, there are times I still don't recognize it as my name.

Right before the wedding, I had a bit of an identity crisis about my name. Don't get me wrong -- I am proud to take my husband's name, and other than not wanting to go to the trouble of having all of my records changed over, I didn't see any point in not changing it. But it was still a little jarring to think that the person I'd been all my life would suddenly not exist anymore.

But then I started thinking, maybe this is a good thing. After all, I was preparing to enter a whole new phase of my life, so why not just consider it a whole new me? For example, the old me was afraid to fly. The new me would not be afraid to fly. (And, in fact, we flew to Hawaii on our honeymoon and I did not get nervous at all, so it must have worked).

And unlike the old me, the new me would be good with money. Like many who leave home seeking their fortune and finding low-paying jobs, I'd found myself in my early 20s relying on credit cards. I knew they could mean trouble, but at the time, I didn't have much of a choice. Considering that some people find themselves owing tens of thousands, or even hundreds of thousands, my debt of just a few thousand was a drop in the bucket, but then again, I wasn't making enough money to even cover my normal expenses, let alone pay down a debt, so it was tough.

Nonetheless, it was my debt, and I had to pay it off. So I lowered my expenses and eventually got a new, better paying job, so I was able to put enough money toward my debt every month to actually see the balance going down.

One of my two credit cards was paid off in a matter of months. No drama, I just paid and was eventually done. The other credit card company, however, made things difficult. They just couldn't seem to get enough of my money. (I just know that someday that will be in a book of quotes, because it is such a brilliant and keen observation that no one else would make). Even after I'd paid off the balance, they socked me with interest charges from the month before, then interest on the interest, until eventually, they were actually sending me a notice that I owed two dollars. Two days before my wedding, I paid the last little bit, hoping (but not at all sure) that this would be it.

I gave them four weeks, fully expecting them to charge me interest on that two dollars, but I heard nothing. Today, I called them, and they told me the words I'd been longing to hear for a long time -- "your balance is zero." I've met my goal -- I might not have learned it till today, but I was debt free before I got married, just as I wanted to be.

I'm pretty disappointed in myself to have gotten into this mess, but I'm hardly the first person to have trouble managing money. Anyway, that was the old me. I'm a whole new person now.

And I've got the documentation to prove it.

Haunted By A German Ghost

For some reason, the month headings on the archives of this blog went from English to German for about two minutes today.

I happened to notice while reading some of my old entries, but as soon as I posted about the German titles, they went back to English.

I wonder if this is the work of a ghost of a German ancestor of mine who is upset that I now have an Italian last name.

The Truth Hurts

On Saturday, I got my hair cut.

Chopped, actually. Hacked off. It used to be shoulder length, and now it's at my chin. I do this about once every year or so, whenever I get bored with long hair, although this is the shortest I've had it cut in quite some time.

I wasn't expecting my husband to swoon when he saw me, but I was hoping he'd like my new style. At first, he seemed to, but the truth slowly came out.

His first comment was, "it's cute." Then, "well, you know I really like you with long hair, but it's still cute." Then, "maybe it won't get in my face anymore when we're sleeping, so at least there's a bright side." Then the inevitable, "you're the one who has to like it, so it's really your opinion that matters."

But he smacked me with his real feelings later, when I commented that with my new haircut, I look a little older.

My sweet, darling husband said he agreed, that I "look old."

Um...not quite the same thing.

But I guess that for as much grief as I've given him about his hair, I probably deserved that.

Fear The Reaper

As a man sows, so shall he reap.

I find that to be very true, not only in my own life but in the lives of others I know. I'm a big believer in karma, in the idea that what we put out into the world comes back to us. It's a good way to keep life in balance.

But right now, between my downstairs neighbor and my husband and me, I'm not sure who is sowing and who is reaping.

Last year, I posted about some of the troubles we'd had with the guy. The crux of this sordid tale is that he would use any excuse to come knocking on our door to complain about noise. The washing machine was too loud, our walking was too loud, our typing was too loud. Once he even threatened to call the police because some friends of ours had called "hello" up the stairs when they walked into the building.

Things had improved a bit, although my husband still won't stop referring to the guy as "McCrochetypants." He'd zeroed in on a new neighbor to pick on (not about noise, but about how the new guy's cable installation had messed up the reception he was getting with his rabbit ears), and he'd mostly left us alone. Once he even said hello to me in a friendly, neighborly way. I thought that probably meant we were BFF now.

But then something happened. Something incredible. Something unbelieveable. Something impossible.

McCrochetypants knocked on our door with a valid complaint.

I came home from a meeting last night to find my husband gone and was a little concerned. He'd said earlier that he might take his motorcycle out for a ride, but he'd left a bunch of lights on and a thank-you note from our wedding half done on his desk. He's not that spontaneous, and he never leaves lights on, so I wondered where he'd gone in such a hurry.

About 10 minutes later, he came in, annoyed. He'd been downstairs, at the McCrochetypants residence, checking out a leaky pipe. I don't understand plumbing, but it has something to do with our bathroom and kitchen being connected to theirs, and there's a crack in their pipe, so a tiny bit of whatever drains from our shower and kitchen sink comes out into their place. After checking it out, he had agreed that until the problem could be fixed, we would use the shower in our hall bathroom, because it's not connected to the faulty pipe.

But this morning when I went into the hall bathroom, I found the shower knob broken. It was spinning loosely; it couldn't be pulled or pushed, and when my husband took it apart, he realized a few pieces had broken off. We tried to replace the knob with the one from the other bathroom, but it didn't fit. Rather than trying to force it and risking having two broken showers, we reattached the knob in its original place, shrugged and decided that McCrochetypants would just have to deal with a little water this morning.

As soon as I turned on the water, I heard the knocking of McCrochetypants banging on his bathroom pipes. Ten minutes later, as I shampooed my hair, I heard banging in our hall bathroom, and the water suddenly turned scalding hot. I jumped out of the shower, adjusted the temperature and got back in. As I was rinsing my hair, the water turned ice cold. Again, I jumped out of the shower, and annoyed that my husband had been messing with the water while I'd been showering, I stepped out of the bathroom, where he was waiting to push me right back in.

McCrochetypants was there, he told me, having come up to complain that he was getting water again. My husband had explained the situation, so the guy barged in and started messing around in the hall bathroom to try and fix it with some bathroom knob he bought at a flea market, scalding and freezing me in the process by turning the water on and off.

I'll be very honest -- I didn't feel bad that McCrochetypants was getting water from our place. In fact, I even felt a little glad when I found out that our hall shower was broken and I'd have to use the one that leaked into his place. I was just sorry our toilet wasn't connected too. I guess getting scalded and frozen was that karma returning to me.

But that doesn't stop me wanting to make sure McCrochetypants gets his.

Spicing Up A Dreary Day

For some reason, the news that the Spice Girls might be planning a comeback really gave my day a lift.

I can only guess this has something to do with the fact that I haven't gotten much sleep lately, and have been eating a lot of fast food.

Either that or I've really gone off my rocker.

Creative Justice

"I am a thief. I stole from Wal-Mart."

So reads the sign a judge in Alabama ordered two convicted shoplifters to wear in exchange for letting them out of jail sentences.

According to this story, one of the shoplifters claims her innocence, saying she was merely taking the $7 item to the service desk because it wouldn't scan. Whether or not that is true, it must be pretty embarrassing to have to stand outside of Wal-Mart wearing a sandwich board. Especially if you were also stupid enough to actually be guilty of shoplifting a $7 item from Wal-Mart.

The manager of the store thinks the sandwich boards will be a good deterrent for shoplifters. I'll say! I'd be embarrassed admitting to even shopping at the Wal-Mart in my town. To me, the lesson couldn't be clearer: If you're going to shoplift, do it from somewhere good, like Tiffany.

That story got me thinking about other creative ways to punish folks who break the laws -- whether they be actual laws or simply laws of decorum and good taste. Here are a few of my ideas.

Crime: Parking one's Hummer or Escalade or other very big vehicle in more than one parking space (either because they don't know how to park something that big or because they are afraid of someone parking in the next space and dinging the side of their very expensive vehicles).

Punishment: We smash their taillights and slash their tires. It's really for the safety of others -- whether these drivers are inept at driving these vehicles or just jerks, they probably drive on the roads like that too, expecting others to jump out of the way.

Crime: Blasting loud, bad music out of one's car (yesterday, I heard -- no joke -- "Tootsee Roll" coming from a car next to me).

Punishment: A Celine Dion CD that they are required to play at top volume, with the windows down, so all of their friends can see them. For repeat offenders, Anne Murray.

Crime: Making known one's personal business by talking loudly on cell phones in public places.

Punishment: A blast from one of those air horns people use at sporting events. For those who talk on their cell phones in public bathrooms, some very loud bathroom noises (I don't think I need to elaborate on that) so that the person they're talking to knows they're in the bathroom, and thinks they had fish tacos for lunch.

Crime: Referencing Seinfeld. Alright, so maybe this one is selfish, but I never liked that show and get so sick of having a seemingly normal conversation with someone, who then interjects some stupid Seinfeld quote that I don't get because I didn't watch the show and then turns a perfectly decent conversation to crap, because then we have to talk about Seinfeld.

Punishment: A conversation with someone who thought Everybody Loves Raymond was funny. And a DVD set of all 487 seasons of it.

This Hurt

Touche, The Onion. Touche.

Cock-A-Doodle-Don't

I bought a new alarm clock yesterday that plays "sounds of nature." For some reason, I thought it would be fun to wake up this morning to the sound of a rooster crowing.

It really wasn't. Tomorrow, perhaps, I'll wake up to the sound of a seagull instead.

Though The Mountains Divide, and The Oceans Are Wide, It's A Small World After All

Of all the hotels in all the islands in all the world, they walked into ours.

My new husband (I'm still trying to get used to that word) and I spent last week honeymooning on beautiful Maui. In our own little private corner of paradise, we didn't turn on our cell phones much, check our e-mail at all or even think about our normal lives, which were thousands of miles away, along with everyone we know.

Well, almost everyone we know.

Our first morning there, we were in the hotel restaurant having breakfast, when I noticed a woman who looked familiar. In fact, she looked like the new wife of my friend Meghan's brother, Jeremy. The two had gotten married the day before my husband and I did, so I thought maybe they were just on my mind. Wouldn't it be funny if they'd come to Maui on their honeymoon too, I thought. I looked at the woman's companion, who I could only see from the back, and it looked like Jeremy.

I walked over to them, and yep, I was right. It was Jeremy and Megan (not to be confused with his sister Meghan -- his wife's name has no h). They'd not only come to Hawaii, but they'd come to Maui, and they'd come to our same hotel, not to mention coming to breakfast at the same time. We ran into them a few more times while we were there, mostly around the hotel, but also at a luau we attended. What would have been really strange is if they'd been at our table, too.

It was a little weird running into people we knew like that, but it was kind of cool. Sure, we were no longer "alone" in our tropical paradise, but really, that spell was broken as soon as we saw the umpteen other honeymooning couples. They were easy to spot -- they were all lovey dovey, and the men were all fiddling with their wedding rings, trying to get used to the feel of them.

Funnily enough, that wasn't the end of it. When we came home, we had to fly from Maui to Phoenix, then change planes, fly to Denver, have a short on-the-plane layover while they dropped off and picked up, then fly to Chicago. When we finally arrived at Midway, we were waiting at baggage claim, and I noticed a woman who looked a little like a work acquaintance of my husband's (I'm trying to use that word a lot so I can get used to it, but it's still weird). I pointed her out to him, and he confirmed that yet again, we'd run into someone we knew. It wasn't as weird as running into Jeremy and Megan in Hawaii, but what was weird was that she'd been on our flight from Denver.

I wonder if this sort of thing happens to everyone, because it happens to me all the time. I run into people I know everywhere I go, in places far away from anywhere I would normally see them, or I'll meet someone who knows some random person I knew long, long ago. I love these little meetings; it's so cool to see how we're all connected. And even if our corner of paradise turned out to be not so private, it's nice to have a reminder that no matter where you go, you're never alone.

Girls In White Dresses...

And the fun begins.

I feel as if I am stuck in that moment just before the rollercoaster careens down the hill, that moment of weightlessness where you realize there's nothing you can do and, for better or worse, you're about to have the ride of your life.

I find myself wishing I had just a few more days until my family arrives, so I could at least get my house clean. But my parents roll in tonight, and tomorrow will bring the rest of the relatives who are coming to celebrate this occasion.

Last night, I brought my wedding dress home. I had actually gone to pick it up on Tuesday, but the owner of the shop saw me walk in and got a panicky look on her face.

"I'm doing a bridal show this weekend, and I've been so busy getting ready for that that I completely forgot to press your dress!" she said. "Could you come back tomorrow?"

When I returned last night, my dress was ready, and to make up for my troubles, the shop owner gave me a free garter. We're not really doing the garter thing, but hey, I ought to do something bridal, right? Actually, I might have a lot more bridal in my future than I originally thought.

The dress shop owner asked me yesterday if I'm leaving for my honeymoon right away, or if I have Sunday free. Actually, the wedding is Sunday, so I'm kinda busy, but the long and short of it is, she wanted me to model for her bridal show. I'm tall, and I wear my size; my wedding dress didn't need any alterations at all, so she thinks I'd be a perfect model. In fact, she wanted to know if she could keep my name on file for the next show, sometime in May.

Well, all of that anti-bride stuff went right out the window at that comment. Of course I'd model! How fun would that be, walking the runway, looking beautiful. Yeah, I think I could handle that.

I won't lie -- I feel a bit like Marcia Brady right now. And three days before my wedding, that's not too bad.

Making Sense of Tragedy, An Impossible Task

I've been debating for the past few days whether to write anything about the Virginia Tech tragedy -- I thought it might seem out of place on a fun, silly blog like this -- but it's been so much on my mind that I just can't ignore it.

The summer after I graduated high school, 16 students and their five chaperones from my school were killed in a plane crash. At the time, I thought I had experienced some of the worst pain a young person ever could experience. I'd been told all my life, "you're young, but you're not invincible, so make good decisions." But at 17 years old, I learned in a very horrible way just how fragile life really is and that you don't have to be doing anything dangerous or stupid to have yours taken away.

In 1999, when the Columbine shootings occurred, I found out that I had been wrong before -- I hadn't experienced the worst pain. However traumatic it was for me to have lost my classmates, it had to have been unimaginably more horrible for the surviving Columbine students. To not only have lost classmates but to have lost them at the hands of people they knew, right in front of their eyes, had to have been so awful that I don't think there's even a word for it. I learned that lesson again on Monday.

All day, I stayed glued to news outlets, watching events unfold on the Virginia Tech campus. Who could have done such a terrible thing? And what could have driven him to become so desperate? The more we learn about Cho Seung Hui, the sadder the story becomes. His professors had recommended him for counseling, his classmates had called him "mean," joking about the possibility that someday he would "become a school shooter," and the police had investigated him as a stalking suspect, yet this obviously disturbed young man somehow slipped through everyone's fingers.

It's too soon to say whether we can really assign blame to anyone. To hear it told by the people who knew Cho Seung Hui, it was only a matter of time until he did something, but I think most of us could name at least one person we've met who seems unstable enough to hurt someone, someday. Disturbed does not always equal dangerous, and without explicit threats, no one could do much.

But whatever anyone knew or thought, the past can't be changed, and the name of Cho Seung Hui will go into the history books with the story of the tragedy for which he was responsible. The only thing anyone can do now is pray for the victims and their families, and hope for a quick recovery for those who were injured.

The emotional wounds will not heal easily. Those who were there, or knew someone there, might never find answers to all of their questions or any sense of peace about what's happened. And the rest of us will never have any idea what they're feeling, however much we want to show support by sharing the burden of their grief. But I think we will all hold our loved ones just a little bit closer.

No Wonder They Call My Parents The Fun Couple

With five days till my wedding, but nothing all that interesting to say about it, I find myself wanting to share a story about someone else. My mother.

This is my favorite Mom story of all time, and it's not even really about her but a friend of hers. I'm not sure if I like it so much because it's funny or if I feel that the friends she had back then prepared her for having such a goofy daughter (and I ain't talkin' about my sister).

My parents got married in 1968, when my mom was 20 and therefore not legally allowed to drink yet. My Aunt Nancy, however, was a few years older, so she, my mom and a couple of friends parked their convertible outside a bar, my aunt ran in and grabbed some beer for all of them, and they went out cruising around.

What a wild child my mom was. (Though not nearly as wild as my dad, who, on that same night, crossed a bridge standing on one foot on top of a van...or something like that, anyway. I've never quite understood that story, but I'm sure my sister will post the correct version.)

Anyway, at some point in the evening, my mom and company came across a bum walking on the sidewalk. He was absolutely filthy and eating a sandwich.

"Hey!" yelled one of my mom's friends out of the car. "What kind of sandwich is that?"

The bum replied, "hot ham."

"Hot ham!" my mom's friend exclaimed. "I love hot ham!" She jumped out of the car, grabbed the sandwich, took a bite, handed the sandwich back and went running back to the car.

I only hope my last night as a single girl is half as exciting.

Did that sound sarcastic? It wasn't supposed to.

Strangers With Comments

On Thursday evening, I was shopping for jewelry for my bridesmaids and got stuck trying to decide between two pairs of earrings. While I was taking some time to mull over my decision, I wandered into the sunglasses section to see if I could find something stylish for my upcoming honeymoon. I had just put on a pair and was admiring my reflection when from next to me came, "those are cute."

I looked over, and there was a woman standing a few feet away. I thought maybe she'd been complimenting my choice, but she wasn't looking at me, didn't seem to be talking to me. She didn't seem to be talking to anyone, actually. I did a mental shrug and went back to my business, and a minute later, she did it again.

"Oh, those are really cute." This time, I was sure she was talking to me, but when I glanced at her again, again, she was facing the other direction.

To whom was this lady speaking? I had no idea. There were other people milling around, so I thought maybe one of them was a friend of hers, but eventually, they dispersed and she and I were the only people in the area, and the comments continued.

"I've got to go find a dressing room. Where are the dressing rooms?" I thought about answering her, just on the off chance she really had been talking to me this whole time, but it just seemed weird. It was like she was talking to a pal, but the pal wasn't there. And she didn't seem to be on a cell phone or anything; if she had, the person on the other end must have been unbelievably perceptive to know what she was talking about.

Eventually, the woman walked away, and I returned to the jewelry, but this woman's one-sided conversation left me with a creepy feeling. Did she not realize she was alone? Was she, perhaps, shopping with a ghost friend no one else could see? I guess I'll never know.

When It's Time To Change, Then It's Time To Change

The Stapling Jello crew took a vote, and the result was a unanimous 1-0 (since I am the only one on said crew): It's time for a new look.

Hope you like it. And if you don't, I really don't care: It's not as if I get paid to do this.

But if anyone would like to pay me to do this, I'll make this blog any darn color you want.

What Happened To Miss Independent?

A few years ago, a friend who was engaged commented to me that she was happy she'd found a man who would take care of her, because "all women want men who will take care of them."

I was quite taken aback by those words. I had thought the "knight in shining armor" bit had been driven out of woman consciousness long ago. Hadn't this girl ever heard of Rosie the Riveter? I'd certainly never gone looking for a man who would take care of me. I had a job, I had friends, and while a good relationship could -- and eventually did -- add wonderful things to my life, my happiness wasn't out of relief that I finally found a man who would dedicate his life to the sole purpose of making me happy. One of the things I love most about my fiance is that he hasn't done that; he considers us equal partners, and in my opinion, that's how it should be.

We all lean on others at times. Our friends, our family members. And we're there for them when they need us. It's not just our significant others, and it's certainly not just women; it's just the nature of humanity. But during those occasions when I need to lean on my fiance, I remember what my friend said and realize that, while I didn't go looking for a man to take care of me, I'm lucky that I found one who is willing.

Yesterday, one of the tires on my car looked pretty low. I didn't have a tire gauge (I'd had one at one time, but it was cheaply made, didn't work properly and subsequently fell apart), so I stopped at an auto parts store on the way home from work and picked up a new one. I went over to a gas station with free air and checked the pressure. Very low.

I'd never put air into my tires at this gas station, or any gas station, but it didn't look that hard. You just put the air nozzle thingy squarely on the tire nozzle thingy and it inflates, right? It's just like any other kind of air pump, right? Apparently not, because the only thing I succeeded in doing was taking more air out of the tire. So I called my fiance.

"What am I doing wrong?" I asked him. "I can't get this thing to work." He gave me a few instructions, and I tried again, and this time, I couldn't even get it to take air out of the tire, probably because there was so little left. I couldn't drive home or go looking for another place to get air with my tire near completely flat, so my sweetheart drove over to where I was to see what he could do.

He got the tire to inflate right away. I'd been trying for 10 minutes, and he had it ready to go in about 45 seconds. (I watched him do it; he did the exact same thing I'd done, although I think I just didn't shove the nozzle thingy on the other nozzle thingy far enough. But hey, it was only my first try, and I'm sure I'll have many more chances.)

It was just a little favor, and I'm sure that if I'd gone into the gas station looking for help, or stood there long enough looking pathetic, someone would have given me a hand. But it was great to know that help was just a phone call away.

I still can't say I agree with that statement my friend made back then. We shouldn't go looking for men who will take care of us, unless we know we can take care of them, too, when they need us. I don't want a knight in shining armor; I want a partner. And it's good to know I've got one who can work the free air hose at the gas station.

Songs I Will Leap Over Things To Turn Off

"Big Yellow Taxi" I hate this song, no matter who sings it, although I hate the Amy Grant version the most because of all the "ooh, bop bop bop bop." If you really "don't know what you've got till it's gone," I'd love to find out exactly what I've got in this song.

"How To Save A Life" by The Fray. I used to think this song was nice (even after I found out it was featured on Grey's Anatomy), but after hearing it approximately 50 times within a one-week time span, I was over it, and now, just a few notes of that piano at the beginning is more than enough.

Any song with talking in it. For example, "You're Still The One" by Shania Twain. If I catch it in the middle, it's not that bad, but that intro talking she does is just annoying. Same with Kelly Clarkson's "Walk Away." I actually kind of like the song, but near the end, she screams "just leave!" and I want to.

"Bring Me To Life" by Evanescence. Not only do I not like Amy What's-her-name's voice, there's the shouting again. "Wake me up! Can't wake up!"

"New Shoes" by Paolo Nutini. I love shoes, but I find the song kind of stupid. I don't hate it as much as the others I've mentioned here, but also, the name Nutini reminds me of Nutella.

And garnering an honorable mention, even though it is not a song, per se...

"Hi, I'm here for Verizon Wireless..." Whenever I hear these words, I change the radio station, because I know that in about half a second, that annoying background music will kick in.

Good Friday

Today was one of those days.

No, not one of those days. The other kind. The kind of day when everything goes well, when the good karma you've put out into the world comes back to you. Those days are rare, but when they happen, it's always a wonderful surprise.

I had big errand plans today. Haircut, wedding odds and ends, car wash, cake at my fiance's office to celebrate our upcoming wedding. Not a terribly exciting day, although I do love cake.

I went to get my hair cut at a spa and salon that has several locations throughout the metro area. I'd been to the location in downtown Chicago (four of my six future sisters-in-law get their hair done by someone there; they recommended her to me, and I loved what she did), but I didn't want to spend half the day driving into the city, parking, getting my hair cut and driving home, so I figured I'd try the one near me.

I ended up having a great time. The woman who ended up cutting my hair was fun (although not quite as fun as the one downtown -- but maybe I just think that because that one told me over and over that my fiance's sisters love me), and I'm very happy with what she did to my hair. Then, when I was leaving, on my way to pay, she said, "would you like a complimentary makeup application?"

Uh, yeah I would!

So she handed me off to a makeup person, and I got a new look for my afternoon. It was a fantastic surprise to be pampered like that, especially for free, although I did tip the girl. When she was done, she gave me a coupon for another free makeup application!

I left feeling wonderful (and too pretty for the rest of my errands, but they had to get done). I went to grab a bite for lunch, and serendipitously, I ran into a friend from my old office, picking up lunch for the crew.

"Everyone usually sits together in the cafeteria and eats now," she said. "You should come over." So I did. And I got to have lunch with some pals instead of alone.

But the fun wasn't over yet.

The big wedding chore on my list was to order cookies for the reception (we're not cake people; we're big cookie people). I chatted with the lady, and as I was leaving, told her I wanted to buy a few cookies to take with me. She put a few into a bag and said, "it's on me."

Free makeup, lunch with friends and free cookies...and all of this happened before the cake and gift card we received from my fiance's coworkers.

Sometimes you just have a good day.

An Open Letter To Punxsutawney Phil...Again

Dear Punxsutawney Phil,

It is with great regret that I write to you today; I've been resisting for awhile, but I simply cannot ignore this issue any longer.

It is 29 degrees outside today, and we had snow flurries! In April! Early spring my ass!

"But Erika," you're wood-chuck-chucking in your little rodenty voice, "you live in Chicago, not in Punxsutawney, so you can't blame me for your weather."

Well, it's only 37 where you are, smart guy, and it's supposed to snow tomorrow. What else you got?

I'm sure you're all comfy in your posh little burrow on Gobbler's Knob (or, if there is justice in the world, some cage in a research lab), but I think you'd better recant your prediction and apologize. Or the next shadow you'll see is an angry mob coming to get you.

Sincerely,
Erika

Mall Madness

I've done it again, and I'm not sure if I'll recover this time.

Yesterday, I went shopping at the mall. And as usual, I came up pretty much empty.

Funny the things that make you realize you're advancing in years.

When I was a kid, I loved the mall. Looking back, I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the lure of new stuff. Shopping was always special when I was younger; my sister and I didn't have the kind of mom who bought us new things every other week. When we went to the mall with a real shopping agenda, it was a very big occasion, at least in my mind.

The mall was also one of the first places I was allowed to strike out on my own. There weren't too many kids my age who lived in our neighborhood, and we lived in a semi-rural area that wasn't really conducive to running around or riding bikes freely without supervision, so the mall was a place I could go with my parents and then go off with a friend and spend a couple of hours out from under the nose of authority. This usually meant shopping at the dollar store or getting sundaes from McDonald's, because that was about all we could afford. Later, when I had a job and more than a dollar at a time, but no bills to speak of yet, the mall was a fun place to buy new shoes or clothes or books.

I'm not quite sure when the mall turned into a place I avoid at all costs unless I absolutely have to go there, but I think it was about the time that I realized I'm not the mall's target market anymore. When I go into a mall, I feel like all the teenagers are looking at me and wondering what I'm doing there. And why wouldn't they? Not only do I not bare my midriff (or upper thighs) when I shop, I'm one of the few people there who has driven myself but not driven a carload of kids as well.

And it's not just the other patrons who look at me as a mall anomaly. It's the employees too. Being one of the very few shoppers with an annual income of more than $6,000 per year, I am considered a gold mine or something. I walk past the cell phone kiosks and 19-year-old guys accost me, telling me I must switch my service immediately. I go into a department store and am doused with perfume. And God forbid I actually purchase something, lest I be forced to answer a 10-minute questionnaire.

Employee: Will this be on your store charge card today?
Me: No.
Employee: Would you like to apply for a store charge card and save 15 percent?
Me: No thank you.
Employee: There's no paperwork to fill out; it'll only take a minute. And today, everyone who applies gets a free pair of socks, whether you're approved or not.
Me: No, that's really alright, thank you. I have all the credit cards I need.
Employee: You'll get coupons in the mail every month and flyers about our upcoming sales.
Me: No, really, I don't need it.
Employee: It's up to you, of course, but this purchase could have cost you only (quick tally) fifty cents if you were to apply today and use our scratch off coupon to get up to 75 percent off your total purchase.

I find myself either lying that I already have that store's card or promising that I'll apply next time I come in. Luckily, they don't make me sign a sworn statement on that.

Don't get me wrong; the mall does have its merits. It's nice not having to drive from place to place if I don't find what I want in the first store I visit (plus stores I couldn't visit anywhere but the mall), and sometimes there's no better treat than an Orange Julius.

But I wish going to the mall still held the same magic wonder of my youth, still was the land of opportunity I saw when I was a kid. Maybe next time, I'll have my mom drive me.

Courthouse of Love, Part II

Yesterday, I wrote about visiting the courthouse to get a marriage license, musing that I was as good as married.

Today, I found a comment from my lovely sister, Jennifer, that in the eyes of the law, I might be better than "as good." I might actually be married.

What? When did that happen?

I questioned her, and she told me that in Pennsylvania -- where we grew up and she still lives -- marriage is officially a contractual agreement. The only thing needed to make a marriage legal are the bride's and groom's signatures on a marriage license; a ceremony is more sentimental than official. Both the priest who performed her marriage and the woman who helped her husband and her at the courthouse told her this when she got married.

I tried to confirm what she'd told me online but couldn't find any official information on the commonwealth's Web pages. I was only able to find this article, which says that it is possible to obtain a "self-uniting" marriage license, but couples need to ask for one specifically before beginning the application process. Furthermore, there is a three-day waiting period attached to marriage licenses in Pennsylvania, so I don't believe my sister got the entire truth.

Nevertheless, I was intrigued. I looked up marriage licensing information for my state, Illinois, wondering if I might actually have gotten myself married without knowing. As it turns out, no.

A legal marriage in Illinois requires that the license not only be signed by the bride and groom but completed by an officiant, who must be a current or retired judge from a court of record, a judge from the Court of Claims, a county clerk in a county with 2 million or more inhabitants, a public official whose duties include solemnizing marriages or a religious or tribal officiant.

So I guess I can't settle into married life just yet. I guess that's for the best. It would have been cool to be able to say we were married already, but at least now I don't have to miss my bachelorette party.

Courthouse of Love

Last night, my fiance and I got licensed.

To marry, that is.

I had never gotten a license to do anything except drive; thank goodness there was no test for this one, just a short questionnaire with questions like "are you already married," and "are you related." Ugh.

On the way to the courthouse, we were listening to the oldies radio station and heard the song "Chapel of Love." It was cute, in a completely cheesy way, and a nice moment in a time when we are stressed out over final details.

Later in the evening, we bickered about seating arrangements for the wedding reception and both ended up grumpy. We still have a ton of work left to do before the actual wedding day, and thinking about it probably didn't do much to make either of us feel better in that moment.

But hey, if it doesn't get done, it doesn't get done. We're licensed; we're set. All the rest of that stuff exists only so we can feel we've been hospitable. We could take our guests out to McDonald's and it wouldn't matter, because at the end of the day, we'd still be married. That's all either of us really wanted out of that day.

That is the whole point, after all.

Snap!

Two people have commented that I made grammatical errors in my Saturday post about being sick, and I feel I have to comment back.

I had been sick for two days when I wrote that entry. For the previous 48 hours, nothing had gone into my body except clear liquids, Pepto Bismol and crackers, but a host of nasty things had been coming out. Forgive me if I wasn't at my best, grammatically.

Way to kick me when I'm down, people. Thanks for the love.

The Quickest Way I've Ever Lost Five Pounds (Not Recommended)

Wednesday night, my fiance and I made pizza for dinner.

Midday Thursday, we both started feeling sick.

I'm not saying the two things are connected, but it's going to be awhile before I eat pizza again. Once you feel last night's dinner come out of your nose, you know it's pretty much over.

The short version (and believe me, you do not want the long version of this story) is, we have spent the past two days inside, lying on the couch, alternately watching bad TV and running for the bathroom. (Thank God we have two).

It was sort of a relationship growth exercise; we have never been sick at the same time before, and we're both big babies when we're sick, but this time, there wasn't one clear patient and one clear caretaker. Whenever one of us needed something, it was pretty much up to whoever was able to stand up at that moment to get it. And even that got tricky, because after 16 hours lying on the couch and the futon, we were both suffering from sore backs.

Yesterday, thinking it might help me to get out into civilization for awhile, I showered, put on some clean sweats and went out to get more supplies -- ginger ale, saltines and Pepto Bismol. I'm sure I looked miserable, too, so there was no doubt as to what I'd been through in recent hours.

As I was paying, I noticed a pin on the cashier's smock -- it was shaped like a dog bone and said "I love my Soft-coated Wheaten Terrier." My mom has two Wheatens and adores them (I could probably start a whole blog about her dogs -- but I won't, because I am bitter that she loves them more than she loves me. She says it's because they never ask her for money, but come on, I never poop in the yard and ask her to clean it up; who's giving her a better deal here? And I'm pretty sure she wouldn't look favorably on me pooping in the yard, but when her dogs do it, they get cheese). I struck up a brief conversation with the lady about her dogs, and she sent me off with a compassionate "take care, honey." It was kind of like the universe sent me a sympathetic Mom-type person to make me feel better in my time of need.

Today, the fiance and I are feeling almost human again. I was even able to get dressed in real clothes. I don't look so hot though, because since Thursday morning, I have lost 5 1/2 pounds, which is enough to loosen my pants to the point where I don't have to unbutton them to take them off. Under other circumstances, I'd be celebrating; even now, I want to go bathing suit shopping while it lasts.

I did run a few errands; I finalized the wedding flowers (one less thing to worry about later, plus if they end up looking bad I can just tell people that I was sick with dysentery when I chose them) and went to the grocery store, where the sight and smell of food did not make me want to vomit, so I think that's a good sign.

I was on my way to the toilet paper aisle (we've used quite a bit this weekend) and noticed a woman handing out free samples. I wasn't really in a try-something-new mood anyway, but I had to laugh when I saw what her samples were -- All Bran. No, thank you. Certainly don't need that today.

I'm not sure if sharing a weekend of food poisoning brought my fiance and I closer together or not, but I hope it did, because that 5 1/2 pound loss is so not worth how I lost it. Well, unless my thighs look smaller. I'll get back to you on that.

Big Airport of Horrors, Or, I Used The Word "Apocalypse" More Times In This Entry Than I Have Ever Used The Rest of My Life, Cumulatively

O'Hare Airport is, to me, a living battleground.

I've been there several times, as a passenger and meeting passengers, and hardly ever do things go completely smoothly. I don't know if any Hollywood film directors read my blog, but I think a good post-apocalyptic science fiction movie would be about the few surviving humans taking shelter at O'Hare as the big bomb destroys civilization, then trying to leave and start a new civilization, but the airport won't let them out. It would be plausible, because, as I have learned even pre-apocalypse, it is nearly impossible to leave O'Hare Airport. It's like Hotel California, without the metaphor.

Yesterday, my friend English Kari (so-called because her name is Kari and she lives in England, and I need a way to distinguish her from my friend Carrie from high school) arrived at O'Hare for a stopover between Manchester and Atlanta. I was at work all day and couldn't make it up to the airport to see her during her mid-afternoon stay, but I gave her my cell phone number and told her that if she got stuck for any reason to let me know. We had some storms yesterday, and I heard there were delays, so I left my phone on. I didn't recieve a call, so I assumed that English Kari had made it to her destination.

I should mention at this point that I have never actually met Kari in person. I know her through an online forum, which is, ironically enough, for people who are afraid to fly. I "met" the guy who started the site while doing research for a story for my former newspaper, and he and his cohorts were so nice that I've stuck around for four years. The site has been instrumental in helping me overcome my own fear of flying, and the people on it are great. Many of them get together regularly, but I've yet to meet any of them in person.

Anyway, about 10 p.m., I logged on and found a message from Mark, the site administrator, who lives in Tennessee and had spoken to Kari. She'd told him she was stuck at O'Hare for the night; she'd tried to call me but couldn't get through. Immediately, I began trying to reach her. I tried her cell phone (some automated lady with a British accent told me that my call could not be completed); I tried paging her through the airline (no answer); I tried calling the airline's first class lounges, to see if they could get me through to the paging system (closed); I tried speaking to someone at the airport's main number, twice (the first time they transferred me to the airline's ticket reservation line, and the second time they gave me the two numbers I'd already tried and said they had no other ones). Finally, I gave up and went to bed, and I'm still not sure whether Kari got out.

Getting stuck at any airport is a bummer, but getting stuck at O'Hare seems almost inevitable. When I was 13, I was stranded there for an entire day. I'd been visiting my aunt in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and my flight to Chicago got in late, so I missed my connection. I'd never flown by myself before, so my aunt had paid to have someone escort me, and when they came to get me for the next flight I could take, the woman took me to the wrong gate. Since this was well before 9-11, and the gate agents didn't seem to know what was going on, so if I had been more bold, I might have been able to weasel my way onto the plane at that gate -- it was headed for Paris, so I was tempted to try -- but by the time I got the attention of a gate agent, my actual flight -- headed for Washington, D.C. -- had already taken off. Another employee (an old man named Floyd, who had a mole on his face and was really nice to me as I cried during the whole walk) escorted me to another gate for the last flight of the day, and finally I made it out.

But others I know have not escaped spending the night. A year ago, my mom was flying to Iowa (to see that same aunt -- for awhile I blamed her for the O'Hare phenomenon, but I think she's off the hook now) and ended up stuck for the night. She really didn't have to be stuck, though, having a daughter who lives 40 miles away and was driving to the aunt's house the next day; she ended up arriving only a short time before I did.

And it's not just passengers who have trouble. Just before my mom's incident, I made plans to meet up with a friend who had a layover at O'Hare. Hailing from Germany, she was an exchange student who stayed with my family when I was in high school, and this time, she was passing through Chicago on her way home from a visit to Kansas, where she'd spent some time in graduate school. I headed up to the airport to see her, and just as I reached our designated meeting spot, my cell phone rang. It was her, telling me she was stuck on the plane in Kansas City with no idea when she'd be taking off. I went home, although not before paying for the 10 minutes I was parked, because in the city of Chicago, nothing is ever free. One could argue that her story was about being stuck in Kansas City, not Chicago, but the point is, every time anyone I know has made O'Hare part of their travel plans, something weird happens.

I have plans to meet up with English Kari on Sunday (we plan to line dance -- she has a rule that whenever folks from the forum get together, they have to line dance, and I like that rule), when she stops at O'Hare on her way home from Atlanta, but part of me wonders if I should even bother. That airport has been no friend to me, and given past experience, I have doubts as to whether we'll actually be able to make it happen.

But really, that makes me all the more determined to go. It's not just about visiting with Kari; it's about conquering O'Hare Airport. Chicago mayor Richard Daley has been fighting to expand the already-gargantuan O'Hare, and if he succeeds, I fear the airport will just start growing on its own and take over the entire city, "feed me, Seymour" style. We must fight back before it's too late, or O'Hare won't just be the threat of the post-apocalypse; it will bring about the apocalypse itself.

So bring on your best, O'Hare Airport. Come Sunday, English Kari and I will be line dancing on your face!

Notes From My Corner, Or, Nothing All That Interesting Has Happened To Me Lately, But Something Important Did Happen Two Years Ago Today

Two years ago today, my fiance and I went out on our first date. The items below really have nothing to do with that, but I thought it was worth mentioning, especially considering I find things like the below items interesting enough to blog about.

* I bought a new microwave oven on Saturday. I wanted to get the one that had a pizza oven built into it, but it cost $100 more. Marla admonished me for even considering the pizza oven microwave, but the truth is, I make pizza often enough to find it handy. Well, I would if I had a pizza oven anyway. Plus there was a fun little handle and a tray you can take right out.

* Keebler now makes a "Right Bites" (their version of the 100 Calorie Pack) of Grasshopper Cookies. Man are they tasty.

* Didn't-Bother-To-Brush-Her-Hair-But-Did-Take-
The-Time-To-Put-On-Tights-Yes, Tights Lady from my gym must be a Stapling Jello reader, because she's started brushing her hair. Mind you, that makes it pretty frizzy and actually look worse than it did before, but I do have to give her a thumbs-up for her effort. She looks like she's gotten some highlights, too, which astounds me. Why spend the money on highlights on hair that looks like that? I know I'm being mean, but come on lady, let's be just a little practical here.

* I've resumed my practice of buying only pants that are sized "long," even if they are too long when I put them on in the store. High water pants do not look good, especially on someone who has big feet.

* I had a dream one night last week that I walked out of my office and my car had been stolen from the parking lot. The next day, I went shopping, and when I walked out of the store, it took me awhile to find my car because there was a big van parked next to it. Eerie, huh?

Springing Ahead, In The World's Largest Way

The clocks have changed, and all of a sudden, my time is no longer my own.

This past weekend was my last free one before the wedding. From now till after my name changes, I have something going on every single (pun intended) weekend.

As fate would have it, my last free weekend as a free woman coincided with a professional conference my fiance attends every year. It was also a three-day weekend for me. I didn't want to spend the whole weekend alone, and I had a free frequent flyer trip due me, so I decided to get out of town.

I called up my old college roommate, Miranda, in Fayetteville, NC, and invited myself down to her neck of the woods. She eagerly accepted my self-invitation, and I booked a flight. It was the perfect thing to do.

Miranda has always been one of my favorite people to hang out with -- she's fun, quirky and gets amused by the same random things that amuse me. In the good old days, we laughed constantly, usually about nothing at all. For the two years we were roommates, hardly a day went by that we didn't come up with some new silly inside joke. It was pretty annoying to the people around us, but we had a blast.

I hadn't seen my pal in more than a year, and both that visit and one before it had been at weddings (one of them hers, to a man I am happy to say shares her goofy sense of humor), so we didn't get a chance to just hang out. It makes me kind of sad sometimes that our friendship has evolved in this way; we used to be so close, and now we never see each other. She hasn't even met my fiance yet. It's just so hard to find the time and money to get together. It's just how life goes, I guess, and I think we would be pretty pathetic figures today, had we not gone on to find lives and friends beyond college.

But I still really appreciate it when we are able to hang out and laugh like we used to, and I'm glad I took this weekend to do just that.

During my stay in Fayetteville, Miranda and her husband, Jeremy, showed me some of their favorite North Carolina hot spots -- the nature trail they like to walk, the Mexican restaurant they patronize for great chips and salsa, their favorite dollar store, the theatres they volunteer in and the area's best place for some tasty North Carolina barbecue. They even took me on a little side trip to a winery an hour or so away in Rose Hill, NC, so I could taste how the South does grapes.

But the most exciting destination was not on the agenda -- a fact I can prove, because I took a picture of the agenda. As we approached the winery, we passed a bright red and white pavillion. When I read the sign on it, I couldn't believe my luck. What a wonderful unexpected discovery! I suddenly understood how the first Texan to strike oil must have felt.

It was hard to believe, but there I was, within spitting distance of the World's Largest Frying Pan.

Being a lover of all things quirky, I had always wanted to see the world's largest something. I had been to the World's Largest Truck Stop before, and according to Jeremy and Miranda, Fayetteville is actually home to the World's Largest Wal-Mart, but this was different. Those places were made large to make large amounts of money. The World's Largest Frying Pan -- although most likely built as part of a publicity stunt that I'm sure brought money to some cause or business (I was too excited to read any of the information while I was there) -- now exists simply for the sake of being large.

Oddly enough, it was the perfect thing to see while visiting Miranda -- a silly, random, goofy thing that we just happened upon. We could never in a million years have thought to look for something as weird as the world's largest frying pan, and if we had, we'd never have found it. We'd have had better luck searching for a cat in a cup full of nails*.

I suppose it is also strangely appropriate that my last weekend as a single gal was the weekend we changed our clocks and were hurled an hour into the future. With six weeks till the wedding, things seem to be moving faster and faster each day. Before I know it, the big day will be here.

Before this big leap into tomorrow, though, it was nice to take a trip down Memory Lane. It was even nicer to know that the good times don't have to stay there. Over the weekend,we did a good bit of laughing about the old times, but we had quite a few new laughs as well**. We'll probably never again live in the same state, and I'm sure that as the years pass, we'll have more and more going on in our own lives that has nothing to do with each other. But I hope we'll still make an effort to see each other.

We'll just have to take the time.

___________

*See what I mean about the inside jokes? That cup full of nails thing made no sense to you, did it?

**More laughs than a cup full of nails. See? Annoying as crap, isn't it?

As The Countdown Continues, Each Day Has Its Due

Countdown: 46 days.

If you have been paying attention, you know that the event for which I am counting the days is my wedding. In 46 days, I will walk down the aisle, take the hand of my sweetheart and become a missus. I've been counting down pretty much since we set the date, and I keep track by marking the number of months and weeks on my home calendar, and months, weeks and days on my pocket calendar.

You know, in case I forget.

Honestly, though, I highly doubt I will forget, also having written on the big day, "get married, 4 p.m." and the name of the church.

It's not really that I'm excited (although I am) or impatient (I am that, too). I just like to keep track of dates. I journal pretty regularly, and I have for half my life, so I have records of many significant dates that, otherwise, I might have forgotten. Because of my habit of writing things down, my memory for dates is freakishly good. So I don't even have to look to know that today is the four-year anniversary of the day my fiance and I first met, on assignment together for the newspaper where I used to work and he still works. We didn't start dating for two years after that, so I probably wouldn't have remembered that had I not written about the assignment (and yes, I did write about the assignment, not the person with whom I had the assignment).

But even the insignificant dates become significant when they are centered around a big event, and by marking them off, in my journal, in my head or on the calendar, I feel I give them their due. Fifty-four days ago, I sat eating dinner in a Greek restaurant with my fiance, telling him this, as he laughed at me for being excited that it was exactly 100 days until our wedding.

"You may not think it's a big deal now," I told him, "but just wait until our wedding day. We'll be sitting at our reception, eating dinner, and I'm going to say to you, 'do you remember what we had for dinner 100 days ago?' You'll say 'no,' but I'll know that we ate here, and you had chicken kebabs, and I had a vegetarian plate." I went on to say that I would tell him this at the wedding, recount all the events of this day and of the party we were headed to that evening.

"I will even tell you about this conversation," I said, "and I will remind you that you didn't believe I could remember all of those details. But I will."

And as the date for the wedding gets closer, I find myself noticing something significant in every single day. Last Thursday, March 1, I realized that for the first time I could officially say "I'm getting married next month." This past Monday, when I saw the mid-season cliffhanger for NBC's Heroes, and the voice-over guy announced that the show would return on April 23, I turned to my fiance and said, "that was the last episode until after we're married." I do that with work projects, too, thinking, oh, the next time I'll talk to this client, I'll be married, or, I'd better not copy too many of these fax cover sheets, because I'll have to change the name on them in a few months.

I've begun to see my life lately in terms of "before the wedding" and "after the wedding." It's not that I feel my life will be all that different; it's just a way I'm framing events these days. It's sort of like leaving work on December 31 and realizing that you won't be back until the new year.

The fact of the matter is, when I walk down that aisle in 46 days, I probably won't care much about what I did today. I won't care what the weather was (cloudy and drizzly) what I wore (jeans and a black sweater), what I ate for lunch (Trader Joe's three-bean chili). But whether it matters or not in the long run, it's nice to know that this day was given its due.