April Is The Cruelest Month

Every year around February, I start asking people when they remembered spring coming the year before. "Didn't it come early last year? March?" I ask hopefully. Those who know me know that I hate winter. I hate coats, long sleeves, and closed-toe shoes (although I do love a scarf).

Every year, around April, I get fooled. You know that saying, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me?" Well, shame on me every year since I moved to this weather deficient area of the universe. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I think that the 70 degree weather that surprises us mid-April is going to stay, when every year it's followed by weeks of rain/cloudiness/45 degrees and windy? Why do I cast aside my boots in favor of flip-flops with such joy and abandon when I know I will be fishing them out of the back of my closet in a few days? Because I want summer to come. I love summer. I just love it. I love melting ice cream and bbqs -- watermelon dribbling down your chin and running through the sprinkler -- sitting on the grass and feeling the sun on my face. And man, do I love the beach.

T.S. Eliot famously wrote that April is the cruelest month. I think it's because he lived in the D.C. metro area.

The Breast Whisperer

I was reading the Sunday Post when I came across this troubling article about a "lactation consultant" who calls herself "The Breast Whisperer." The subheader was "Part Detective, Part Cheerleader, A Popular Lactation Consultant Aids Stressed-Out Moms." Detective? Like Cesar Millan, will the breast whisperer teach a breast not to jump on guests when they come over? Moreover, where was this major when I was in college? The whole "take women's studies to get dates" bit yielded mixed results. This seems like it would have been a sure thing.

This just strikes me as another example of the commodification of women's insecurities. There are way too many industries built on convincing women that something is wrong with them and that they have to pay exhorbitant amounts not necessarily to fix them, but to convince them they at least tried. So, baby will take to the breast if baby is hungry. If not, baby can drink out of a bottle. What? They say babies who breastfeed do better in school and are healthier? Well, it is never too early for kids to learn that their dopey choices can have lifelong implications.

On Becoming

A few years ago, Friday night would mean happy hour, followed by more boozing, topped off with some carousing. This Friday night, the most exciting thing I did was to try and give the cat her asthma medication. I feel a mid-30s crisis brewing. What exactly does that mean? Wearing more Abecrombie & Fitch and saying "bitches" alot (regardless of the sex of the people referenced)?

What I Did Yesterday

Wednesday nights, from late spring through summer, I play softball. It is my job to do the game recaps. I try and make them somewhat interesting (in the past I have referenced anyone from Nietzsche to the Muppets), not just a who scored what, how. Below is the intro of the recap of yesterday's game:

As a four year veteran of the [office's] softball teams, I have become at peace with the fact that we may never be good. The somewhat absolute truth about our chances on the softball field -- for those new to this office, they are poor -- can be comforting. Kind of in the way an old, favorite sweater is. In the end, you know you are probably going to lose, so just enjoy a nice spring day and try not to get into trouble for drinking remarkably beer-like beverages on the Mall.

Some folks on the team, though, come into every season thinking "this might be the year." Sorry, I have to be a wet blanket. That is not the audacity of hope; that is the insanity of hope. The kind of hope that has people spending thousands of dollars over their lifetime playing the lottery. And losing 99.99% of the time, wining $5 dollars every now and then. Sometimes the payoff can come from hard work; ultra longshot aspirations that would require some sort of divine intervention creates false expectations. It reminds me of the old joke: a guy is talking to God and asks him what a million years is to him. God says a second. The guy asks God what a billion dollars is to him. God says a penny. The man asks God for a penny. "Sure," God says, "In a second."

Yet, yesterday's game provided dangerous grist for the hopemongerers on our team: a crushing 22-6 victory for [our team] over [the other team]. I don't know much about them either; I just wish we could play them every week. They could be the Washington Generals to our slightly better Washington Generals.

Sticky Air

M and I have both been struggling the last week with an ailment that appears to be allergic in nature. We are both phelgmy. Both of us acknowledge that there is something in the air in the house, but we have been gutting it out.

Then, Bish (the cat) was diagnosed today with asthma. Before I go into that, there really should be a "lemon law" for pets you adopt at the local animal shelter. We adopted Bish and her brother Bennie in November. Cost -- $200 in adoption fees. Within a month, Bennie became bloated and lethargic. Trip to the vet -- $500 -- for xrays, blood tests and an evaluation. He was diagnosed with FIP, a fatal incurable feline disease. We had him put to sleep. His sister, Bish, had a blood test ($150) and tested negative. A few months later, she was throwing up and we took her back to the vet. Xrays and a blood test later ($400), she was diagnosed with FIP too, but the disease is not advance and for all intents and purposes she was fine.

Until she started having labored breathing. We took her back to the vet today. After xrays ($170), we found out she has asthma and needs an inhaler ($150).

"I think her asthma is a wake up call. We need to change the furnace filters and clean the air ducts. The air in this house is not clean." Frankly, I think the cat's asthma is not that big a deal. I had asthma when I was a kid, and I am convinced it made me stronger. I took to smoking better than other teens.

Hiring a company to so all this will probably cost another $150. So, the cat(s) has cost us -- some $1700. The pleasure of cleaning up her poop and piss, feeding her, and having her fill the house with shredded toilet paper every day hardly makes it a bargain. Honestly, I am not sure where the cat is getting the toilet paper from. We have put all the rolls in impossible to reach places. I am convinced Bish must have a Costco membership where she bough an 85 count package of single ply (comfort is not important to her as she shreds it) Charmin.

I have no clue where to begin finding a good heating/cooling system service company. In the old days of the yellow pages, it was easier. You just turned to the heating/cooling section and the company with the bigger ad was obviously the best.

Now, you do a search and who knows what turns up. So I tried to use some aggregator site called "Service Magic." I input my data and the service requested. Within a minute, I was flooded with calls. Who to choose now? The professional sounding woman who left a 1-800 number or the hard-working foreign guy who gave me both his work and cell number? Definitely ruled out -- the creepy guy who breathed very hard.

So Long, Farewell...

One of my favorite movies is, The Sound of Music. I love this movie. I love that the networks play it on Easter every year. I love Maria's non-nonsense short hairstyle. I love watching the moment Maria and the Captain realize they're in love. And I love the endless goodbye the children give to their father's guests as they reluctantly make their way up the steps of the Von Trapp mansion.

The past few weeks have felt like the endless goodbye, but not between people, but rather between a person (me) and her car.

Back up: Joseph K. and I recently purchased new cars. He, out of necessity, me out of not wanting him to have a new car and not me. In my defense, my car was 11 years old. It ran well, but after tooling around in Mr. K's new ride for an afternoon, I started seeing my Red Devil as a lover whose flaws had been startlingly revealed. Fast forward: I have a new car.

Since we are a twosome, with no need for three cars, we decided to donate the Red Devil to charity. The minute I made the call to have my car picked up, I started getting nostalgic: Remember the times she drove me across the country? What about all the times she was enlisted by my auto-deprived friends for trips to IKEA or the grocery store? I remember the first moment I saw her. I had wanted her for so long, looking lustily every time I saw her pass me by, driven by someone else. Finally, she was mine. And now, 11 years later, she is not.

The actual process of letting her go was excrutiating. I called the charity. They told me they needed her title. Of course, I didn't have it, so another week went by -- the RD left undriven as I flaunted my new wheels in front of her. Title arrived. Re-scheduled the pick-up a week later. Took RD's plates 0ff (SOB!) in preparation for her tow. Towing company didn't come. Said they would come the following day. RD sitting there. Looking at me. Don't you love me anymore?

Oh RD! How much do I love you? I've always been able to rely on you. You've never given me any trouble. I've known you longer than I've known some of my best friends. You've seen me cry, watched me dine, heard my deepest secrets. You're going to make someone really happy.

This morning, I left for work in the new car. I got halfway down my street and looked back one last time. I saw my youth and all my memories. I turned the car around, walked back into my house, found my camera, and took the picture you see above. It's been an amazing ride. Auf wiedersehen, goodbye.

Rain, Rain Go Away

I happen to have the world's most amazing sister. As evidence, I point to the lovely gift she gave me for Christmas that Joseph K. and I cashed in last Sunday -- a romantic picnic for two at an area vineyard.

I had booked the picnic a couple of weeks ago, thinking it would be nice for the two of us to get away for an afternoon and sun ourselves among the grapes. Unfortunately, Mother Nature was not advised of our plans, and dumped an unmerciful amount of rain in and around our metro area. Undeterred, Joseph K. and I forged ahead, always ready to get our drink on.

After an hour's drive through the mid-Atlantic region's version of a monsoon (seriously, it was bad) we arrived at the Veramar Vineyard, soaked. Luckily, the winery had hosted a wedding the night before, and the tent was still up, so we got our picnic outside. It may not have been sunny, but it was quiet. We feasted, watched the rain, and reflected. Happy to be alone together.

Ode to Joseph K

When I was a girl, I decided I was not the marrying kind. Marriage was for women with no ambition, no spark. I, on the other hand, had DREAMS. I imagined myself blissfully single till at least 35, traipsing around the globe, leaving one conflict zone for another, romancing Nigel (the dashing British relief pilot I had met at an ex-pat bar), always leaving but promising to come back with a wink and a smile. I would settle in Manhattan, and eventually share my three-bedroom apartment with Nigel, never marrying, but happily co-habitating. With this fantasy in mind, I carefully charted out my career: law school, domestic non-profit, international NGO, the U.N.

Four years into my stint at the non-profit, and still at the beginning of my career, I found myself emotionless. For four years, I had thrown all my emotion into work, crying over it, wrestling with it in my head, having nightmares about it, leaving nothing for myself. Was this what I wanted for myself? A life of devotion to "the cause," pumped by a cold heart? Moreover, where was Nigel?

I never found Nigel. Never worked abroad, never drank whiskey at an ex-pat bar. But I did find a sweet, loyal, solid man who makes me feel like the girl who had dreams of being something bigger than herself. Who makes me feel like I can still run away at a moment's notice. And I'm marrying him.

M, who decided long ago that she was not the marrying kind, is getting married. And she can't fucking wait.

The Third Time's The Charm

This new blog is the journey of "us." M and Joseph K, a word and two letters. We are forty days away from our wedding.

In the interest of full disclosure, this is not the first time I have been engaged. I was engaged once before, a few years ago. Whenever M raises this, I always jokingly tell her, "Yeah, I was engaged before, but as you know the third time's the charm." I don't think she's been amused the 47 times I have made that joke. Surprisingly, it gets me every time.

So I reveal a secret to her and you today: I was engaged another time. Years ago. When I was nine, my parents were visiting a family friend and brought me along. They had a daughter, and they dumped me on her.

We sat around staring at each other at first. Finally she announced, "I have a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine." Then, I wanted to be her friend. I disarmed her with my charm. "Make me one."

She refused unless I agreed to marry her. I said fine. As I was trying to enjoy my Snoopy Snow Cone (cherry, of course), she tried to kiss me. This older cougar (she was 11 ) was aggressive, physical. I was up to the task and wriggled out of her grasp. She fell, broke a nail and lost it.

As I drove home, drowning out my parents yelling and licking the residual cherry syrup off my fingers, I thought about what just happened. She just didn't get me. At 9, I just wasn't the settling type. Now, with M, I'm ready.