Monthly Archive

Well no, actually he’s not, which I suppose is good because I’m not all that into rock music.  I usually change the station, which would probably offend him.  Also, I hear those rockers are way into drugs and spiked hair and strange piercings and tight leather, things that, to me, do not immediately say “potential husband.”

But imagine I had an inkling to take a hit in the back of a van, and suppose I wanted to introduce my dad to my new stage-savvy love: then he would be my rock star. 

He sent me flowers today.  At work.  This has NEVER HAPPENED: not on Valentine’s day, not on my birthday, not ever (and it’s not for want of hint-dropping!).  But today, March 31, he has taken a new step.

The card is beautiful: 

“Dear M., This is for the wonderful changes that are coming our way.  Love, J.”

We had something of a rough weekend; I think we’re both getting tired of just being, just feeling stagnant.  I spent the majority of Saturday battling tourists downtown with a friend and her new roommate just because I needed to be out, be away, feel alive … i.e. spend time away from J.  Sad, right?  

The flowers are quickly melting those feelings. And? And, it turns out, he has planned a get-away weekend.  Friday night, a mere four days away, we’ll head up to a bed & breakfast in Pennsylvania where we will, drumroll please, go wine tasting.  YAY. 

Suddenly, the day is in hot contention for Best Monday Ever. Amazing how fast things can turn around.

I’m a girl of simple pleasures.  I was covering a conference today, and the snack at the break included, among more grown-up choices like coffee, chocolate milk and rice krispie treats.  It was fantastic.

I loved it in much the same way as I love coming home, kicking of my shoes, and reading Glamour cover to cover while enveloped in bubbly bath water; or spending a cozy Friday night watching the tv shows my weekly routine doesn’t always permit; or enjoying an hour (or two) of just sitting down and losing myself in a good book.

I was cruising around over at Heidi’s today and was wholly seduced by the Spring Reading Thing she’s joined.  I’m a little late—the group started last week, on the official first day of spring—but it’s like they say.  Better late than never, right?

Reading, lists, and challenges.  These are three things I love, love, truly love.  So I present you with the Spring Reading Thing 2008, Magda-style. 

I’ve capped my list at ten for now, because I have a serious fear/suspicion/rising certainty that the moment I walk into the bookstore, this list will double.  But for today, here’s what’s between me and June 19 … 

The Time Traveler’s Wife, Audrey Niffenegger

The Four Agreements, Don Miguel Ruiz

Shakespeare’s Wife, Germaine Greer.  I’m actually planning on going to a reading on this later in the month, so that should offer some motivation.

The Solomon Sisters Wise Up, Melissa Senate

Night, Eli Weisel

Chasing Fireflies, Charles Martin

An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England, Brock Clarke

Brick Lane, Monica Ali

The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini

Emma, Jane Austen, for no other reason than that I’m staring at it now, neglected and alone on my bookshelf.  I haven’t read it since high school, but I remember it being so good.  

And the bonus #11, which I just started this week … Passing Under Heaven,  Justin Hill

Yay for springtime, and for books!  YAY. 

Portions of this post have been languishing as drafts for some time, but a birthday party I went to last night gave me occasion to sit up far too late and join them all together. (And yes, I changed the blog look, too. I’m just feeling kind of everywhere, and a fresh new look is always good, yes? Yes).

Before continuing, know that this is long. I’ve tried to cut it down, but it doesn’t seem willing. The author assumes no liability for any injury/eye strain/length frustrations felt by the reader past this point. This disclaimer creates a binding contract. Et cetera, et cetera, ad finitum.

It was a party for one of the first “friends” I made out here, a guy I met through young adult Catholic-y style people. When I first moved here, I really embroiled myself in the Catholic scene; it seemed the most natural place to meet people who, I thought, would be like-minded.

My life doesn’t center around the Catholic community, however, as it seems it does for many, many people here. I’m a west-coast Catholic, what you’d call the ugly liberal step-cousin of the devouts of the Diocese of Arlington. I like to be Catholic, in other words, but it is not how I define myself.

They were quick to take me in, but I was quick to feel swallowed: I want to talk about more with my friends then where we went to mass; who’s going on what monastic retreat; when the next pro-life prayer service is. I don’t agree with or buy into everything they do, and certainly not as whole-heartedly. I told myself I’d never fit with these people who were, and are, wholly Catholic. The more I hung around them, the more I started to see: they’re all Catholic, all the time. All the parties, all the get-togethers, all the events were centered on faith. I had seen nothing like that, and I admit it made me uncomfortable.

Then I started dating J, who’s quasi-Jewish, if he’s anything, and really, at the time, I think I saw that as an asset. A breath of fresh air; a man who will ask me on a date that does not involve saying the rosary, and who won’t look at me like he’s sizing me up to be a Good Catholic Wife.

But dating J also made it impossible to fully integrate. I know these people by sight, but it’s nothing more than superficial. How can it be when I’m half of something that won’t participate? There’s a whole world of best friends and close ties that I didn’t think I wanted, but find myself now excluded from in any event.

J and I have been having some rough times, as those of you who have been reading for awhile know. I love him, I do, but being around all of these people, like I was last night, makes me realize that faith is really crucial to me. It’s not just “important.” It’s more than just tradition. I don’t agree with everything and I don’t have a particular inkling for 11 babies, but I can’t help but feel like I’m selling out.

My history with the Church of Rome is a somewhat tortured one (fitting, I think). I’m perhaps an unlikely and a likely Catholic at once.

I was raised in a mainstream Christian home; we believed in Jesus and dressed up every Sunday morning, but without any firm denominational or traditional parameters to contain it. On top of this, my parents sent my sisters and me to a Catholic school for the preponderance of our formative years. A maximum sentence, really; this school that touted itself as an elite educated young women from 5th through 12th grade. That’s exactly how long we each went; “lifers,” they called us. Really, that is an awful lot of plaid.

Somewhere between Sunday services and Tuesday senior theology seminar, something started making sense. I started feeling more like I belonged, and I started seeing how the pieces of my heart-held faith fit into a larger puzzle. I started becoming a closet Catholic, which persisted through college but didn’t really meet its fruition till law school.

My best friend in the world I met in law school, and she’s exactly my kind of Catholic. That is, she loves the tradition, the order, the heritage, and together we celebrate the underlying truths. She lives with her boyfriend, however; she’s on the pill, and she drinks and curses and sins along with the rest of us.

It’s really tempting for me to conclude this rapidly by saying “and so, after much discernment, I decided official Catholicism was something I wanted and could relate to, so I joined the church.” That was the ultimate conclusion, yes. But there’s more. There’s always more.

Disillusioned with the practice of law in any tangible form (and before I’d thought of defecting to the legal writing dark side), I opted to “study abroad” for my 1L summer. This best friend of mine and I were in the same boat, and we orchestrated the most brilliant summer of Not Working. In June we jetted off to Italy. In mid-July, she went up to England; I to Japan.

Japan was an odd choice. I’m been to England several times, and I studied at Oxford in college. As much as I adore the UK, I do have a bit of the travel bug. I could see myself packing up for England at a moment’s notice. Japan, not so much. The best friend was slightly less adventurous, but eh, we each had our stories to tell.

Me? I fell in love. I really did, or at least I sowed the unfertilized seeds of it. Japan was a wholly bizarre experience in so many ways that would require pages and pages, thousands of words I can’t even start to formulate. But he was there, in the midst of all of it. He was there, and he had big thoughts and an even bigger vocabulary. This girl loves an intellect, what can I say.

There was generally too much vodka involved in our charged interchanges. It was for sale in the convenience store across the street which, source notwithstanding, proved entirely inconvenient. Also inconvenient: my uncanny alcohol tolerance which guys, damn them, seem impressed by. He heard about it, and at one of our “formal events,” both of us high on the road to tipsy, issued me a Guinness challenge. Bastard was Irish, too. Keys to my heart? Better change the locks. He’s in for keeps.

“I hear you can drink. I hear you’ve been asking for dark beer. The only bar here [in this godforsaken Japanese beach village that is not at all metropolitan] that serves Guinness is across the street. See you there. 10 minutes.”

Stupid, stupid Magda took the bait. And outdrank him. And wore his clothes to breakfast the next morning. Not pretty. [And an aside: they did indeed have Guinness, bottled, and served up on a silver tray and poured in a wine glass. Again, I say, odd. So, so much there confused me].

But I was wrong. The town wasn’t godforsaken. He found God there, every Sunday. We spent every night but Saturday together why? Because he went to mass. IN JAPAN. He, American purebred who speaks not one word of non-English, went to mass without fail in a land where the washing machines come with characters on the buttons, where groceries lack pictures and that juice in the orange carton? Not necessarily orange. Actually, not even close. Curious.

He was not the first man I slept with, but he was my first real, true love. This may not make sense. For now, let’s leave it like this: my first one was no good. Not for me, not for anyone. It was a bad man and a bad experience that I had just left that spring, which put me in a vulnerable position, I now realize. I have reason to believe my Japan man was not anticipating this.

First indication: he had a girlfriend waiting for him state-side. Oh-ho. Yes. I knew this, and I was still completely, in my head and in my heart, making this guy to be the most amazingly perfect person I had ever had the fortune to meet.

He was Catholic, sure, but he was a bad Catholic. A bad, bad, very bad Catholic. The nuns should have smacked those knuckles, seriously.

I, in my brilliance, told him that of course it didn’t matter, of course I knew that we were “just for now,” of course it meant nothing.

I told him I was Catholic, too. I didn’t go to mass with him, but my eight years at the convent afforded me ample space on the rhetoric platform. We discussed Catholic theology all night long one night. I believe I slept by his side through classes the next day.

He was frustrated that his girlfriend had no faith life. She couldn’t talk the Catholic talk like I could, she couldn’t “connect with him on that level.” Bullshit, Japan man.

He went back to her anyway. Of course he did.

He was in school down south. I was in Seattle. The last time I saw him was in the Chicago airport, circa summer 2004, as we each headed off towards our other lives.

We kept in touch over e-mail, but I sometimes wish we hadn’t. I’d think up what I was going to say to him for weeks; I’d draft e-mails to him the way I draft some blog posts these days. I’d write them out, tweak them, sit on them and finally get courageous enough to hit “send.”

They were long, our correspondences, and beautiful. This was a man who loved words the way I do. Even so, every letter he wrote was another knife in my heart. He’ll never be mine. But oh, I wanted him.

I started going to mass in Seattle. Suddenly, holy days weren’t enough; I went every Sunday. I felt connected to him that way. When an ad ran in the bulletin for an RCIA class, an official join-up-now introduction, I thought yes, I want to make this real, I should do this. In fact, I said, I feel called to do this.

If I’m honest, this “strong calling” coincided with Japan man emailing that he and Miss No Religion had broken up. I took it as a sign.

The more I learned, though, and the more I really came into being in class, the farther and farther I felt from him. It was entirely unexpected, but divinely beautiful: in doing what I thought would bring me closer, I was finally able to let go.

This is not at all to say that he’s completely left my mind. He hasn’t. Our e-mails have dwindled, but they haven’t disappeared. I mostly chalk this up to my own masochism. Exhibit A: it’s possible that I emailed him something short and Guinness-related this St. Patrick’s Day. And it’s possible that he wrote back wishing me Happy Easter. It’s possible, too, that his name in my inbox doesn’t make my heart go pitter-patter anymore, and it’s possible that I couldn’t be happier.

I’m not an especially strong Catholic, at least not where strict doctrine and church teachings come into play. In my heart, though, I’m finally home in the church. I have finally found what is, for me, the perfect balance of life and love and God and goodness.

J hasn’t. And he doesn’t seem to want it. And I don’t know what to do.

I don’t for a minute dispute that the societal image of “beauty” is skewed and promotes detrimental thinking in women.  The darlings made over by the media are frighteningly unnatural, and have cultivated a mentality where self-loathing is chic, where low confidence comes pre-packaged, purse sized.

I can’t help but think that somewhere, somehow, we’re letting this happen.  What is it about women that makes us subscribe to this?  To look at this glossy picture of perfection, then at ourselves, and buy into it?  Because I think more than trace amounts are owed to our passivity.

My commute companion this evening was an article titled “Behind the Beauty,” a sneak-peak look at the Miss Universe pageant, Style-section style. The piece featured comments from Ines Ligron, a French fashion-maven turned beauty pagent coach. 

Among other atrocities, this paragraph stuck out.

“Ligron said it is commonplace for contestants to remove a rib or two to make their waist smaller, to have breast augmentation, nose reshaping, or eyebrow lifting.  Complete reworking of the teeth is also de rigeur.”

Holy Hell and God Alive.  How, in any context but that which is truly warped, is surgically altering the human skeleton, our basest frame, considered “beautiful”?  

Part of this is certainly owing to the big, bad, evil sex-driven word we’re in.  Sure.  The rest, though, is just competition.  This is a pageant setting and can’t be construed to be “real” life, except it is, for these girls.  A lot of their wants and neuroses certainly carry over into the mainstream.  Girls wanting to be better, prettier, skinner than their peers.  The world has pitted us against each other, but oh how we rise to the bait!  Removing ribs to better your comparison to your fellow woman?  Surgically choreographing your chance to out-smile the next one?  Ladies of Miss Universe, WTF.  

Friday, I love the way you just sneak up and appear, like a happy surprise, right at the end of my week. Even though you’re Good Friday, and supposed to be sad and somber, is it okay if I’m glad you’re here? Because I am.

You’re the kind of day that makes my boss say, hey, I think I’ll work from home today, which you and I both know is a clever front for doing anything but. Also, thanks for throwing in that kicker that caused him to email this a.m. with instructions to staff to leave by three. Because he’s kind? Because he can’t be bothered to craft assignments? Mostly, Friday, it’s because of you, because you’re here and you’re marvelous, and you remind us that there’s nothing today that can’t wait till next week.

Except maybe some warmer weather. It’s a bit out of your jurisdiction, being but a day of the week and all, but can you get crack-a-lackin on some higher temperatures? Throw in a good word here or there. Please and thank you. I love that I’m wearing my sunglasses. The wool sweater, though, not so much. And my Uggs would really like to be retired for the season.

See what you can do. But in any event, Friday, you are the light of my week, and I am so glad you’re finally here.

Last night was not, as feared, entirely terrible.  I don’t know what had gotten into Mr. Quiet, but he called me around 5.30 quite without a plan.  The man used to be compulsive about knowing where we were going, when, and why.  I was hesitant, thus, when he suggested he meet me at my apartment and we “figure things out from there”—but really, it worked out just fine.  It wasn’t terribly awkward, and he was, for the most part, normal.  I think he’s one of those people who’s great in person but really hopeless on the phone (he’s too quiet) or on e-mail (he comes off so abrupt).

We ended up walking around in old town till we found a good pub.  I ate a fatty cheeseburger; it was delicious, and I didn’t feel at all bad about it (take that, Mr. Sit-ups).

J came and picked me up after Mr. Quiet was safely deposited back at the metro, and we spent a generally good evening catching up.  All seems smooth again.

I saw one of my co-workers on the train this morning, though, which was awkward. She’s very much older, this co-worker; she’s the managing editor of one of our sister publications, and I respect her so much.  She’s been really good to me throughout all of my troubles with my boss, and has listened to all of my job-related venting. She knew I was coming the wrong way, and she called me on it. 

You see, I live two stops south of my office.  Today I was coming from the north.  This has an uncanny way of happening to me—it’s my own big A, a “yes I spent the night with my boyfriend” sign around my neck, and it always happens with the most unfortunate people.  I may as well just dress like a hooker for my south-bound commutes.

I made up some story about how I was staying with “friends” in Clarendon and how I “stayed out much too late and decided to just stay there.”  Then I smiled a frantic smile, and feigned a profound interest in my newspaper.

Which is great, because now she thinks I’m either (a) irresponsible and party too much without planning or (b) am lying.  Eh, likely both, but I’d just as soon she not know.  In retrospect, it would have been wiser to just say, casually, “oh, I’m just coming from J’s today,” but I look at this woman and I see my mom, and I feel like it’s such a betrayal.  Sleeping with my boyfriend? A scandal for sure.  I somehow feel like I’m letting her, or mom, or something down by not living an entirely pure life.  And so I lie. I know it’s stupid, but I do.  The sad thing is, it doesn’t really make me feel all that much better.

I am so. very. excited for this week to be over. It’s finally spring, and I definitely feel up for a new beginning; a do-over; a take-2.  No joke.

The blog totally saved my hide today. This is unusual, since it generally proves itself to be the Greatest Work Distraction Known to Man.

I’d drafted out some thoughts last night in Word that I wanted to work on later in the day, but I realized as I was leaving—after I’d already put on my shoes and I had exactly two minutes till take-off—that they were just languishing there on my desktop. I fired up the macbook and emailed them off to myself, but not before seeing a message from my idiot boss in my personal email account.

He needed me to be at a conference. At 9.30. Downtown. Timestamped? 11.44pm. I’m flattered (maybe?) that he thinks I’m the kind of girl who’s online till all kinds of crazy hours. A lot of times, yes, this is true. But not today. So I jetted off, and squeaked in just in time.

The funny thing is, it was a technology conference. I analyze technology law all day long. And yet? No blackberry. No corporate cell. No tech-age appropriate way to get in touch with your staff after hours when, say, you’ve decided they need to go to a conference. We’re so behind the times it’s a positive embarrassment.

But moving on. What I intended to write follows, with apologies for the long-winded introduction.

There’s a dinner I’m dreading tonight. My immediate ex-boyfriend, Mr. Quiet, is in town for the week. I’ve written about this character before (here), and it really is a rather unfortunate saga.

The cliff’s notes version: Magda is in her last year of law school, and is coming off the high of two back-to-back implosions of relationships. Mr. Quiet appears on the scene. He’s low-maintenance, very smart, quiet, and unobtrusive. Just what she needs to get her morale/confidence/groove back. [Ed. note: never, ever use a man for these purposes. Read on]. She never takes him wholly seriously as a potential mate. He, meanwhile, falls madly in love. Magda moves to the other side of the country after graduation. He stays put. Magda puts them “on a break.” Magda meets J, and terminates the break, and the relationship. Mr. Quiet goes haywire, tries to become Mr. Perfect, embarrasses himself and makes Magda feel miserable.

There. Now you should be just about caught up. Oh, you know, except for the fact that now he’s here. In DC. He’s staying with “a friend” (who I suspect is the “friend” who called me at 2.30 am last Thanksgiving, from JAIL in BALTIMORE where he was supremely intoxicated and I, like a sucker, went to pick him up. Long story. Later post. But anyway).

Mr. Quiet wants to hang out basically every night and over the weekend. Endearing, yes. But no. We narrowed it down to Wednesday. And the Oscar for best actress in a dramatic delay-tactics scene goes to …

I don’t even know what I’m worried about, exactly, though I’m sure whatever comes of it, I’m going to have to look across the table, into the eyes I once hurt, on my home turf. Difficult. Made more so by circumstances, it would seem.

J and had an “altercation” last night. (And before you say, incredulously, “again?” let me remind you that relationships are hard, y’all). It was, predictably, ridiculous.

The Scene: Magda and J are sitting on Magda’s sofa, watching a movie. Magda, extricating herself from J’s embrace, heads to the kitchen.

Magda: I’m getting another muffin, you want one? [Ed. note: still warm from the oven, and so delicious]

J: Um, I’m good, thanks.

[pause]

J: Hey, before you reach in there, let’s do some sit-ups.

Magda: Score one for me! Did those already [and lo, she speaks the truth].

J: Yeeah, but you cheat. Let’s do my sit-ups. You’ve got to do them, blahdity blah, you’ve got to stay in shape, etc. etc., yattity yah I don’t want you to get chubby.

Hold your racing horses just one minute. Did I hear this correctly? He doesn’t want me to “get chubby?” Let’s just get this out there. I am a SIZE TWO (2). Okay, sometimes a four, and yes, there are parts of me that are more squashy than I’d really like, and no, hardly any of me is toned. I’m not really in danger of getting “chubby,” though I will concede that I need to get in shape; however, this misses the point. The point isn’t who was right or why, as really, that’s water under the bridge. The point is, I haven’t had a chance to truly talk to J since then; he’s said he’s sorry, and I know he means it, but still, it’s there. It’s just hovering there, waving its little finger in my mind and saying “see, you were right all along, you’re never going to be good enough for him.”

The voice says this, and I can’t shut it up. And I’m going to dinner with a man who sees me as a goddess who can do no wrong. Mr. Quiet would happily feed me cheetos and chocolate cake all day long if I said it would make me happy, and he would never see any chub that came of it. The major flaw here is that I just don’t love him. I don’t believe I ever really did, or ever really will.

Recipe for a fun night? Ha. Ahahaha. We’ll see.

Leprechauns used to visit the house where I grew up.  They came through the vents.  True story.

Every March 16, before we went to bed, my sisters and I would carefully open the floor vents in each of our respective bedrooms—to allow the Leprechauns safe passage, you know.  Every morning, we’d see that our attention paid off, as gold-foiled chocolates and pennies would always be beside our beds when we awoke.  We’d trot downstairs to find mom making green waffles and green scrambled eggs served up over clover-themed placemats; it really was like magic.  We’d have shamrock sugar cookies when we came home from school, and we usually had Guinness stew for dinner.

The best part? We’re not a lick Irish.  Not. A. Lick.

I can’t really remember when all of this ended; when we stopped being innocent and carefree and into believing in our little green vent-men.  My dad will definitely be pouring a few tonight, and mom still has those placemats, but it just isn’t quite the same.

I got a text from my sister this morning: “you’d better be wearing your Guinness underpants.”  We all have them.  It’s kind of a weird thing.

I don’t have too many outward St. Patrick’s Day traditions anymore.  I did wear a green sweater today, and there’s Irish Soda Bread in the oven now (with many thanks to Heidi for the awesome recipe!).  It’s in the little things, I think.  And when I have kids? Those Leprechauns, they’ll be back.  

Sometimes it’s really hard to condense all of my thoughts into a coherent post: sometimes a cohesive theme is hard to find, and everything I want to say seems impossible to confine in the perfect lines and pre-set margins of this page. 

I’m sitting in a coffee shop in northern Virginia; an excellent Sunday afternoon where it’s just me, my laptop, a novel, mellow music and sunlight making the old wood floors glow.  The trees outside are pink: Spring is definitely on the way.  We’re coming out of the woods. 

J and I went to drinks last night with our newly engaged friends.  They had invited us to dinner, as well, but J—anticipating, kindly, my sensitivity on the issue—invented plans for us.  I don’t want to be jealous of them anymore, and I don’t want to feel hurt that she told J, but not me, that they had gotten engaged.  Still, it’s hard. 

I played nice, and we had a good time.  Her ring was beautiful, they had a cute engagement story, and she spent a lot of time telling me how we’ve got to get together and hang out sometime.  I can’t decide if she’s just being nice or if she really means it.  I’ve had plenty of pseudo-friends who were really more for show: “oh, so good to see you, let’s do drinks sometime, yes, I’ll call you” friends where it’s mutual understanding that all of our promises are figurative.  Of course we won’t get together, and of course she won’t call.  That’s just how it is. Once I start to accept that about this girl, it doesn’t break my heart so much when she rebuffs me. 

The thing of it is, I haven’t made too many real friends out here.  I really wanted to add her to that small grouping.  Que sera sera, though, right?

I was doing well with this laissez-faire attitude until she started discussing her wedding plans.  She wants to get married this fall, in Charlottesville.  Although I certainly never told her, that was my plan first.  A fall wedding in Charlottesville was definitely my plan first.  B!tch won’t be able to get married in the UVA chapel, though, because you have to reserve it a year in advance, and weekends in the fall are on a lottery system depending on the home football schedule.  It’s possible I’ve looked into this.

Two Irish car bombs and four Guinness pints later (it was a St. Patrick’s day special weekend), it didn’t seem so bad.  In fact, it seemed kind of funny.

It was significantly less funny when J and I woke up, I ever so slightly hung over, at 10.52.  And Palm Sunday Mass started at 11.  There was a time in the not-so-distant past when J would have said, hey, screw it, we won’t make it.  I think he’s coming around to seeing how important this whole faith thing is to me, though, and it was on his impetus that I threw on my clothes, tied up my hair, and quickly washed the sleep off of my face.  We normally go to a church farther out, but there is a parish pretty much right across the street from his apartment that quickly became our destination du jour.

By the time we rolled in, about 10 minutes past the hour, it was packed.  Standing room only.  We were literally standing out in the narthex with a whole little crowd of “couldn’t get here early enough” miscreants, craning our necks to hear what was going on. 

About a half hour in I really felt like I was going to pass out.  It was hot, I’d been standing, I hadn’t eaten anything and had had no caffeine.  I’m a serious addict, for those of you keeping score at home.  Things started looking splotchy.  I was trying really hard to focus, but I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I really thought I was about to lose it.  

I have fainted exactly once in my life; it was in San Francisco last year while waiting for a table in a packed restaurant with my godparents.  I hadn’t eaten, I was still on DC time, and it was hot and crowded.  That’s a sure-fire way to get a table immediately, fyi; pass out in the bar after they say it’ll be at least a 45 minute wait.  About a million hot guys offered to escort me outside for some air, too, though I doubt that would have been the result at mass. 

Rather than finding out for sure, I elbowed my way out, and sat on the curb for a while to get myself together.  I resurfaced just in time for communion, and J and I bolted after that for some very tasty Vietnamese soup down the street.  Things started looking up from there. 

Maybe I’ll get married in the fall, and maybe I won’t. Maybe it’ll be soon, and maybe it won’t.  But regardless, I have so much good in my life that drowning it all for minor frustrations and disappointments hardly seems worth it.  

When I logged into my computer at work this morning, I had to change my system password.  I swear it took about 15 minutes to come up with something that uses a capital letter, a lowercase letter, a number, a symbol (from an approved list—not any symbol!), is at least eight characters, and has not been used in the last 24 passwords.  Eh? What?

I’m a girl who totally keeps a password family.  I have several variations of basically the same two passwords.  Work?  Is having none of that. 

After lunch, the computer froze.  And I couldn’t remember the new password.  It was ridiculous.

A very similar thing happened over the weekend, when I changed my wordpress password: I think I was seduced by the “password strength” box at the bottom, and so kept coming up with outlandishly ridiculous things to get the rating higher.  Only it took me a lot of self-guessing to remember what I finally settled on.

I’ve been locked out of voicemail, kicked out of my online health benefits, and blocked from “privileged” information on our network because I have to keep changing the @#$%& passwords every 60 days or whatever, and I just can’t keep them all straight.  I have a post-it that’s grown onto a larger piece of paper in my drawer with hundreds, probably, of passwords scratched off and reformulated, and I can’t ever remember where they all go. 

I appreciate security and all, but I can’t help but feeling like we’re crossing over into some pretty high extremes.  I do not work for the CIA.  The work I do really is not that sensitive.  And these security doors that force me carry my card every time I want to run to the kitchen, the bathroom, etc.? So not needed, especially since I waste a lot of time hanging out in the hall because I’ve left my keys on my desk.  Sigh.

New to the ridiculous security measures scene is the  “inappropriate content” block that the intranet keeps slapping across my browser when I’m on the blogs.  I got booted from my own blog today—I checked in in the morning, but then I came back and was met with an “Access denied, no inappropriate content on company time” label.  Um.  What?

I couldn’t access most any wordpress blog today from my office computer, which was vexing in the extreme.  Those that I could see would cede to the “inappropriate” content screen once I tried to comment.  Boo.

Hypersensitivity might be the end of us all, seriously.  Till then, I’ll hang out in the hall, thinking up comments to make once I’m home on my own uncensored internet, on a computer that remembers all of my passwords for me.  Yay. 

You know you’ve hit new lows when you start spicing up your workday with inane office competitions. At a happy hour last week, a group of editors decided it would be fun to have a “word of the week” challenge: see how many times you can fit said word into news stories and court write-ups.

This week’s word: cabal. Code for scandal; plot; intrigue.

We managed three entries on this staff, which is a rather weak showing but, for an uncommon word, too much exposure could bust it all wide open.

Here were our sentences:

• “The complaint alleged that [Company X]’s advertising practices were deceptive and misleading, a cabal to profit off of that which was freely offered for exceptional protection.”
• “In the alternative, the plaintiff argued that [Party1] and other [Party2] operatives had a cabal encouraging consumers to post defamatory content for their own financial gain and were partly responsible for the development of the messages.”
• And, my favorite, “[Mr. X] believed himself defamed by a blog authored by his former coworker, [Ms. Y]. On her blog, [Ms. Y] described sexual cabals and exploits with various men on Capitol Hill, one of whom she identified as [Mr. X’s initials.]”

All this fun aside, things have been pretty screwy around these parts. Our little leap day mishap—where we erroneously published an entire issue—was only the beginning. Last week, we (read: I) somehow managed to release an issue to the general public with a little xxx where each page number should have been. Yeah, that was pretty cool.

Today’s goings-on, though, top the all-time list of why Magda should be sacked immediately for gross incompetence. I interviewed a somewhat important legal guy last week. I met, we talked, it was nice. In my story, though? I totally spelled his name wrong. Totally. Say his name was John Johnston. My crazy little mind turned this into Joe Johnson. No reason, really; just plain careless stupidity. I had his card right there. I had met him, just hours before. His press manager called me today, when the story hit their desk. I don’t think I could apologize enough; it is exactly my job to get this right. And it’s too bad, too, because I will probably never talk to them again, and they were really nice. GOD I hate my life sometimes.

They say bad things come in threes, yes? So I should be off the hook for awhile? Memo to the universe: cease your badness cabal. Anytime now. Seriously.

Something about him just wasn’t the same.  I don’t know what I was expecting, really; it’s never easy to move on.  But I called him up; I said I’ve got to come over; and then, I was.  I was there, I was telling him everything, I was smiling and pretending that it was what I really wanted.  Before I knew it I was lying down, he was above me, and … well, he was good.  He was very good, but it was just not the same.  There was an awkward unknowing, a sterile “we’re strangers” feel to it.  And then it was over.  I left, and my day carried on as usual.

My mouth is still feeling a bit violated, if I’m honest.  I’m trying to feed it wine to help it cope, but it’s difficult.

I think I have dental fidelity issues.  My dentist in Seattle has known and loved my teeth since I was 6 (yes, six! Many a molar this woman has nurtured).  Seeing as I never bothered to divert mail from my parents’ house, she still sends the odd postcard to me there, which mom dutifully bundles and mails to me, usually alongside other paraphernalia—throwback to the college care package days, but where I once got candies and delicacies from home, I now get kitchen tools; housewares; bulk mail from people unimportant enough to get my new address. In the last box, tucked next to a new set of tea light holders, was her postcard. 

“Magda, we haven’t seen you in over a year!  We know you’re busy, but we miss your smile.”  I really felt like crying, but I knew it was time to move on.

My last experience with a DC dentist was not tremendously positive.  J recommended the guy, but he just didn’t do it for me.  He was ancient—like, really elderly—and the office was deteriorating.  I think its heyday was Mr. Rogers Visits the Dentist, circa 1982. The chair? Was a hand-crank raise/lower.  It was a little bit alarming.  His glasses were ridiculously thick, and he grunted a little bit as he scooted up next to me.  He squinted, poked rather aimlessly at my gums, then said “well, dear, looks pretty good!”

First point, I am not your “dear.”  Second point, if I was missing a tooth, or had a cavity the size of a nickel, would you even notice?  Third point, was J drunk during his visit, or what?

If I didn’t know then, I knew on leaving that never again would I dawn the door. There was a plaque near the exit, dated 2002, thanking the doc for 50 years of service in DC. He’s been practicing dentistry longer than either of my parents has been alive.  I do not find this particularly  confidence-instilling.  

I replaced him today, officially, but I’m still not sure I like the idea of having a new dentist.  It’s like confirmation that I’m grown up, that I’ve moved on.  Part of me still wants to be that six year old who’s so in love with her dentist that that’s what she sets her mind on being when she grows up.  Until, you know, she gets to biochemistry and would rather die.  But that’s so many years off for her. 

My boss is a tool, plain and simple.  The man’s ways largely defy logic, and certainly transcend common decency (and, I daresay, corporate ethics). If he was actually practicing law, rather than dancing about calling himself a lawyer while doing god only knows what at work, I’d consider reporting him to the Maryland bar.  Trouble is, I suspect he’s smart enough to keep in just ever so slightly inside the lines.  Mostly, he’s just as asshat.  [Ed. note: I never knew this word until I started blogging.  I’ve seen it employed so many times by other bloggers and commentors, however, that it seems it has actually crept into my vocabulary.  I read that last sentence, and I was all, wait a minute.  Is that my voice?  But hey, if the shoe fits… ]. 

I could write a manifesto on the various ways in which he vexes me.  Probably several impassioned sonnets, too.  I won’t.  I don’t want to give the man any more of my thoughtspace than I have to, besides to say that if I didn’t really love the substantive content of my work, I’d probably be plotting an intricate revenge instead of just running a selected soundtrack of spiteful songs in my mind on a near-constant basis.

Instead, in the words of Bridget Jones, I choose vodka.

Specifically, blackberry-plum vodka tonic, infused by the creative hand of yours truly.  HURRAH Friday.

Best enjoyed when baking cookies.  The cookies are just standard chocolate chip, nothing spectacular, but so delicious just the same. 

YUM-MY.  But the fun doesn’t stop here, my friends.  As it happens, I have a wonder apron.  Sometimes, I bake things for the express purpose of wearing it.  Odd? Maybe.  It’s so cute, though!  I swear it makes everything taste better. 

Clearly I’m easily amused if I’m spending Friday night photographing myself in an apron.  I got it for Christmas; each of my sisters got a matching one, too.  Here’s us, in headless blog-y fashion, in the kitchen at my parents’ house:

The only thing that could make this night better is if they were here.  I miss them both like crazy. Plus, I know I could count on them to help me consume the deliciousness.  Ah well.  More for me, and a very good start to the weekend indeed.  

It all started innocently enough.  J sent me an e-mail late yesterday, asking if I’d want to have a “date night” tonight.  What a wonderful idea, I thought; just what I need 

We agreed to meet in Chinatown at 6.  Because I’ve been totally in the zone with train timing this week, I arrived at 5.54.  Perfect.  Predictably, he was late.  Did I pass the time by going to starbucks, having a nice drink and doing my reading? Writing? Anything?  No.  Did I go into Ann Taylor Loft and see a lot of cute, cute spring clothes? Yes.  Did I feel like I had time to try on “just this top”?  Yes.  Did I buy “just this top”?  No.  Oh no.  Ann Taylor was a twenty-minute death trap.  I bought the top, plus the suit the mannequin was modeling with it.  The full suit.  It’s adorable, but seriously? Also, because I was getting a suit, I figured hey, I could use another nice button-down shirt, too.  And charge it, please!

J still hadn’t been in touch after the friendly cashier was done assaulting my platinum visa.  He was stuck at union station; the trains just weren’t moving, apparently.  He asked me to just come to him; we’d have date night around there instead, he said.

The moment I walk onto the union station platform, the opposite train comes.  “We can still make it,” J says.  So back on I go.

I should point out here that I dislike commuting by train immensely.  The shorter the better.  Hence, I was in a rather foul mood when I was deposited back in Chinatown, squished and jostled with nothing to show for it.

Finally breathing real outside air once more, J asks: “so, where should we go?”  No plan.  The man had no plan, no reason for dragging me on a commute-time metrorail scavenger hunt for nothing across greater DC.  I think it goes without saying that conversations from this point forward were strained.

I sullenly ate my dinner; he berated me for “being so angry.”  “It wasn’t my fault,” he said; “it’s not about fault, it’s about attitude,” I responded.  Yeah.  Really cool.

We spilt off towards home the way angry siblings happily abandon the cramped backseat after a long car ride.  I spent the evening mostly wanting to kick him in the shins and laugh; he probably wanted to pull my hair and pinch me.  Thank freaking goodness we don’t live together yet. Coming home alone has really helped me chill the heck out. 

He’s just called to say we’re on for a do-over Saturday.  I’m not crossing my fingers, but I’ll give it a fair shot.  Eh, whatever.  The platinum visa, however, may find itself on temporary assignment to the freezer.  Or somewhere else where it will stay out of trouble. 

A friend of mine just got engaged.  Last night, I think, though I wouldn’t exactly know since she announced it by sending out a mass e-mail to everyone in the world including my boyfriend but not me.  This really could have been well-intentioned: of course she knew he’d tell me.  And she and her now-fiance were friends with him first, anyway.  She has my e-mail, though, and it’s not like she’s never used it.  It’s right there next to my cell number in her blackberry, I imagine.  Whatever. 

J just called me at work, apparently under the impression that I knew.  I could say that the feelings of sadness/loss/abandonment I’m trying (frantically) to conceal and smother under file folders and piles of work are because I feel left out of the loop, but that isn’t quite it.

I’m jealous. This jealousy is upsetting, and as much as I know that it’s ridiculous, I still can’t seem to quash it.  If I was single, it would make a lot more sense for me to sit here and say, woe is me, I’ll never be that happy.  I’m not, though; I’m happy and content with J.  I’m comfortable in the assumption that I’m going to marry him someday, when the time is right, when we’ve worked through what we’ve worked through and are more on the track of “ready.” 

 Ready is not yet; for us to get engaged right now would be unwise, for lots of reasons. I should be secure in this, right, and happy for her? One would think.  However, my mental self-portrait at the moment stars an alarming image of a diamond-hungry seething little fanged monster.  It isn’t pretty.

Engagements are happy, yes?  I should be gushing, yes?  This couple is living together.  They’re totally in love and I know she’s wanted to get married for a long time.  So what’s wrong with me?  I’m the kid who spends the whole super-fun party crying in the corner because it isn’t my birthday, and as a consequence misses out on all the cake.   

I only hope I would have been happier if she herself would have called.  I think it was something about hearing from J; hearing something I want so badly fall out of his mouth but about someone else.

I felt like slamming the phone down, hastily leaving work, and heading across the street for the maximum amount of alcohol the friendly bartenders can fit in a martini glass.  I don’t even feel like me. 

“Magda?” J said to my silence.  “Are you there?”

Am I?  

J is coming back tonight from an extended weekend of “man time” in south Texas.  I sense it’s one of those don’t ask, don’t tell sorts of deals; all I know is it involved a heck of a lot of whiskey and some hefty shotguns. His flight is set to land at 8.10 in the p.m.  

It is my job, as super girlfriend, to pick him up.  I don’t know how I could have resisted, really.  That’s always my favorite part of coming home–in Seattle, my parents and/or my sisters are always there, and here, J always is.  There’s a real magic in coming out of the tunnel, around the corner, and yes, you see them, you’re here, you’ve finally arrived.  

That and I love airports.  It’s most certainly an odd affection, but I do–I just can’t get enough.  Reagan National is one of the stops on my way in and out of work each day, and I swear, it’s the light of my whole commute.  Well, except for Fridays, when the light of my commute is the wedding page in the Express.  But anyway.  Ahem.  Back on track. 

When I was still in college and had not yet sold my soul to law school, I seriously considered being a flight attendant.  Like, ridiculously seriously.  I sent away for the application materials for a training school and everything, and I believe I spent the better part of a summer–actually, the summer I studied for the LSAT, how ominous is that–watching some kind of flight attendant reality show/documentary series on TLC. I see them now, in their little uniforms, their buns, their perfectly packed wheelie bags and TSA-exempt IDs, and I can’t help but think that I’m missing out.  I would have gotten to travel! To see wild things and have great stories!  But no.  No, I had to go and be a lawyer, possibly the most boring career ever, one that comes (complimentary!) with a complete cementing of your feet to the ground and a quashing of all hopes related to uncharted world travel and/or youthful irresponsibility until you are approximately too freaking old to care.  Even if you bail on traditional practice, like me, and wile your days writing and analyzing–you can’t help but feel stuck.

I also think I would have made the most adorable flight attendant ever.  EVER.  Or, you know, at least up there in the top 10. 

They make me smile, watching them.  I can’t say that I regret my life’s course, but I think I’ll always wonder what it would have been like.  It seems I have plenty of time to ponder, as the whole two-hours-ahead thing? Only applicable to arrivals.  I know this.  Somewhere, in the frazzled mess that has been my day, I looked at my day planner and said, Hmm, pick up J at 8.10.  2 hours ahead means, 6.10!  Wow, I’ll have to jet right out of here!  So I did.  Here I am, in the terminal, just me and my laptop and the traveling world bustling about.  That’s the difference, you see.  All the fancy education in the world can’t change the fact that an air hostess would never have made such a ridiculous miscalculation.  

My weekend, condensed in three nouns.

First, on the fascist tax collectors, because they are currently PISSING me OFF. The scenario is this.  Magda: so dad, I’m getting all these W2s.  Send me our accountant’s address and I’ll send them on.  Magda’s dad: Oh-ho, but you’re all independent and responsible now.  He’s my accountant, not yours.  Good luck!  Bummer, I say.

So I filed them online, which is fine and was no real hassle until the part where my refund, a nice number growing up in the corner of the screen, suddenly just WENT NEGATIVE and all of the sudden I owe money.  Okay, WTF.  W. T. F., people.

I now have the pleasure of paying hard-earned money to both the federal government AND the commonwealth of Virginia.  Magda? NOT HAPPY.  Arrrrg.

I responded typically, I imagine, i.e. spending money.  There were girl scouts outside of the grocery store today, and they were so adorable and thin mints are just so tasty in the freezer.  Seriously.  I had smaller bills, but I gave them a 20 just to watch them make change.  They were so cute, oh my goodness, I totally want to be a mom that sells cookies with her daughter’s troop.  So much more fun than filing taxes.

Before I knew about the hellacious fines awaiting me with the feds, I was out last night with a group of college “friends”—I actually only knew two of them, one of whom was celebrating her birthday, but apparently we have a pretty sizeable alumni base out in these parts.  Who knew? 

We went to a fantastic middle eastern restaurant.  The food was great and the setting intimate.  Suddenly, however, as the clock struck 9, the lights went way dim and the music cranked up and these belly dancers just appeared.  Looking around, we realized—all the other tables seem to be filled with middle-eastern men.  And they all seem to be feeding dollar bills into the dancers’ costumes. We had to decline when they shook their stuff near our table, but it was an entirely entertaining experience.  I do not think the birthday girl had anticipated this “artistic” element to the evening, which made it just that much funnier when we cornered one of the dancers into seductively bringing out the birthday cake.  So. Very. Amusing. 

Belly dancing, I wonder—I bet that money is under the table.  I bet those girls don’t have to pay taxes.  I should really look into that.