Monthly Archive

I feel I ought to post something today just to earn it the rare “February 29” designation. So odd to see the date in print; I want to memorialize it somehow.  I also feel I ought to pay tribute to the thousands of publications bearing today’s date that were, tragically, destroyed.  And I? Just call me the destroyer.  The executioner for the written word. Here stands I, in my black hood; here stands journal, it’s leap day neck in the guillotine. Au revoirs all around.

Our publication has an ugly stepsister journal, a sort of “greatest hits” issue that runs every two weeks: every other Friday.  Our associate editor put it together yesterday, and sent me the proof copies before I had to jet out in the afternoon.  I read them over, approved them, and sent them to publications.  They published, and were sitting in distribution today when I get a somewhat frantic call.

Evidently it isn’t, in fact, a strict every-other-Friday sort of deal.  It’s a first-and-third Friday sort of a deal.  This just oh-so-conveniently happens to be every other Friday unless your month has an unprecedented five Fridays.  Like a leap year.  Specifically, only a leap year.   Our managing editor is off on about his billionth vacation of the year, and the calendar said publish.  Not exactly our fault, and yet … HA.  Ahahaha. Oops. And what an awesome surprise for our boss when he gets back.  Well, we nearly burned the place down, but not quite!  Not quite.  Destroy, I said, and they did.  

On a less destructive note, it’s also my cousin’s birthday today.  He’s, let’s see, 6;  24 if you count the in-between years when he’d celebrate on the 28th.  I’d like the rarity, but probably not the reality of that fate. 

My Buddha celebrated the day in style, with another offering—this week, a rabbit.  “Leap day,” the offeror said.  “Rabbit is leaping.”  Adorable.  I’ve got to start documenting this.  I’ve practically got a shrine going in my office these days.

In my own style of zen, I celebrated the night out with a whole riotous table from the office.  Off in the corner, I noticed my boss’ boss having a quiet martini with some other suits, and I do wonder what they thought of us (and if they noticed us at all). 

As for me? I’m tired.  And slightly drunk.  And planning to head to bed, sleep late, and be responsible later.  Much later.  Like, in March.  (Is it really almost spring?!)

It’s amazing how I can go from insanely lazy, hmmm I’ll check my e-mail five billion times days to days where everything seems to be coming at me with little jet engines attached. 

Today was definitely a jet engine day.  I had to be at Commerce (as in Commerce, Department of) for an early morning hearing, yet I stayed up far too late last night drinking margaritas to make that a very pleasant encounter.  Tequila has a tricky way of making everything seem like it’s suddenly all better.  I’ve got to stop wanting to believe.   

Of course the hearing ran so long it could legitimately have been called an early-afternoon affair, which left me scrambling to get back to the office in time to file a short report before I had to head out at the ungodly early hour of 3.30.  Ordinarily this kind of early dismissal would delight me, and ordinarily tight deadlines bring out my best work.  I was just too frantic, though.  ”Think, Magda, Think!” I said, over and over, to an oppressively blank screen.  I filed something of undeterminable quality at 3.28, and ran home to get my car to drive to J’s to take him to Baltimore so he could catch a flight.  Then breathe.  

Far more movement entered my day today than is usual.  I took the train into the city, then a cab back to work; a train home and the car for the hour trek north to the airport.  And all the walking and scurrying in between.  

Mid-day metro rides are a different experience in a lot of ways, I realized (or remembered?) today.  At 3.30, say, not too many people are commuting.  They’re just traveling,  just going.  The aisles that house crammed be-suited urban professionals with ipods and impressive briefcases are empty, and almost refreshingly so.  People dot the seats; a guy reading the paper here, a mom and a little girl there, but the empties far outweigh the occupieds.  It’s quiet.  It’s calm.  I should leave at 3.30 every day, seriously. 

There also were a considerable number of uniformed military personnel onboard.  This does not surprise me; it’s DC, afterall, and the fatigues are a sort of city uniform. Sometimes, and I know this is odd, I see them all walking about near my office and I pretend I’m a spy.  Like, a real spy in some eastern-bloc country, where the work I do in my windowless hovel is of critical national importance and I, magda, must infiltrate the enemy and bring justice and peace to all.  Or something.  

Today, though, I wasn’t feeling so spy-like.  A serviceman in my line of sight was on his cell phone, his beret perfectly (perfectly!) pitched on his head.  I looked at his wedding band, and I though of the sacrifice.  The long nights, the fear and the anxiety, the trials of the love answering on the other side of that call.  

Two women–one in fatigues, one in rather masculine pressed khakis and, dare I say, dull black flats–talked and laughed nearby.  I mostly watched them in the reflection, covert-like, but they fascinated me.  What it must take to trade normal hours and cute business suits for the front lines, to take combat boots over manolo blahniks for the every day. 

I flashed them all the warmest smiles I could conjure on exiting.  If I could have, I would have hugged them all, thanked them all sincerely for giving so much.  For giving their skills, and their talent, and their lives so that I can wear impractical heels to run with freedom across the chambered halls of our government, to hear about the challenges of internet governance and know that it matters and we have a say, to travel how I want when I want with whomever I want, to live my life as me, howsoever much tequila that involves, and to realize that nothing is ever all that bad.  Thank you.  A million times over, thank you.  

I was standing on a packed yellow line train home tonight after another predictably ridiculous day on the front lines (as it were).  When a seat opened I snatched it, relishing in the luxury of reading the paper stashed in my bag—a relic of the morning’s much sparser journey in.  

And then I started crying.  Not like sobs, or wails, or tears with any real force— just an inconspicuous well of salt that blurred my eyes, then marched a sad but silent procession down my cheeks.  Hi, I’m magda, the insane girl sitting next to you on the train, crying for no particular reason.  Prefer to stand? That’s ok.  I probably would, too. 

There really was no articulable wrong, no specific injury that brought my reaction. This is one of my major grievances with the female design: can I not be afforded more grasp, more control of these emotions? Seriously.

I’m sure that lots of little things contributed.  The sad English music being delivered to my ears, say.  Or the headlines.  

ALL of the stories on page 6 of today’s Post Express are dreary and could just as well say “the world’s going to shit, so go ahead, cry!” They are in sum total as follows, and I quote: 

 ”Attack kills Pakistani army officer”

“Thousands participate in anti-Arroyo demonstrations”

“Turkey Reports 41 Kurdish deaths in Northern Iraq”

“Opposition calls for protests as power-sharing plan fails”

“South Africa revives Elephant Culls” 

“Suicide bomber in wheelchair kills Iraqi official”

And, fittingly, “‘Doomsday’ vault set to open.”   

Dear Post Express, Thanks for helping a girl out.  What the hell. One happy story!  Just one! Yes, the world is a bad and evil place sometimes, but there is no redemption in your presentation, none at all.  Fire your page six editor post haste.  Meanwhile, I will enjoy a large pour of wine, enjoy the “dinner cooking” smells emanating from the kitchen, and flip back to the Style section.  Because nothing beats being a girl like some kick-ass beauty tips and fashion trends.

I’ve always had a thing for the Irish.  Namely, I’ve always wished, and at times truly believed, that I was wholly Irish.  I get this from my dad.  We have an outlandish love for the Emerald Isle.  We love Guinness.  We affect Irish accents when I’m home on break.  It’s a strange thing, surely, but it’s amusing. 

Something about the new salon where I went this weekend had me so giddy—maybe it was the shamrocks already up on the reception desk (early, surely) or the glass of wine they offered when I entered (Coffee? Diet Coke? Wine? Why…yes!), who knows–but I told the stylist to go auburn.

My hair is a nice average brown.  I’ve traditionally highlighted it dark blond, but today I write you, still a warm brunette, but with some very happy red overtones. With a green sweater, like the one I’m wearing today?  I’d look brilliant with a Guinness. Brilliant!  

I was so happy with the hair cutting experience.  I have a ridiculous, but unfortunately well-grounded, fear of haircuts.  It’s not so much the scissors and the snipping as it is the end result.  The last coif I got was in August, and it ended with me, in tears, sitting in the parking lot with my hood up begging J to come pick me up.  “I’ve been maimed,” I cried.  “I’m not fit to be seen in public.  Please, please, please come get me!”  All this was followed by a several hour stint of me washing my hair, trying to pull it longer in some places while squishing it shorter in others, and bribing the mirror to kiss my reflection better.

My hair is unusual.  It’s quite curly, but not at all ethnic (It’s Irish, my dad says!). Stylists either know it, or they don’t. They either listen, or they “have a vision.” Oh be wary of the stylist with a vision.   

This head of hair is a delicate beast, but a beast just the same.  It is a veritable medusa, in more than just its looks; if you stare too fixedly, if you’re too fascinated by its exterior, it’ll bite back, and I’ll suffer the consequences.  You have to know what you’re getting into with my hair; you have to have a strategy or it will own you.

Now, however, I have found her.  I have found my wine-pouring, hair-conquering, absolute genius of a stylist, which is truly quite a feat.  Must be that old Irish luck.

They looked at me like I had everything in the world but didn’t deserve it, and I had no idea how to respond.

I went to my Catholic women’s group again last night.  My best church-y girlfriend couldn’t make it, but I opted to go anyway.  I hadn’t been in so long, plus (and this is very self-centered) I was looking especially cute.  (Seriously, madga.  It’s church.  They won’t care. Moreover, you shouldn’t care.).  

There were only four of us last night, but they were all strangers to me save one. I hadn’t been since before Christmas, and it seems the composition has shaken slightly.  That’s DC for you—people move in, people move out, and it’s all very transient.  Here, at least, a common faith creates a common ground.  Or so it should. 

The group I left was predominantly bubbly post-college girls, but last night was a different crowd.  These women were older and, pardon me, bitter.  They were ALL single and ALL unhappy about it.  As I popped in, looking young and sparky with a cool career and a real boyfriend, you could see raindrops looming for their pity parade.  I wish I could have fit, I wish we could have all talked like equals. 

They didn’t hate me, but I saw a real resentment oozing out of them. They created a camaraderie of misery that excluded me.  I just wish that they could have seen that I’m not really all that perfect, and not really all that happy-go-lucky.  Sure, I’ve been blessed with a pretty amazing life, but it’s not like I just woke up one morning and the world waved its wand and said, “magda, you are my golden child, and I will lavish on you all things good and desirable.”  I have wants and hopes and fears just as much as they do.  Comparisons don’t always work, and I don’t think I’m “better off” just because my life, on the surface, matches their mental checklists of fulfillment. I don’t think my existence presents any outrageous unfairness.  I just wish they could have seen that.  It might have made them happier.

Subtitle: for some reason they pay me for this.  

I got this in my e-mail from a friend last night, and thought it would be fitting to post my responses here, as well. 

1. What time did you get up this morning?
My alarm was set for 6.50, but strangely and quite unpredictably, I got up at 6.07.

2. Diamonds or pearls?
Diamonds, definitely—but seeing as I own none of those (hmm), I do occasionally wear pearls, and I like them, too.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Juno.  It was amazing.

4. What is your favorite TV show?
Bewitched.  Hands down.  The first few seasons, before Tabitha was born and before it went to color.  Of modern, turn-it-on-in primetime shows, Grey’s Anatomy, and I’ve also taken to watching ABC’s Big Shots on the web. It’s kind of lame, but amusing.

5. What did you have for breakfast this morning?
Cheerios. I heart them. 

6. How long is your commute?

Half an hour, door to door. Plus or minus 5 minutes, I lock my door at 8.30, and arrive at the office at or just before 9.

7. What is your middle name?
Danger.  Actually, no, it’s Michelle.

8. What is your favorite meal?
That’s a tough one.  Basically anything with cheese involved.

9. What foods do you dislike?
Do liquids count? I hate tomato juice/V8/bloody marys (but certainly not vodka). 

10. Favorite chips?
Sour cream and onion potato chips, else cheetos.  Yep, I go for maximum caloric damage.  Yummy.

11. What is your favorite CD at the moment?
Aqualung’s “Strange and Beautiful.” Sounds odd, but really very good.  It’s on the list of what many call my “sad English music” playlist.

12. What is your favorite sandwich?
Grilled cheese—with cheddar, not American, and on a good crusty bread.  Maybe also with tomato. I’m also partial to the New Orleans famous mufaletta, but as I’ve only had it twice, I don’t know if it counts as a true favorite.  

13. What characteristics do you despise?
Poor hygiene, dishonesty, lazy slackassness, my boss.

14. What are your favorite clothes?
These days, probably my kasil jeans and a cute sweater with my green banana republic long pea coat (on sale!), though I’m also really partial to my pajamas.

15. If you could go anywhere in the world for a vacation where would you go?
 Morea, Tahiti.

16. Favorite brand of clothing?
Too many choices!  Most anything at Nordstrom.

17. Where would you want to retire?
A vineyard.  I’d like to drink my way into old age oblivion with a bit of class.

18. Favorite time of day?
4.00p.  Only an hour left at work, and the evening seems so open and uncharted.

19. Where were you born?
Sunny California.  The west coast is the best coast, you know.

20. What is your favorite sport to watch?
I’m not a big sports girl.  I like most sports games live, but baseball is my favorite.  On TV, anything related to the Olympics is a sure win.

21. What are your favorite teams in Basketball and football?
Whoever’s winning? Whoever has the coolest uniform? Again, not really a sports girl…
 
22. Are you a morning person or a night owl?
I have tried, on various occasions, to convince myself that I’m one or the other.  Right now I’m mostly a night owl, but I think I’m most productive at doing work/studying in the morning.

23. What did you want to be when you were little?
I wanted to be a dentist for a really long time.  I also thought I’d be a second grade teacher.  Never, ever did I say I wanted to be a lawyer. And yet, here I am.

24. What is your best childhood memory?
To hard to pick a “best,” but definitely up there is when my younger sister and I were hanging out in our back yard over the summer; I was probably about 12, she 10.  I somehow convinced her that it was “an old Indian legend” that she could be immune to bees and other pesky insects if she ran around the house naked three times.  “It’ll work like a charm,” I said; “They’ll stay away from you forever.” She did it, and more than one neighbor later reported the sighting to my mom.  I convinced my sister to do a lot of really idiotic things.  Good times, good times.

25. Piercings?
One in each ear, one in my bellybutton.  Actually, it’s really in the flesh of my abdomen, pretending it’s in my bellybutton. It hurt like ALL HECK, and I don’t really recommend it.  But it is actually quite adorable with a bikini.  

26. Ever been to Africa ?
No.  I’d regret this if it weren’t for all the shots I’d need. I would, however, really like to go to Egypt some day.

27. Ever been toilet papering?
Nope.

28. Been in a car accident?
Yes, one major one and a couple of small rear-ending incidents—but nothing while I was driving.

29. Favorite day of the week?
Friday. Obviously.

30. Favorite restaurant?
Zaytinya, downtown DC

31. Favorite Flowers?
Tulips.  Also the big tropical ones that come in nice bouquets, though I don’t exactly know what they’re called.

32. Favorite ice cream?
Ben & Jerry’s half-baked frozen yogurt.

33.  Favorite fast food restaurant?
I can’t even remember the last time I ate fast food.  I love taco time, but I don’t think they have that here.  I also like popeye’s chicken.  Very tasty.

34. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?
Nordstrom, or maybe Coach. Provided, of course, some third party would pay it off—never would I max the card on luxury effects.

35. Bedtime?
I’m usually in bed at 10.30.  Owing to the distractions presented in my laptop and in various bedside novels, however, I’m rarely asleep before 12.

36. Last person you went to dinner with?
J and his parents, in NY last weekend.

37. What are you reading right now?
Anna Maxted’s A Tale of Two Sisters.  Chicklit for sure, but not all that shallow.  It’s fantastic.

38. What is your favorite color?
Traditionally navy blue, but the color most recurring in my wardrobe is grey. I also really like silver (as a color.  Not to wear. That might be odd).
 
39. How many tattoos do you have?
None, and I never plan to acquire any.  Yuck.
 
40. Favorite magazine?
My favorite magazine to read is probably Glamour.  I always read it in the gym when I’m there, a habit I took on in law school when my roommate gave me each issue as she finished, and I read them all cover to cover.  The only magazine I actually subscribe to is Bon Appetit, but I really only read it when I’m looking to cook something fancy, i.e. for more than just myself.  As this happens rarely, the magazine exists for me predominantly as reference.

And there you are. 

I’m not a big believer in soul mates.  The idea that there is one person out there for me, designed for me, just waiting for me is more frightening than reassuring, really.  First, I doubt the world.  Accidents and acts of God/fate/etc. happen every day.  If my one soul mate gets wiped out, what then? I’m sunk? I don’t want to be a widow before I’m a bride, thanks ever so much.

Second, I doubt humanity.  What if he—or I!—made one cataclysmically unfortunate choice? Move away; take an unworthy job; stay in on the night we’re supposed to meet.  Or, worse yet, settle for something less and marry the “wrong” person. 

The whole soul mates thing is too risky; too much depends on the undependable.

I think, instead, that love is there for the taking in various facets and in multiple places.  Love isn’t something that, once you find “the one,” it’ll be sunshine, lollipops and rainbows forever.  It’s going to take work.  

Coming off the train last night, I saw what just might have been a spark to set something going.  In the bustle to get down the stairs, a young, artsy-seeming woman lost a collection of papers and cards out of a book she was carrying.  They fell off the side of the staircase, and landed at the feet of a similarly aged and situated man. Retro-ish clothes, square glasses, styled hair; you know the type.  He gathered them up, and waited for her descent; he presented them to her, they locked eyes, and I swear I was looking around for the film crews.  It was just too perfect.

So say these metro-meet-ups start a relationship (and really, my fingers are crossed for them).  Say they come to love each other; they have their differences, and their problems which aren’t too serious, but mostly good times.  They get married, and they tell their friends that it was fate. The universe brought us together; we’re soul mates who were destined to meet at exactly this time and place!  But are they? What if he had missed his train and not been there, or if she had left those cards back at her studio? Or what if one or the other had been flustered, or bailed on a date, or flat-out said no? They each may have gone on to have had equally fruitful relationships with other people, I’d say. I don’t think they would have missed their one chance. Maybe they would have met up somewhere else, but maybe not.  It seems too simple to wait for the world to make it work.  

I love J with my whole heart.  He is my everything, but it’s a struggle, and it’s a choice.  I believe that the universe has presented in him an excellent opportunity.  I don’t believe it has offered me my fate.

If something were to happen to him, or to us; if I were to pick up and move to Australia or darkest Peru and start carrying cards in books on trains, I think I could find someone else, if I put the effort and compromise into it.  I think I could be happy elsewhere (and frankly, the banking all my happiness in the relationship—“I could never be happy without you,” et cetera—is a bit alarming.  I could be.  I just don’t want to be). 

This should not be mistaken as some veiled desire: I don’t want to leave J, and in fact I want nothing more than to wake up beside him every morning forever more.  All I’m saying is that I think we have a more active role in love than we are perhaps ready to acknowledge. It’s a choice and a chance, love is.  I’m not as concerned with whether J was designed for me and only for me as I am with offering awe and gratitude for the chance, the proper alignment of circumstance, that gave me the opportunity to fight for the “us” inherent.

He is my one true love because I’ve intentionally, concretely, permanently affixed him in my heart. We are what you may call soul mates because we’ve chosen to love each other completely.  

So arguably, this would be a better post for tomorrow—Wednesday Whys and Wonders, feel the alliteration love.  But alas.  It’s a Tuesday that feels like a Monday, I’m in the office and I’d rather be in bed with a book, and sometimes it’s just like that. 

Why can’t we get four-day weekends, like in high school? Or a midwinter break.  My high school sends a calendar every year, the kind with cheesy photos and stuff, as part of their fundraising.  I have it in my office for reasons largely unknown, and it informs me that this week is midwinter break.  I’m feeling a little bit ripped of, being here.

Why did my boss call my office at 8.38 this morning, and why was I here to answer? The man arrives around 11, but we’re all meant to be here at 9; I think he was hoping to just leave a voicemail.  Weenie. 

Why is my hair doing all kinds of frizzies? Can’t it just make nice ringlet curls like normal? Hair, I hate you.

Why did I think it would be a brilliant idea to wear my wool mini skirt today? I’m walking down the hall and all the old ladies of the office who normally hide out in their offices seem to be out on the prowl today, and they are all staring at my skirt.  All of them.  It’s like a little parade of my mom, telepathically screeching “unprofessional! Who let you out of the house like that? This is work, not a party!” Hmmm. It is, however, very adorable, and paired with this sweater it is not, despite its length, inappropriate.  

Why does my office seem like a giant magnet chamber for sucking away all possible motivation and/or energy? Gaaah.

Why do all of my shirts seem to be shrinking, and/or why is my abdomen seeming to elongate? I.e., why do I feel like I’m constantly tugging at my tops to make them feel long enough? 

Why do I want nothing more than a giant hunk of cheese, or a cheesy Mexican lunch, when I ate a giant cheese pizza last night and had melted cheese on a bagel for breakfast? And, given this pattern, why am I surprised and incredulous when J says he thinks I eat too much junk food? 

Why isn’t cheese, being dairy, considered a health food? And ice cream, for that matter. 

Why did I almost buy ice cream four times this weekend, only stopping short when I realized I’d given it up for lent? I never used to want to eat it so much.  Serves me right for taking the easy path to Lenten fasting, I suppose.

Why did I dream that J proposed with a chocolate ring? And why, upon waking, was I a little sad that it wasn’t true? (seriously, mind, chocolate? At the time it seemed desirable; strange).  

Why did I have to come in to work today, why do I feel like the only person who’s really doing work (even when, ahem, I’m clearly not working), and why is another weekend so far away? Why?

It’s a cold morning in New York, but I am writing from a big warm bed with a big strong espresso.  We’re up at J’s parents’ house; J is helping his dad out with some things downstairs; but first, he woke me with a most excellent tray of breakfast goodness.  It’s gestures like this that make me really feel loved.  I don’t need a big production or a fancy present, just something to show that he’s gone out of his way because he thinks of me that often; concerns himself with my wants first; puts me as a priority worthy of devoted attention.  It’s cliché, but it really is the little things.

We’re going to spend the weekend just hanging out, J and I, and I think that’s exactly what we need.  The stress of the city is so much sometimes; we work and we try and we love, but the love seems sometimes to get washed out, faded as a priority.  Relationships are hard.  Sometimes you need to take a step back and breathe some life into them again, roll down the windows and let the country air rip through the stiff orderliness of everything. 

And so we are here, on the farm, about an hour out of NYC but so. amazingly. peaceful.  They have barns and rolling green spaces, and it feels ten million miles from anything.

This may sound bizarre, but part of me is still so impressed that we get to share a bedroom here.  I think my puritanical upbringing indelibly shaped my thinking, because I’m all, really? Your mom’s ok with this? How modern! J slept in the guest room both times he’s been out west to my house.  I don’t know if it’s an illusion of chastity or just a nod to tradition or what, but I feel like a real rebel up here, sipping coffee from my boyfriend’s bed.  Truth is? I really like it.

In Japan (I am told), Valentine’s day is a girls-only affair.  It’s only the girls in line for chocolates, ordering flowers, and gushing out their love in poems and e-mails and pink and lace sealed letters. They set their eyes on their man, and they make it as clear as possible that they’re in it, that they love him, that he’s wanted.

A full month later comes March 14, White Day.  This is when the men reciprocate: if it’s committed, they show their love back; if it’s new, they either return your affections or not. 

On the one hand, this seems extremely aggravating.  A whole month of waiting to see if he likes you back!  Unfair, too, in the sense that the girl sets the bar: he has a measuring stick and the advantage of already knowing just exactly how far he needs to go to match (or top) her.

On the other hand, though, there’s an order to this system that seems a bit appealing.  You know precisely what’s expected, and you know that, whoever you are, on this one day your affections need to be unilaterally directed to your other.

So that, say, when one party says hey, come over, I’ll make a surprise dinner, you know from the outset that this is all about you, and you can relax uninhibited, basking in the glow of love.  Without these distinctions, you may well find yourself peeling potatoes and clearing the table; being a co-pilot and getting in the way.  No problem: but, really, not much different from any other night.

If you had some parameters, you wouldn’t let your imagination and your expectations get the better of you.  You wouldn’t ruin a perfectly acceptable night of cooking a deux because it lacked the glamour you’d mentally imposed.  You wouldn’t let your disappointment show on your face (despite being one for whom this is a practical inevitability), and you certainly wouldn’t end the night crying.  Tears on Valentine’s day are just a bummer all around.

In magda-land, the day after Valentine’s, V-1, is hereby decreed black day.  This is where you say you’re sorry for being selfish, for being petty, and for failing to communicate.  You apologize for overlooking all the good, and drowning out the effort undertaken on your behalf because it didn’t align with your internal assignations of the perfect.  You say that you know your love is strong enough, and even if you peel potatoes forever, it’s worth it.  That’s what you say.

The mere fact that the calendar today reads 2/14 does not suddenly mean that the world turns pink and glittery (bummer, I know). Still, seeing the rose above the thorns is, perhaps today more than other days, a rather rewarding exercise.

* the thorn: I woke up alone, holding a pillow instead of J.*the rose: I made fab pink pancakes and a very strong coffee, and had breakfast in bed.

* the thorn: So far today I’ve received exactly nine spam messages to my “good” e-mail address telling me a variation of this theme: a giant valentine will happen in my pants if I order their pharmaceutical now. gross.* the rose: My incredibly adorable littlest sister, studying abroad this semester in geneva, sent an e-card featuring a video song by her host siblings, who (a) speak French and (b) appear to be about 5. So precious.

* the thorn: It’s 3pm and my desk is experiencing an extreme dearth of flowers. Repeat: NO FLOWERS. Yes, I said we didn’t need to make a big deal out of valentine’s day, and I don’t care that much, but really? All the other paired girls got flowers. Even my buddha got flowers, in the form of another origami offering. I am pouting.* the rose: I have a boyfriend who is fabulous, and my desk is lonely not because I am unloved, but because he who loves me takes me too literally sometimes. Sheesh.

* the thorn: Work is crazy busy, suddenly, and I barely had time to scoot out for a quick “lunch” to the library.* the rose: After the madness closes tonight, I’m headed directly to J’s, where he is cooking a surprise dinner. This, for the record, is much much unlike last year, when we trudged through a near foot of snow to go to a chi-chi restaurant where the air conditioning was inexplicably blasting our table. One the way back, J threw his back out and I, attempting heroism, drove my sport sedan to the pharmacy for painkillers. Except the pharmacy was closed and, in a case of great parking spot goes terribly wrong, I managed to lodge my car in a snowbank. As I stood kicking the snow in my highly impractical shoes, three kind people stopped to help me out: a small geek-style guy; a man in a giant SUV with vanity plates reading “GODSQUAD”; and the Alexandria City Police. It took our combined effort to dislodge me and send me on my way. Staying in this year seems like such a nice plan.

* the thorn: tomorrow is another work day, so I can’t stay up till all kinds of crazy hours drinking pink vodka and, um, celebrating. You know.* the rose: it’s a long weekend after that, and J and I are going to New York. Hooray!* the thorn: I have a meeting in approximately three minutes, so must get back at it.* the rose: it’s valentine’s day! YAY. And, not one but TWO google searches for “conversation heart bingo”–yes, with the quotes–directed people to my blog today. This makes me extremely happy, for reasons largely unknown.Rose-filled valentine wishes to everyone!

There are apartments in DC with really spectacular views of the Capitol building.  The actual Capitol—not just the backdrops behind the news anchors on TV.  I would like to live in one of these apartments, but watching the primary results come in on a giant plasma TV with a group of very political, very smart guys from within one of these apartments?  Close second. 

I’m not really a political person, but there’s a charge that’s really, really catchy when I hang around J and his Senate groupies.  Plus, on nights like tonight, there’s beer and high fives and, yeah, a fancy apartment full of young, hot, smart guys.  Politics? Practically my middle name!

Except.  We were all cheering as they announced Obama’s lead in Virginia, and I came really really close to saying something that would have given me away.  It was on the tip of my tongue.  I started saying it, and had to come up with something else half way through.

“I know a girl who’s covering his campaign,” I almost said, excitedly. 

That girl?  Rory Gilmore.  Who does not exist.  Well done, magda.  Very well done indeed.

Turns out I like TV just as much as politics, and maybe more.  In all fairness, though, she was part of my Tuesday nights for seven years. That’s more than some presidents.  Dear Senator Obama, please bring back the Gilmore Girls.  I’ll love you forever.  Kiss kiss, magda. 

Is it possible to be haunted by someone who doesn’t even know you exist? Phrased differently, I think I have some borderline-psychotic jealousy issues.

J is the first boyfriend out of the not altogether large pool of my past that I’d call “serious”–at least as far as that term connotes something more than long-term. He’s the first one with whom I’ve really seen it working, really working for the long haul. From an objective perspective, then, it doesn’t make much sense that about the time I fell in love, I contracted a raging case of insecurity. Or maybe it was just that the insecurity I’ve always had crept out of dormancy once I started believing that I was wanted, loved, cherished that much. Either way, it doesn’t make much sense.

Before me, J had a string of attractive and pseudo-serious girlfriends. If I would have had this blog last fall, it would have chronicled me finding their photos on his laptop, finding emails from them archived on his back-up hard drive, and finding some of their numbers in his cell phone. All that’s over and done with. Well, except for the damage to my psyche that comes with actually knowing. You can imagine all the Ones Before, but until you actually know, it’s relatively easy to block it out. I’m not proud of snooping around his computer and his phone. It was wrong, but my insecurity is a ravenous and hungry beast. It needed to fuel itself to keep me feeling inadequate. 

After many tears and false-positive breakup threats, J destroyed the evidence. I can’t in all fairness say I don’t sometimes still pop into his photo library while he’s in the shower or scan his text messages when I find his phone, but I’m working on it. I’ve found absolutely nothing incriminating.

Still, one of these “befores” haunts me. The Other One wasn’t his most recent, but she was his most serious. They lived together.

I’ve seen her photos and I’ve read her words, and as much as I try to banish her from my mind—he’s mine now, bitch, so back off—I think her ghost is here to stay. I find this terribly disturbing.

He made the mistake a little while back of telling me where she went to school. I think this was in one of my especially low moments, when I was practically begging for details on her. I wanted to know everything (or so I thought); I wanted to see that I was better (which, with my mindset, would have been impossible).

Enter again the ravenous beast of insecurity. Armed now with her first name and her law school, I found her. Ah, the Internet–my friend, my foe. Only one girl with her name graduated within the two year window of when I guessed she had (psychotic? me? never). She went on to pass the bar in Florida, I found, and is now a PARTNER in a law firm there. I saw her picture and read her bio. She’s still gorgeous. And perky. And smart. And successful. The list goes on.

More than anything, I wish I didn’t know. Now that I do, however, I’ve got to find a way to manage this information, and I’m pretty much sucking at it.

J and I went to the national zoo for the first time this weekend. I was like a little kid once I saw the map. Look! They have monkeys! And pandas! And wow, let’s go to the elephant house!

“Tell me you’ve been to the zoo before,” J says, jokingly, and of course I have. Just not this zoo. And not with him. He goes on to tell me, of course, that he’s been there “a couple of times.”

My masochistic minds translates this as “on dates.” With girls. Specifically, with the Other One. They met here in DC when they were both summer interns (Why do I know this? I don’t want to know this!).

I really spent the entire afternoon in a funk. All I could think about was J and the Other One, standing where I was standing, holding hands, laughing and being in love. It’d be summer; she’d be in something adorably sexy and slinky. I looked down at my gloved hands, my chunky sweater, my tennis shoes, and frowned. She’d be sophisticated, I thought, and here I am getting giddy just reading about the elephant house. She’d be everything I’m not.

But I was there, I was in that moment. I was everything she was not, and I blew it. I had a so-so time, but I could have made him happy, made him feel alive and in love the same way she did in my mind. Sometimes, though, this jealousy is an unbearable weight. I want to shake it, but I just can’t see out. It is miserable. And I need to stop googling her. She is far away and out of his life, and I am here.

More than anything, I’m scared that these irrationalities are going to lead me to cause the destruction I’m so afraid of. He had absolutely no reason to know why I was upset. It’s not like he said he went to the zoo with the Other One; for all I know, he went there on his own, or with his sister, or whatever. He doesn’t bring her up. Ever. She remains, however, the star of my own dramatically envisioned drop into relationship despair, and this is not good.

I’m sitting here scared he doesn’t love me, but he does; if I keep doubting it, I may give myself something to really be teary-eyed about. That would be the worst thing I could possibly imagine. I don’t need to plague myself with What Could Have Been, on top of all else.

Arrg. I swear, I just need to get out of my own head, but I’m swimming for the exit and I can’t find the out. My imagination? It creates a cruel, cruel landscape sometimes. I don’t know how I fell so far from the doily approach to love, but I’ve got to find my way back. And soon.

Ranked on a scale of best elementary school party, Valentine’s day is a real contender for Best Holiday Ever. 

You make a mailbox, and people just give you candy.  You get to spend an afternoon with doilies and glue sticks.  You get to eat sugar all day while dressed in pink and red, and play games like conversation heart bingo.  It’s just awesome.

I sometimes think Valentine’s day should still be a holiday centered around heart-shaped candies—you know, go back to the way it was before it became a day of pressure, of feeling sad if you were alone and anxious if you weren’t. 

A great discussion of Valentine’s day baking over at bunny’s yesterday got me all excited for the re-domestication of the holiday, so I busted out my holiday towels a few days early and got busy in the kitchen. 

Because I’m a dork, I’ll share the towels here:

Awwww!  I know. You’re jealous of my festive kitchen.  I can tell.

The muffins on the stove are cherry walnut, though they aren’t as pink as I anticipated.  They are, however, very delicious.  (And the spatula!  Do you see the spatula?)

I tend to get very kitchy around the holidays, and Valentine’s day is such an easy one.  Tools like this don’t make it very easy for people with my affliction to resist:

Loving it! 

Pink pancakes! Pink waffles!  Toast with hearts cut out and spread with strawberry cream cheese! These are all on my agenda.  If I had children, I’d totally be making itty-bitty heart-shaped peanut butter sandwiches, and heart-shaped sugar cookies with their names on them.

I’m also looking into finding some doilies.  I kind of miss those.  

The weather here has suddenly taken a turn towards the deranged.  Yesterday, despite a cloudy, menacingly winter appearance, the gaudy neon time and temperature sign I passed on the way to work displayed a steamy 70’.   I came bundled in a wool coat and a massive scarf. 

I think this may have been symptomatic of the ridiculousness that was to follow in my Wednesday.  It was a preposterous day in all respects, and I came home so exhausted I was really near passing out on the couch.  I still had work to do, though, and an Ash Wednesday mass to attend. 9pm found me in bed with my laptop, staring blankly at work I was meant to be doing.

I was not really inclined to abandon this setup when J called around 10.30, wanting to come get me so I could spend the night at his place.  Anyone else, I would have put up a fight; this guy’s really my it-man, though, and we hadn’t seen each other all week.  As soon as we were off the phone, I was up and getting dressed for Thursday’s workday.

I want to note, for the record, that at this point it was pouring down rain outside.  Absolutely POURING.  This was not a Seattle sprinkle, people; it was all-out water warfare.  Accordingly, I added an umbrella plus these little darlings to my ensemble:

 Ahh, my frog galoshes; so ridiculous, yet so adorable. 

Driving to J’s, it was a veritable thunderstorm.  Cracks of lightening, booms of thunder, totally my favorite.  The whole car ride I was filling my head with ridiculously gushy thoughts, mostly along the lines of “thunderstorms!  They’re highly likely, just like my blog!” I know; sad, right?  Of course I could share none of this with J, as he has not been apprised of this internet space.  But moving on. 

I woke up this morning to a closet not mine and a perfectly sunny day.  And frog galoshes.  I changed at work, happily, owing to the collection of work shoes on temporary assignment to my office bookshelf.  They’re all pretty strictly office shoes, though, as their heel height completely disqualifies them from the commuter-friendly category. 

I took the high-heeled challenge over lunch, and walked, hounded by what was likely an arctic wind-chill, to the body shop—one of my favorite, favorite stores ever.  A friend is having a birthday tomorrow, so I thought I’d pop out for a bit and find her something good-smelling to celebrate. Because, you know, I’ve clearly planned way ahead. 

The girls working there today were so nice, and it was obvious that they were really enjoying themselves.  I was keenly jealous for a few moments. I want to be that happy at work!  I want to work where there’s color, and beauty, and light!  For a moment there, I wanted, more than anything, to be those girls.  I thought seriously about phoning my boss and saying hey, I’m just down the street, but I’m never coming back because I’ve found a new job with people who are nice and kind and good, so suck it.  But alas.  I wouldn’t have been able to abandon this froggie footwear, anyway. 

P.S. here’s a shout to the kind, kind people at the House of Representatives Committee on the Judiciary:  thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for canceling tomorrow morning’s hearing.  I really didn’t want to go.  You’ve made my night.  Love, magda. 

I’ve voted in every election since I turned 18, but I’ve never gone to an actual polling place. The closest I think I came was when our second grade class held “voting” in the Bush I / Ducakus election, but that was a very long time ago and involved a lot of cardboard and construction paper.

No, I’m an absentee girl, through and through. The Commonwealth of Virginia is against me on this point.

When I lived in Washington (state! Not district!), voting was super easy. I called a toll-free number, went through their automated system, and voila—absentee ballots just arrived in my mailbox well before the election, which served (a) to remind me that there was, in fact, an election coming and (b) give me ample time to see who was on the ballot and do my research.

I moved here and expected it to be the same. But alas.

In Virginia, you have to specially petition to vote absentee, and you have to fill out a two-page declaration of why you can’t physically come in. You have to submit said application no more than 40, no less than 7 days ahead of the election in which you wish to vote.

You would think that I could provide sworn proof that I am outside of the state for the majority of every day, and I could just get on some kind of permanent list. You would think they’d get tired of my same old “I’m at work, you sad freaks” excuse on every application. You would think they’d realize that maybe, if they extended the hours of my designated polling place, I could actually make it there. You’d be wrong.

I’ve found the Virginia Board of Elections to be woefully incompetent at providing me any pertinent information on when elections are, who’s a contender, and what the issues are. I know voting is important, and I want to exercise my rights, but I don’t like scavenger hunts across an Internet full of VBE’s “sorry, link broken” pages to find out what the heck’s going on.

I realized today that I haven’t sent in my application to vote in the primary. I have until 5pm EST to get that sucker onto the desk of the commissioner of my county, though it took me an exasperating half hour to identify this individual. Yes, he said, you may fax it. So I did.

I called them about an hour ago, just to be sure they got it.

“No, we don’t have anything from you,” cheeky receptionist says. “Can you check again?” I ask, and give her my fax number.

“Well, now that you mention it, we did actually get a fax from you. I have the cover sheet here with your name and number and everything, and yeah, it says your application is attached. But all we got is two blank sheets.”

Fax goddess that I am, it seems I fed the application in backwards. And so nice of them to call me back about that.

With about an hour to spare, it all should be straightened out now.

Happy Super Tuesday, everyone, and may your voting go much more smoothly than mine. And happy Mardi Gras, as well!

I’m more judgmental than I like to admit.  It’s one of those uglies I like to gloss over with a sweet smile, a pleasant outlook, an accept-all projection to the world.  It’s not true. 

Judgmentalism, which spell-check is rejecting as an English word, isn’t quite the same as haughtiness or snobbery, at least not in my experience.  I’m still really really nice to most everyone I meet.  Somewhere inside me, though, I’m comparing myself.  I’m assessing how I stack up, and I’m making a snap judgment.  I don’t even know who you are, but your hair, your clothes, your shoes: I’ve already decided that I’m better.  Better.  Whatever does this mean? And what is my scale? I really hate that I do this.   Sure as this goes the other way; I decide you’re better, I can’t stand so close to you, I may as well walk around with a bag over my head.  That’s normal.  It’s the “I’m too good for you” mental tally I’ve been noticing scrawled about in the rooms of my mind that’s really got me reeling this time.  It’s alarming.

On paper, you’d expect this more of J.  He’s one of those stereotypical moneyed, privileged New Yorkers; hard nosed more than you’d like with an impressive resume including boarding schools, the ivy league, and sweater vests.

I won’t say that he’s an amazing all-accepting demi-god (though I’d like to); he has his flaws, but he seems to see the person through the exterior really much better than me, and I’m trying to take a lesson.

J, I still think most unfortunately, is enamored with bluegrass music.  I dislike bluegrass.  In fact, I’ve been known on more than one occasion to profess undying hatred for it.  It’s a constant bargaining chip: I’ll pick up the check, but no banjo music till March; that kind of thing.

We went to a bluegrass-y “concert” at a community center in middle-of-Virginia-nowheresville over the weekend, and the minute we walked in the door, I felt like I didn’t belong.  Truth be told, I felt superior.  Here were some bona fide misfits: hippy-style crochet clothes; big skits and clog-shoes; argyle knee socks with woefully clashing peacoats. Women with unkempt hair and no makeup.  Scraggly beards and cowboy boots; oversized and un-tucked flannel shirts.

J has a sort of business connection with the fiddle player; we watched the whole show and, it turned out, were obligated to hang out afterwards.  I had a flask in my purse in express preparation for this contingency.  [Aside: Magda! What! The! Hell!].  It’s fair to note here, I think, that the main attraction legitimately reminded me of a serial killer.  He had a frantic look in his eyes; a really receding hairline, but a long ponytail and a somewhat unruly beard.  I figured, hey, if I’m going to go out, I’m going out with a smile and a sizzle.

The after party, which J informs me is properly called a “jam session,” was in a warehouse not far from the studio; we walked up and I was like, this is it, I’m toast, there’s definitely some kind of ritual death going on in there. There I go again, see; assuming my demise is on the line just based on what this guy looked like.

I breathed a big sigh of relief when we were greeted with no candles, no blood, no torture devices.  It was just a bunch of people sitting around on old couches.  There were snacks and good conversation; people were talking and people were, well, jamming.

He surprised me, the serial killer mandolin man.  I can’t conjure a sudden love of his music, but I did appreciate it.  He was very, very skilled.  And afterwards, he talked to me.  And he was nice.

The serial killer introduced himself to me, and he got me a beer.  He didn’t know a damn thing about me, and he probably saw how much one of these things is not like the other just as much as I felt it.  Here’s a man who’s enormously talented, and he’s accepting me.  I should be able to return the favor, yes?

He sat back down with his fellow followers after that; the argyle girl, the hippie earth women, the guys in their flannel; they were just there, being marvelous, being themselves, and truly producing art.  They were to their instruments what I am to my laptop.  I actually—and this is a little bit alarming—I actually found myself wanting to be one of them.  Really.  They were all just such great friends, such great artists, such great people.  They were like a fun club that I’d dissed, but now wanted to join because it was just so cool.

I was impressed, and mighty ashamed of myself.  There’s always so much more going on in life than can be ascertained through the filter of our own experiences, our own prejudices, though; I’m chalking this up to a learning experience. And I do hope to have many more. 

It kind of snuck up on me, the whole end-of-January.  January is such a long month, and so dreary usually; a part of me was expecting to be ripping January pages off of my calendar for at least another few weeks.  But, here we are in February; we’ve left the back roads are zooming now down the 2008 highway. 

This calls for a brief run-down, I think, of what I’ve gotten out of the trip so far. 

• I’ve been making much better use of the gym.  I’ve been trying to run 4 times a week, which has worked (eh, on average anyway), and I’ve been improving how long I can go.  Currently: 4 miles.  For a girl who starting running about a year ago and would follow a mile on the treadmill with about a hour of lying down, this is remarkable progress.
• I’m getting better at staying in touch with people.  I’ve tried to avoid letting correspondences languish in my inbox, and I’m making more of an effort to call far-away friends.  (Though “more of an effort” sometimes only translates as “write it down on my list”: progress, though, right?)
• The list idea hasn’t worked too well for the dentist situation.  I didn’t like the first dentist I found out here, so I ignored his little reminder card.  It came in October, but finding a new one is still on my list.
• Also, I need to keep in better touch with my grandparents.  My grandma taught me how to use skype (yeah, go figure), but I hardly ever sign in.  I need to fix that.
• I haven’t gotten stressed out while driving.  This is one of my biggest panic magnets: not knowing where I’m going when I’m in the car.  It’s probably on the horizon again for me soon, but I managed to stave it off this month.
• I’ve made a real effort to be less snappy with J.  I’m trying to be better about giving him the benefit of the doubt, and not expecting him to just accept my critiques without the ability to return in kind.
• I’m still just as ridiculously emotional as ever, though.  Tears have definitely not experienced a slowdown.
• I bought new shampoos and bath gels for my shower, and got rid of the half-used, years-old ones that I was mostly ignoring anyway.  Oh, they smell so pretty. 
• I also bought new towels, which are very big and fluffy, and they match my shower curtain, which is just marvelous.
• I haven’t done too well on the go-to-mass front.  I think I only made it twice, but my heart’s still in it.  I’d say my mental spirituality is doing really well.  I’ve been letting the outward manifestations slide, though.
• I haven’t taken my vitamins.  Probably not since I was home for new years.
• I’ve been drinking A LOT less coffee. I see this as a positive.  Tea, however, has seen a dramatic spike in consumption. 
• I’ve spent too much money on clothes and shoes.  I was doing my finances this morning and was thinking wow, magda, give the visa a rest, please. 
• I’ve been putting more of myself into this internet space, and have been reaching—howsoever feebly—beyond its pages and have been so, so delighted to “meet,”or at least “get to know,” a wide spread of truly talented writers.

Some ways to improve, sure, but not at all a bad way to begin.   

I don’t know what my deal is with maintenance men.

I was sitting at my desk just after lunch, willing the words to appear on the screen and, ok, probably checking my gmail over and over again. In comes one of our floor’s maintenance guys.

In lilting English, he tells me how much he likes coming in each night and seeing my buddha statue. He likes it so much, in fact, that he has brought it an offering.

He brought an offering to my decorative, “focus on zen and not on homicide, magda” buddha statue.

It is an origami basket with a pinecone in it.

I don’t at all know what to make of this. I wonder, though, if he noticed that just above the buddha’s left shoulder is an icon of the Holy Virgin. It’s tough to tell, but she may be frowning.