I Think I Need a Frequent Flyer Program for My Life.

Looking back at the past month, my days have been stretched between southern Virginia, middle Virginia, Greater New York, British Columbia, and a dinner somewhere in there in Seattle. I’ll be back in New York next week, then off to Charlottesville after that; possibly on a jury in mid-November, then back home for a west-coast style Thanksgiving.

Good grief.

I love the adventure of the “now” season of me.  The travels and the new discoveries; the first times and grand introductions.  It’s a whirlwind, and it’s intoxicating.

At the same time, though, a part of me is really looking forward to settling down.  I’ve always kind of delighted in the idea of a slower routine, a life of being first a wife (not a lawyer), a mate (not merely a cocktail friend).  A life of comfortable chores and errands and dates to the grocery store.

Don’t get me wrong, there will always be excitement in my life—I’m not looking to go all down-home and boring or anything, no siree.  I think maybe I’m just finally seeing the bridge to that grown-up life I always imagined, off there in the distance, and I’m seriously considering crossing it.

About this time last week, mid-day on a Thursday, found me in a teeny tiny Laundromat on a quaint little main street somewhere north of New York City.  A little old man jumped up to help me with the (okay, kind of intimidating) grey beasts, while housewives and household help taunted and teased Jerry Springer’s guests in the background.  It was one of those perfect early fall days: a little bit drizzly, and cool enough for a scarf.  Quiet as you cross the wet pavement, the sidewalks dotted with those little yellow leaves—the leaves that so boldly stick to your shoes, your windshield, your doormat, each doing its part to liven up the landscape.  Little signs of coming change.

I’d never been to a Laundromat before (oh wonders of always living with facilities on-site!), so it excited me, perhaps, more than most.  Seriously, though, I just loved it.  Such a new thing!  So outrageous!  Laundromats had always been TV things for me; something you’d see on Friends or similar.  Parts and pieces of that ethereal make-believe world that everyone knows isn’t really real life, but seems just entirely romantic just the same.

My fellow launders, however, were quite real, and quite charming.  I really jumbled what I presume was a regular gathering—none of them hid their curiosity about me and my presence—but they made no mistake that they wanted to include me in their circle.  Little old ladies, woman folding sheets, elderly gentleman flirting softly with all of them … then me, in my cutie little shoes and tied up mad hair, crashing through the door with the PhD’s over-stuffed basket of young-person laundry.  Invasion!  And yet, somehow, I fit.

They all eventually left—kudos to them for getting an early start, but I’ll sleep in, thanks—and then it was just me, the fluorescent lights, and the distant whir and hum as things got clean.

It was then that I realized, I liked that life.  I could do that life.  Start to finish, chaos to folded perfection, there was something calming there.  A natural progression.  Things come in and things go out; strangers come and old hats leave.

There’s a rhythm to everything, I’m learning.  I’ve just got to find my next beat.

Big Oops, Little Oops.

Coming home from work tonight, I was somewhat distressed to learn, at the currency exchange desk at Reagan National, that the U.S. dollar is worth less than its Canadian counterpart these days.  When did that happen?

I wasn’t looking to exchange much; just $60 for cabs and the like when the PhD and I head up to Victoria next week.  That bought me? $56 Canadian.  Bummer. I upped it, paid, and went on my merry way.

On the train home, I was looking over the receipt, still trying to rationalize it.  I mean, wasn’t Canada always cheaper?  It was.  That’s why we’d go there in high school; same JCrew, better exchange rate!  Wooo!  Those days, it seems, have passed.

Tucking that slip back into my purse, though, I saw it.  Right up on the top of the receipt—“Travelex—CASH ADV.”  You see, unthinking, I ignored all the cash I had on hand the minute I saw the little visa sticker in their window.  “Points!” I thought.  “How brilliant.  Canadian dollars and points.”  It didn’t even occur to me that those dollars were, in fact, the purchase, and that purchasing cash is subject to hefty, hefty interest rates.  Rates that start right away.  As in, that $56 is probably costing me $62 now, and probably $65 by the end of this post; all I see in my head right now is a little meter just spinning on and on at an alarming speed going “cha-ching!” each time it passes the dollar mark.

I tried to call the bank right away to explain.  I was put on hold for the next available representative, which was all fine and good …  until they told me that my estimated wait time was 66 minutes.  Over an hour? Are you kidding me, Nordstrom? What, have they got but one sad little person in there answering phones?  LAME.  I put it on speaker for a bit and started doing other things, till it’d been 20 minutes, I was still in the 50s in terms of time left to wait, and it’s not after 7pm so those minutes count, calling as I was from the cell.  So I hung up.  I’ll call again later, and hope they’ll realize that I’m such a good customer and they really want to waive that interest fee, and this was all such an innocent, if stupid, mistake … right?

That was the little oops.

The big oops is (for once!) not mine, but I expect I’ll spend most of the rest of tonight dealing with it.

A friend of mine was engaged last spring, over Easter weekend.  A week later, she called it off.  Sad, but good, it seemed at the time; we worked through that, grew close, and she started dating again.

I met her most recent boyfriend, a really sweet guy she seemed totally serious about.  Then, last week, out of the blue—over.  Done. He was out.  She realized, she said, in something like an almighty flash of brilliance that she was still in love with the ex-fiance, was never going to be able to move on, and oh, good gracious, breaking off that engagement was the stupidest, worst thing ever, and she just had to make it right!  Right away!

Oops.  Big oops.

She’s dropping everything and moving to him ASAP, and I’m presuming (though she hasn’t said as much) in with him.  She quit her job this week, and we’ll be packing up her apartment tonight.  (her new apartment, mind, with a one-year lease that started Sept. 1).

As if this wasn’t all problematic enough, add this twist: ex-fiance lives in England.  As in, the country.  As in, “cannot work in without a visa.”  As in, “leave to enter 60 days, employment prohibited.”

Nice work, sweetheart.  Really nice work.

She’ll get it corrected, and it’ll all be sorted out in time.  For better or worse, she’ll know, which sometimes, I know from a bit too much experience, you just need.  I still find the suddenness of it irrational, and the “oh okay, I’ll just emigrate” mentality a bit rushed at this point, but there’s always so much to every story that we just don’t see.   Sometimes the most outrageous circumstances will suddenly make sense, will suddenly fall into place, with just a bit more information, a new perspective.

It’s difficult to explain, but I think this is the right call for her.  I think she has to do it.  Finance charges and legal alien status, hours on hold and embracing the wild unknown head-first: sometimes these are just the costs of doing business in this life filled with the potholes of our own missed judgments.  Great thing is, though, that—one way or another—the status quo is always restored.  Progress and growth never quite stop, and shopping is always cheaper somewhere.

Of Timelines and Priorities and Growth, and Something About Sex on the Beach.

More and more, I find myself seduced by the idea of more time.  That time lasts longer than the sixty measly seconds to the minute; that the hour between here and there can be stretched to contain this ambitious list of desired outcomes.  Once dependably punctual, I’m horrified to be consistently five, ten minutes late, cursing each traffic light as the clock ticks ever-onwards: since when does the day slip past so fast?

I hate that I’ve been so absent from this space (Hi, September, where did you go?).  The thing is, my life has just been deliciously full.  Weekends away and weddings.  Introductions, first meetings, and favorable impressions; coveted approval, knowing smiles, and promises spanning the gap from today to always (though no, I’m not engaged).  Hotel beds and crashing waves; Virginia, from top to bottom.

Material, it’s fair to say, I have plenty.  Like the time I drove up and back to New York, eleven hours straight one Sunday night, because the PhD and I had a slight misunderstanding about the departure time of his train (and we were a bit carried away saying goodbye besides).  I slid back into my parking space at exactly 3.59am, exuberant from a trip that worked out beautifully, in the end.  So long as you overlook the zombie I was at work on account of my massive sleep-debt which, I’m sorry to say, is only mounting.

Or my parents’ visit, over Constitution Day (which apparently is a big deal?); the minibreak we took, the history we learned, and the absolutely over-the-top, “I’m a princess”-style measures the PhD took to ensure that my birthday week was adequately celebrated there in his absence. A fifth birthday card sent overnight express with red roses to the room, specifically, and a call-in to the restaurant where we ate Friday so that “happy birthday, magda!” was written on the menu, we were met with champagne on the table, and all the waitstaff took particular care of us.  (If this was not real love, this could be scary behavior.  But it is, and it isn’t, and I felt so loved).

Then, how they adored the PhD when we met up at the weekend and how, in the course of a big Greek dinner, mom just casually assumed that he was staying with me—and how she didn’t seem at all bothered by it.  (Who are you, and where is my mother? Lies I had prepared to tell you!  Big lies about how he was staying with his sister!  Seriously.  We had it all planned out.  We’d wake early, plant him outside, and make it all seem real—that sounds insane, but these are my parents.  They are puritans.  My sisters and I are, as a result, insanely skilled in tactical deception). It’s totally in mom’s arsenal to be all obnoxious and ask him directly where he’ll be staying, probably right after he’s said something about how much he loves me.  (Thanks mom.  Love you, too).  That she just talked as if she knew he’d be with me totally registered as “DOES NOT COMPUTE.”  Dad called in the morning, and asked whether “we” were awake; then asked for the PhD’s coffee request.  “We’re headed to Starbucks,” he said.  “We’ll bring yours by.” Welcome to adulthood, magda?  You’ve finally made a choice we’re prepared to call sound and responsible?  Is this the point here?

These and about a billion others are the stories rattling around in the drawers of my memory, waiting patiently to come out into the world of words.  I think of them often; on the train, during my increasingly hectic days at work, in the car as I shuttle from here to there, I draft them out in my head.  But then when I get home and have the time, I’d so much rather sleep.  Or clean up last night’s dishes.  Or talk to the PhD, or an old friend; send an e-mail, or write a real letter.

I’m sitting here at the table now, looking out at the night sky and trying to figure out where this all is going.  I want to be writing about another amazing series of days, and another wedding we’re just back from; how being there only made me love him more, and how putting him on the train tonight nearly broke me.

The wedding was gorgeous; an intimate affair against the backdrop of sand and sky (a seacoast wedding … so romantic).  We took a walk along the shore during the reception, the PhD and I did; absolutely amazing.  Great conversation, great kisses, great feeling of sinking into the sand, holding such a strong and steady hand.  Weddings do things to people.  Like, say, the couple having actual, literal, pounding sex on the boardwalk.  At someone’s wedding!  Seriously!?  Call me old-fashioned, but oh my.  We snuck silently away, snickering to ourselves.

I could write it all out, these stories, weave together a narrative of my thoughts, and our experiences, and the details that made it all so lovely.  I want to.  I just don’t know where the time is anymore.

It could be that my life is just too full, that I have too many competing interests.  Priorities shift, and as much as I want to write here like I used to, I have other things trumping the triage.

That’s part of it.  A bigger part, I think, is that this space just isn’t what it used to be … and really, that’s a very good thing.  I started this all when I was in a very different place in my life.  I was sad, and fractured; I was confused, and very, very alone.  I was in a new city, in a relationship that was going nowhere (though I didn’t see that at the time).  I had no real, true, everyday-level friends.  I needed somewhere to feel; I needed somewhere to be more than just a passing face on a train, a casual glance before bed.

I’m not in that place anymore.  I have grown in a million ways, all for the very best, and magda, frankly, just isn’t who she used to be.

It tears me up a little bit, because I’ve come to really love and cherish this space, and the people I’ve met here.  I’m not ready to give all of this up, but it would be foolish not to acknowledge that the landscape has changed.  I don’t have the crises I used to. I have more real-world outlets now.  I’m in a relationship that I don’t really want to share, or analyze, or turn out onto the pages of the internet for a vent or a laugh.  I’m content.

I’m a writer and I’ll always have words for the world, and I hope to keep using this space to realize that; all this to say, though, that it may be more sporadic, more distanced from this point. I’m not on hiatus, and I’m not shutting down.  I just think that maybe, maybe I want to be more like that couple on the beach.  Have a life that’s private and outrageous and full of mad adventures and bold risks in the shadows; then, on the dance floor, be fashionable, have fun, and fit in, leaving no more than the hint of a few stray hairs.

Practically Legal.

By far the best birthday present I ever received was my Molly doll.  It was the summer I discovered the American Girl books in the library, and I devoured their entire shelf; for hours, I’d sit out in the grass, finding myself in other worlds entirely.

I feel like I knew about the dolls, but I definitely didn’t ask for one; they were expensive, and honestly, I don’t think it even occurred to me to want one.  Of all the books, though, Molly’s were my favorite; I checked them all out at least twice.  My mom, every tricky, totally noticed.

She came the day I turned eight, the mystery in the big box amongst the standard birthday fare of markers and clothes and books.  It was magical. She came to life; she was my imagination made tangible.  She had a room in my room, and outfits all her own; when mom would make me a dress, Molly got one to match.  She came to church, and to grandma’s.  She was everywhere.

Soon thereafter, my sisters, in turn, received Samantha and Kirsten, and we had positive worlds set up for those girls.  Occasionally I still get letters addressed to Mrs. McIntire; ever-formal, that’s how we’d refer to each other when dolls were afoot.

Tomorrow I turn 28.  Which means Molly is … 20.  Twenty!  That can’t be right!  Gosh and golly, olly molly, you’re making me feel ancient.  And next year I’m totally buying you a beer.

Brad Who? Wait, What?

Though I can’t really say why, I’ve been wearing my high school class ring more and more often.  It sat dormant in my jewelry box for years, really, until I pulled it back out, over the summer sometime.  It’s yellow gold, which I don’t much wear anymore; it’s really quite pretty, though, in a very non-class-ringish way.  It’s all symbols and signs, very old-school Catholic.

I don’t think back much to high school, if I’m honest.  I’m friends still with exactly one girl from that time; we’re close, but not all-the-world-and-everything close.  I’ll invite her to my wedding no doubt, but she won’t be in it.  Like that.

I have some hilarious memories from high school, but most of what I had then I’d just as soon forget. Some of it was that I just wasn’t grown up, wasn’t myself yet.  I think I was more awkward than most people; I was incredibly sheltered, hopelessly naïve, and ardently disinterested in all of those high school things one’s meant to take up.

In New York last weekend, we were looking through some of the PhD’s high school photos.  Beach weeks and beer; old flames and total unbridled adolescence.  I don’t really have anything comparable.  For me, high school was homework and frizzy hair, conspicuously un-flared khakis (with a line pressed neatly down the leg).  It was all I knew, but it still embarrasses me.  It embarrasses me how little I really was.

My family is amazing and tight and well-structured, but in some ways this is the price I’ve paid for it.  I played dolls with my sisters through ninth grade.  I made it to college unable to recognize the scent of pot. I was a quintessential “good girl,” but not because I was all high and mighty: rather, because I really didn’t know any better.

Such a shielded youth can be envious, but it can also be humiliating.  It’s a tough balance between protecting kids and letting them fit in.  In a world that’s broken, the straight and narrow is often the loneliest, most desolate road.  It’s worked out just fine for me and I have no complaints … I’m just glad things were different for my sisters.

They, for instance, had at least some grounding in pop-culture.  In one of my French classes, sophomore year, we—as a quiz—had to describe a pre-selected photo to the class such that they could recognize it from a pool of options pinned up on the board.

“It’s a man,” I said, in French that likely was top of the class.  “He’s wearing jeans and a grey sweater.”  Several, sadly, met this description.  “What does he do?” a classmate asked.  I was stumped.  Do? “He’s a model?” I said, more a question than anything.  “He’s attractive, and, ummm, he’s dressed like it’s maybe a casual Saturday morning?”  I was out.

What I should have said: “He’s an actor.  He’s married to Jennifer Aniston.  He’s in that movie Seven.”

I would have said these things if I’d had ANY idea they were true.  For all I knew, those Brad Pitt eyes were looking at me from a Sears catalogue clipping.  It was absolutely humiliating, and I still remember the ridicule in even my teacher’s voice.  That was one in a loooong list of high school popularity gaffes, from musicians to movies and positively everything a normal 16-year-old should know.  (Anyone ever play that game where you have a name stuck on your back and have to guess who it is? ALWAYS the last one standing on that one.  Hated it).

I was sharing snippets of this epic series in uncool last night in a small group; as an ice-breaker, we were telling embarrassing stories.

Someone pulled me aside afterwards, though, and challenged me for being real enough. “That’s it? That’s your embarrassing moment?” she said, really critically.  She, I suppose, wanted me to have illuminated something searing and very sinful (of which, oh yes, I do have plenty); something that, as she put it, “would let the others know that this is a safe space for sharing.”  Maybe.  Maybe.

Perhaps I didn’t express it right, or she may have just had no basis on which to relate—but that story, those moments, really affected me growing up.  They were more lastingly embarrassing than a lot of the faux pas I’ve made, the errors I’ve aided.  (And I challenged her right back—this was an icebreaker.  It was light.  It was “an embarrassing moment,” not “bare the depths of your blackest humiliation.”  There’s a time and place for that, and last night was NOT IT).

It’s surprising me how much that trivial French class story is affecting me today, though.  I woke up this morning like it was 10 years ago, feeling that shroud of inadequacy all over again: I remembered so clearly feeling positively ignorant at life.  Of course it wasn’t a huge deal, but those are the kinds of experiences, the emotional outlayings and scarings, that shape people.  Everyone has them, though they manifest differently; that sheltered and girlish naiveté I carried well into college was mine.

I look at the paper this morning and recognize Jon Gosselin, Elijah Wood, and Kim Kardashian, without even reading the captions.  I send back my regrets to my 10 year reunion not because those feelings still linger—I’m pleased with the ways I’ve changed—but because that’s a world that I never really called mine.  It also doesn’t help that it’s in Seattle, on a weekend I’m not in town; I’ll be back as it is once already in October, at Thanksgiving, and for Christmas. Another trip? Eh, not feeling it.  I’d go if I was home, or if it was closer.  But really, right now? Those people I knew then are as foreign as Brad Pitt to me.  And that’s okay.

Six Months (a story of uncertain endings).

Walking back from the train tonight, it finally feels like fall is on the way. The air is just that much less humid; the sun doesn’t hit quite so hard. There’s a chill in the breeze that makes me wish I’d tucked in my jacket, that long-forgotten companion.

My mail, of course, has been telling me this for weeks. Car tag renewals. Tax assessments due. Insurance statements. Dear Magda, you have lived in the commonwealth coming up three years. Congratulations! Please pay. I’ve mostly pushed them to the side; “October’s in forever!” I’d say, panting, reaching out to crank up the air.

Here on my desk, however, is the penultimate: the lease. Due back tomorrow.

I have renewed it for a six-month term.  I will be here, guaranteed, through April 30, 2010.  Past that point? Uncertain.

Preceding this signature was a would-be argument, a “when will we be together”-fueled feistiness; a “do you or do you not see us together?,” triggered by hormones (in the least degree), raw love (in the highest degree), and the emotion of uncertainty (most of all).  When it all settled out, we said six months.

I called my mom over the weekend.  “I’m thinking six months,” I said.  Saieth she: “That sounds about right.”  MOM. HELLO. This is your oldest daughter, your first-born child; you’re going to agree to this whole “screw my career, and my roots; this is real love” campaign?  And wait, what’s that, you’re a donor, too?  Well.  Okay then.   Way to throw me for a loop. (seriously, there I was ready to defend myself when … wait.  You support this?  You think this is a good idea? mmmmm-kay…)

Do I want to be with him? Yes.  Do I want that to be soon? Absolutely, especially on days like today,  days where I’m easily reminded of precisely why the second-most popular search term leading to this blog–after those savvy travelers googling “quart-sized ziploc”–is “my job makes me want to kill myself,” else a close variant thereof.  Indeed! Can’t offer much more than commiseration, I’m afraid; alas, though, YES.

The idea of being a New Yorker come the spring is outrageously romantic.  That’s where I am with it, though; it’s still an idea.  I’m living a fairy tale in so many ways, but something about my inked signature on this paper is hauntingly permanent.  April.  I could well change plans, renew again, or go month-to-month, as extortionist as those rates are. Then again, I could be headed north, singing a “suck it” tune in the direction of my boss’ office, and moving on to brand new things all our own.  (It all just seems so fast, though; even four months ago, I’d never have considered giving up this place, not to mention packing my life into boxes and moving it across state lines).

I feel a bit like Cinderella, half way through, the third or fourth time you read it; you know she’s got a happy ending coming if she can just scrub enough floors to get from page to page.  There’s something deeply satisfying about that promise, but just knowing it isn’t enough: Prince or no price, her hands are still in that bucket for at least this page and probably the next, and she’s likely breathing in lye; she’ll get there, but that’s not to say it’s not a struggle.  It’s coming, and soon.  I can see it, and planning for it’s good; I feel like I know this ending, but it’s not mine yet.

So I have this lease here. This apartment never was going to be forever, this life here never was forever, and six  months is just a signature at this point.  It doesn’t mean anything permanent.  It represents something, though; something tangible.  It’s good, but I’m a bit scared as well.  (!HA.  Okay, a lot scared, when I really sit down and think about it.  Me? Moving in the spring? Come again?).

I’m going to eye it over one more time, kiss it goodbye, and trot it on downstairs; then celebrate, with a little glass of porto.  To new opportunities, taking chances, and new possibilities: to risks and love and trust and faith.  cheers cheers.

Farewell, Favored Status.

It’s not like she actively despises me.  It’s more like she just wishes I wasn’t around; like I remind her of something she’d rather keep locked away.  Something she doesn’t want to remember.

I generally consider myself a pretty likable person. I’m friendly, I’m fun, I’m spunky and I’m smart; I’m ambitious but not too ambitious. Young, but not too young. To put it bluntly, I have been many a boyfriend’s mother’s favorite, but I feel like I’m staring down the telescope at those days anymore.  Waving them fondly goodbye.  Somehow, at every meeting with the PhD’s mom, I leave feeling defeated, wishing I could just sit down and cry for a little bit.

We didn’t start out on the right foot, and things have not turned around from that point. We met in silence, with her just staring at me.  “I’m Magda,” I said, smiling.  She did not reciprocate the introduction.  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, with a poker face. I tried to initiate conversation; she’d answer, but was clearly disinterested from that point.  Okey-doke. I asked the PhD for her name later (and had looked it up myself as well … because yeah, I’m like that).  Her name is simple and straight-forward; for our purposes today, let’s call her “Susan.”

“It was so nice to see you again, Susan,” I said on parting at our second meeting. Then a snap.  “My name is SUZY,” she barked.  “The PhD should have clued you in on that.”  And she turned around and left.

The PhD apologized, and I turned red. (And COME ON. Your name is not Suzy.  That’s just what you’d like to be called, and there are nicer ways of telling me that).  Nonetheless, I wrote her a note later that week, with her preferred name, telling her how glad I was to be getting to know her; how much I thought of her son.  (Hi, I’m Magda, and I’m not a monster).

I won’t get into it here, but the PhD and his mom have a complicated relationship.  The older I’ve gotten and the more people I’ve met, the more I’ve come to realize that my family, wholly functional, totally loving, and absolutely amazing, is completely bizarre.

I can’t wait to see my family, and I hate that I live so far away.  I’d use all my vacation days to be back with them (and often, I do). For that reason, I can’t really relate to the PhD’s coming back here, to Virginia, and not seeing his family—not even letting them know he’s in town—but that’s how it is, and that’s how they work.  I haven’t met his dad and his stepmom, nor have I gotten to know his sisters.  I default to him, though, when he says this is their normal; it breaks my heart a little bit, but if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is.

This weekend the annals of my non-understanding got a bit thicker.  As if the PhD wasn’t amazing enough, he’s also something of a gardener; last spring, he planted a little vineyard in his mom’s backyard. (Brilliant, good with his hands, AND a fan of wine.  We have here a winner, people). We go to check on the vines periodically when he’s in town; the yard abuts a public street, and we’re no strangers to standing at the edge and looking at the progress.

Yesterday, lo and behold, his mom was actually in the yard.  She spied us, and we said we’d come in. We drove around, knocked on the door, and waited.  And waited.  And finally came in.

Rather than being happy to see her only son, however, she had for him a list of tasks, and a laundry list of woe-is-me complaints.  It was entirely awkward, sitting in that kitchen; I really had no place, and though the PhD kept dragging me into the conversation, I just didn’t stick.  Invisible.

As we left, however, I came into range.  She pulled me aside, and issued an icy reprimand for not calling ahead.  “You know, I really need a phone call before you two just drop by,” she said.  “I’d appreciate some warning before you just come to my house.”

What I wanted to say: “sorry you saw us visiting the vines, but we really had no intention of talking to you today.” Or, “if you make this place more welcoming, maybe we’ll give that a shot.” Perhaps, “cut me some slack, lady, don’t you see how happy your son is with me?”

Instead, I just apologized.  I just stood there and said I was sorry, over and over, until the PhD came back downstairs.  I hate being called on the carpet like that.  Being smacked by someone whose respect I desperately want.  Leaving with my tail between my legs, and grinding my teeth all the way home to choke back the futile tears of frustration.

Straight from the book of sharp contrasts, my parents are coming in about a month for a week-long visit.  We’ll travel around and I’ll take a few days off; the PhD will come down, and he’ll get to know them. Last night, though, mom set it out there.  They want to meet this woman; they want us all to go to dinner.

I told her I didn’t think it would work, that I just can’t seem to get on this Suzy’s A-list.  “It’ll never work, mom,” I said.  “She really doesn’t like me.”  Mom, ever-wise, told me I didn’t really have a choice.  “You don’t just get to love him, you have to love his whole family,” she said, and she’s right, of course.  But it’s still hard to swallow.

Hard to visualize, too.  I’ve spent a bit of time today wondering how they’ll integrate, my idyll with Suzy’s wreckage. My happy home life with something they had once, but lost; my parents’ success with her failure.  I wonder if she’ll even come if I invite her, or what she’ll find to be unhappy with there.  It’ll be interesting.  But, as it seems it is my future, it’s an adventure I (suppose) I’m willing to take.

Takeoffs and Landings, of Sorts.

I got off at the airport tonight.  I don’t know what it was, really, but the conductor said “Reagan National,” and that was me; in that moment, right then, that was my stop.

I sat on the black wanting-to-be-leather chairs outside of security, just me and my ipod; just me and my thoughts, watching the planes against the glistening backdrop of the Potomac.  A half-hour diversion.  Another world.

Here are some of the inanities, the missing ends, of my week thus far: I very nearly ran out of gas in ghettosville, Maryland, on what worked out to be Monday morning, circa 12.30am. (no joke.  I think my tank holds 16 gallons; I pumped 16.2 when I finally slid into an open station.  I know. Horrifying responsibility fail).  I have surrendered the helm of office operations back to my idiot boss, who is (at long last) back from his vacation.  As something of a consequence, I have on my desk at work an enormous knife, with an intricate wooden handle with a big moose on it that says ALASKA.  A “thank you” present, it seems?  (Does this disturb anyone else? My boss left for seven weeks and brought me back what could well be construed as a murder weapon? With a MOOSE on it?). (I’ve left it on my desk, rather than bringing it to my kitchen where it clearly belongs, because it’s just too hilarious).  Then, just yesterday, I ran into one of my very first DC friends in the elevator.

For probably the first two, three months of my DC existence, this girl was it.  She was my “her,” my construed lifeline in a world of a new career, a new city, a new relationship.  We really thought we were going to be best friends … until we weren’t.  I can’t pin exactly how it faded, how it all just returned to the ether, but it did.  It was like we realized we were there in each others’ lives for a purpose, and that purpose had passed.  It was an understanding sans drama. We drifted, and though it wasn’t intentional, our paths just stopped crossing.

We went out for drinks tonight.  A sky threatening rain forced our sangria plans indoors, but three beers, a bad businessman flirt, and a lot of laughs later, we were back.

She’s never going to be a real friend of mine, but the difference is, I have real friends now.  There was a serious gravity in looking back on what brought me from her to here, and she’ll always hold a place in my history.  Probably a place in my happy-hour calendar from here, too, which—indeed—is pretty happy.

I’m so far from where I was in 2007, the last time we really sat down.  In more ways than I can coherently set out, I am so glad.  It’s strange to be in a place long enough as an adult to actually have a history; to be able to look back and chart out milestones and lessons, errors and victories.  To come back and say, here’s who I am now, and here’s what I’m about.  Here’s what’s new, and here’s what I’ve learned.

To see the planes take off, not knowing quite where they’re going; but, to see the promise of a safe landing just one runway over.  To trust, and know, and live.

Ideal Customer, Right Here.

A bit ago, I received in the mail a completely unsolicited $25 gift card from West Elm.  No strings attached, either: no “off of a $75 purchase,” no “so long as you sell us your first-born child.”  No small print.  Just a “please come visit us, we think you’ll like what you see.”

I suspect they bought my name from Crate & Barrel.  I swear, that catalogue is my porn, and the dollar-amount I spend there is positively obscene.  But boy did they have me pegged.

Dear PhD, we are moving to West Elm.  As in, we will henceforth live in the store.  Mmmm-kay? xo, magda.

I suppose there are some people who will go there all practical-like and get one candle or something, totally for free.  Not me.  They’re counting on me, the little be-visaed spender, who’ll use her $25 as a passport to bigger purchases.  They probably had a candid picture of me, blown up and rather grainy (in black and white, naturally), on posters during their campaign period.  “This,” a suit would say with a snap of his wooden pointer to my photo,  “is our target.  This girl right here is what will make this whole promotion worthwhile.”

The checker snuck a catalogue into my bag.  I swam in it all the way home on the train.

I dropped the newly-acquired darlings off in this here apartment before heading off on a few other errands; but a moment to breathe, and I was off again.  The macbook is back (oh happy fortune!), with a whole new keyboard—they replaced the entire casing.  Best part of this story, it was all free, thanks to the extended warranty I apparently purchased.  The me of the past who signed up for that is brilliant.   So, so  brilliant.  Man, I love that girl.  The keys are back to click-clacking, and there is peace in the world of me once more; plus, the whole thing feels like a brand new computer—so sleek! And smooth! And crisp!

I also ran by Target (ooooh, lovely), and grabbed a few things for New York this weekend.

Incidentally, however, I was unable to find dirt.  I’ve had problems in this department before.  Last time I was planting things, it was winter; that may have been why there was no soil to be found, anywhere.  However.  It’s not really spring anymore (hello, 100+ heat index), but neither is it November; come on and help a girl out already.

After making a few determined stops, I have concluded that either (1) potting soil is simply not sold in the state; or (2) the stores here are so inept at organization and I am so bad at location that it’s simply lost in the chaos, everywhere.

Alas.  I have some sprout-lings in dire need of more permanent homes, so it was back to the cemetery for me.  Sort of the cemetery.  Overlooking the cemetery.  Still, though, really, there’s something incredibly unsettling about being near headstones at dusk, with a sky angering towards a storm.  Digging in the dirt with a big spoon while the cicadas chirp up above does not add much comfort to this picture.    C to the reepy, oh my lord that was something only I would do!  And in my work clothes!

Happy result, though, is that those spirits relinquished a bit of their earth.  My most holy Catholic plant is faring quite well indeed in that same soil, so hopes for these next ones, yes?

The commonwealth earned itself a bit of my paycheck tonight, but also yielded its rawness, its ancient depths, to a new home in my kitchen.  That’s about the way it should be, I’d say.  I’m prepared to call it an even trade.

I Didn’t Go to the Gym Again Today.

I didn’t go to the gym again today, which is a little bit sad as it’s a mere seven floors below me.  I can remember pretty clearly the last time I was there.  It was ages ago; a month, at least.  Back when life had a rhythm; back when things were just beginning to show signs of bursting out to who-knows-where.

Here is what I did instead: worked late; went out for beers with my associate editor; got a bit tipsy, as all I’d really eaten was a small-sized tofu curry.  Came home and added the mail to the growing pile on the table. Cooked some pasta.  Started some laundry. 

I’ve come to cherish, it seems, that which is ordinary.  By all rational accounts, this weekend was a normal one.  (Normal!  I can hardly anymore fathom the term).  I didn’t see the PhD.  I slept in.  I went to the pool, and I answered off-the-cuff calls from friends with “yes!” not “well see, I kind of already have plans…”  I was me again, and I totally loved it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love the PhD with every keystroke I’ve got.  Thing is, though, he’s an addition.  A welcome parenthesis; a title; an introduction.  I’ve got a life already. I have friends and roots and relationships.  Work is kicking my ass these days, and looking to my seat cushion as a flotation device seems awfully tempting; I’ll add him to my raft with pleasure but sometimes, really, my head slips beneath the surface. We needed a weekend apart. I feel almost like a bad companion writing that; like he misses me far more than I miss him.  I don’t think that’s it.  I think we’re just in different places. I’m all that’s constant to him in a swirling world of newness, whereas to me, he is that swirl: he is that tornado of love that’s ripped through an otherwise calm and structured life.  It’s worth it … but it’s a different kind of adjustment. 

I write to him, spilling out my words in lieu of my presence; perhaps symbolically, the space bar of the darling macbook that started going for broke in Chicago freaking FLIES OFF. Space bar = defunct.  Story of my life these days, right there: so many words, so many thoughts clamoring to come out, but the speed of them just deadens it, breaks it, corrals it in.  The words that once just tripped out are confined now to narrower spaces, to more intentional parameters; to a thinking writer who pauses three, four, five times a thought to hit her thumb in exactly the center, who backs back over and deletes when she misses the mark.  The genius bar can’t see me till Wednesday. Baaaa.  Till then, well, I’ll adjust.  And I’ll take the time it needs.  And I’ll keep looking for the right balance.