Monthly Archive

Why? Because I love alliteration.

[An aside: does anyone but me hear “Why?” and automatically think “Because we like you”? As in, “M I C, see you real soon … K E Y, why? Because we like you!” I swear that’s what I was thinking just as I was typing. The ad council and all those “just get outside already” advocates may have got it right, I think ... after school television really can affect young minds far into adulthood. It’s certainly left its mark on this once-wanna-be mouseketeer, in any event…]

The coffee, as one may have already begun to suspect given the rather haphazard organization of the post thus far, is a lovely grande triple shot, which is fueling me through another fun filled day at the office (blogging again at work, magda? Ahem?). This week has been nothing short of frantic. I think someone upstairs, in the ethereal marble and mahogany palace hovering somewhere above our communist-grade offices, has gotten a handle on just how unproductive this company is most of the time. They’re tightening the screws and spurring production. In a way, it works out; working hard when everyone’s at it is much more fulfilling than charging on alone while the slackers screw around on facebook. There’s little worse that fearing you’re the only one left who actually cares.

I have got to jet out right on time tonight, however, as an aunt and uncle are in town and I’m meeting up with them for dinner. This is my dad’s brother and his wife, so naturally I’m taking them to enjoy the largest beer collection in the world (here’s to you, dad!). Were it my mom’s sister, I’d likely book somewhere civilized where we could have a nice chardonnay on the terrace, irrespective of what her husband would prefer. I can’t really justify my bright line distinction. But if it’s dad’s family, it’ll be beer. Cheers to that.

The thing of it is, I’m not bringing J. He wasn’t exactly invited—they said they wanted to take me to dinner—but he wasn’t exactly disinvited—I never asked if he could come along. It wasn’t really conscious; it just didn’t even cross my mind.

I think, at the bottom of it, I’m still just not sure.

It’s not than I’m embarrassed, and it’s not that I doubt my love—I’m just not sure-sure, not positive I want to bring him out to meet my extended family, not sure I want to risk them meeting him and then it not working out. I see this aunt and uncle so rarely, and it seems every time I’m with another soon-to-be-shed boyfriend. No good.

We compromised, J and I. I’ll get some catch-up time with them during dinner, and he can come for an introductory beer at the night’s end. No one is shunned, but no one feels smothered; a perfect balance.

So that’s the coffee and the compromise. That must mean it’s time for the contest!

Earlier this week, I was the lucky winner of Pay it Forward over at Penelope’s place.

The rules of the game are simple. Leave a comment on this post, and you’re entered. At the end of the week, a secret magic randomizer will choose one lucky blogger to receive a special surprise from yours truly. It’ll be good. Mouseketeer’s promise, girl scout’s honor, etc.

The only catch is that if you win, you must pay it forward on your blog. Share the love, y’all. You, too, can be the happiness fairy.

I’ve pinned this comic over my computer. The pig is cracking me up.

Somebody please, take away my starbucks card. But leave a comment first—the contest closes at 11.59p Friday, May 2.

It’s true what they say about life moving fast. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where the boundaries are; the movements blend so seamlessly that you wonder if the curtain was pulled at all. These costume changes—are they new characters, or were you just too distracted by the front lines to realize what was going on in the wings?

This weekend I was a date and a hostess, a girlfriend and an enemy, a competent planner and a disorganized mess. Nothing unusual, really, but surreal when I think on it now.

The me who was out drinking northwest microbrews until an ungodly hour Friday with J and his Senate groupies was the same girl who, the next morning, was making pancakes and wandering, latte in hand, on a Mother’s Day mission through old town. She was the me who was glad she’d so responsibly remembered her UV lotion, the me whose arms are less pale (but not sunburned!).

Hours later, she was the me who was expertly fixing her hair into an envy-worthy cascade of curls, fretting over her eyeliner, and packing her accoutrements into a few totes and hangers to take over to J’s for her routine’s finishing touches. In typical me fashion, she takes three trips to the car before she remembers everything, and then realizes she doesn’t have the car keys; four trips later, she’s en route.

She was the me who sipped white wine while touching up the pedicure she wrecked by running into a doorframe on her quest for those keys, and the me whose adoring boyfriend had flowers waiting in his otherwise cluttered apartment, and who waited, camera in hand, to document what he called her “biggest night ever.”

Still, she’s the me who lets stress overrun her and who snaps at him, laying blame for the little things she’s forgotten, upset at him for the stresses all too common to the transient girlfriend plight.

She’s the me who stepped out of his car, with a heartfelt thank-you and a kiss goodbye, and onto the red carpet, averting her eyes from flashbulbs meant for someone else. The me who met her guest, an exceptional attorney downtown, and worried that she wasn’t entertaining enough, connected enough, engaging enough to make the evening worthwhile. The me who drowned her insecurities at the myriad open bars, trying to make lively conversation that might stand a chance against the glittering surroundings. The me who wanted to be so much more than she was, and worried that she wasn’t living up to it, but the me who smiled just the same, as any petrified fish out of water will do.

The me who walked through camera crews pointed at John Cusak, at Marcia Cross; the me who stood behind Madeline Albright in line for the ladies’. The me who heard the President speak mere meters away. Hundreds of meters, sure, but meters just the same. The me who laughed and clapped in all the right places.

She was the me who, knowing of no after-parties, star-gazed with her guest for a few drinks at the bar before heading out, in the pouring rain, into separate cabs home. Kisses on the cheek, thanks for a good time, let’s talk again soon.

The doormen at J’s building know this me; the well-dressed me that arrives circa 12a, haute hooker-style. They smile and let her in without question; she crawls into the elevator, staring fixedly on the numbers as they light, 10, 11, 12. Ding, you’re home, they seem to say on opening.

She’s the me who wakes up to the smell of breakfast cooking with slight smears of makeup lingering on her eyes. The me who, having not planned for the seachange outside, has to borrow one of his coats before they walk around downtown.

Swimming in a man-sized fleece, she’s the me who gets teary-eyed in JCrew because he’s picked out three shirts for her that aren’t her style at all; she sees a tote she likes and he suggests another; she takes it as a giant sign that they aren’t meant to be. She’s the me who all too easily surrenders her heart to the life-sucking relationship goons that stalk her, who is too willing to blind herself to the goodness underwriting it all for the brief high of self-pity.

She’s the me who drives with the radio at such an outlandish volume that she doesn’t hear him when he calls to tell her that she’s forgotten her flowers. She’s the me who drives back for them, at midnight, because they were possibly the sweetest thing he’s done for her. She’s the me who, at the end of the day, still manages to see the sunshine, and thanks him for it, and apologizes for being such a wreck.

She’s the me who realizes that unless she slows down, she’ll be up and down to the garage, siding up to bars, and driving across state lines for a long time yet. She’s the me who’s finally learning to catch her breath and enjoy the sights and surroundings because really, life’s pretty sweet.

At least around these parts, today is “bring your children to work day.” Happily, you’ve all been spared a post of me ranting on about my boss’s bastard children being noisy the hall, or alternate reminisces about my childhood tag-along-to-work days spent in the cold, sterile world of dad’s microbiology lab; I’ve been tagged.

Direct all notes of gratitude to the lovely Ashley over at Turquoise Ribbons.

Here are the rules:

-link to the person that tagged you

-post the rules on your blog

-share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself

-tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs

-let each random person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog

I’ll start with this. It isn’t one of my six, but it just as well could be. My youngest sister sent it to me just this morning; the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Right. Moving on…

1. I own—and regularly wear—t-shirts from Boston College, Princeton, the University of Virginia, Georgetown, and the University of Washington. I did not go to any of these schools. My alma mater appears on little other than pajamas in my wardrobe, even though I loved going to school there.

2. I learned how to drive in a minivan, and had to drive it to school every day of my senior year with my little sisters and our carpool in tow. Added embarrassment came in the license plate: it was a gift from my dad to my mom, and it said “enchanter” (barf) except it was spelled NCHANTR. People always asked me what it meant. My parents sold the van before either of my sisters learned to drive, and retired that plate. I think my cries of “supreme injustice of the world” are what prompted my dad to buy me the very pricey car I now drive (it was a college graduation gift).

3. My ideal temperature is about 75’. I get cold easily, and I love it warm. Like, tropical warm. I rarely turn on the AC, and I have a heater in my office that is switched on to 80 most days. I could wear a sweater, sure, but I’m most comfortable in just a little t-shirt of frilly top. When I was living at home and studying for the bar, I turned the guest room/my study into a serious oasis; I counteracted my dad’s air conditioning so heartily that he demanded, after the exam, that I get my thyroid checked. He was sure I was somehow imbalanced; “this heat is so unhealthy,” he’d say. I checked out a-ok.

4. I really, really hate calling strangers on the phone—it kind of scares me. Friends on my cell phone, no problem, but otherwise, the phone is the enemy. I put off calling for things like doctor’s appointments until I feel “ready” to talk, and consistently, I’ll hope for voicemail when I call people. Maybe it has something to do with talking to someone I can’t see? Or asking something of an invisible someone? I don’t know. All I know is it’s an awfully unfortunate fear, seeing as a large part of my job is calling important attorneys and doing phone interviews. I feel like such a crackwhore every time I’m all, “so, what do you think was the significance of this ruling?” to a far-away voice. Seriously, I feel slimy. And it kind of makes my stomach hurt.

5. One of my favorite shows EVER is the off-the-air-in-2000 sitcom SportsNight. I never actually saw it in primetime, but I own the whole series on DVD. I watch it, a lot. I got into it in college, when one of my best friends brought it to our study group. We had hideous comprehensive exams in the winter of senior year, and we’d coop up for hours studying and discussing literary themes, then watching SportsNight episodes as an interlude. The show is seriously brilliant. It’s zany and intelligent and so, so good.

6. J’s nickname for me is “bean.” Originally, and sometimes still, it’s “stringbean,” which apparently I earned early in our relationship because, as he puts it, I’m “so tall and narrow.” I never had a nickname until this whole bean thing started, and it has grown on me, though maybe out of sheer necessity—he hardly ever calls me by my real name anymore. It’s always, “hey bean,” or “pass the chips, bean?” We’ll be out, and people are all, what did he just call you? But I love it, and all its derivatives—bean-bean, S.B., stringa bambina. I’ll answer to all of them. Odd, yes, but it warms my heart.

And now you know.

People to tag? Meh. I think this one’s been going around. If you haven’t done it and you want it, YOU’RE IT.

I have a serious fear of throwing out bills and other “real” mail with all the junk that gets jammed in my mail slot each day.  I get a lot more circulars and ads that are either practical or necessary, really.  The mailroom recycle bin is usually a collage of Safeway coupon books and fascist comcast fliers destined for a directly circular life journey, but mine never join them. 

No, they all take the elevator ride up here with me, where I carefully sift through them, turning each page looking for hidden charges.  And, sure, wondering what it would be like to be one of those shoppers that sees an ad for Prime Cuts of Meat—On Sale This Week and just twinkle in my toes.  Or get excited about gallon-jugs of orange juice, buy one get one free through the 29th!

Someday.  Maybe when there are little magdas running around that each have their favorite cereals and need school lunches and are very picky about their vegetables, these things will be important.  For now, though, I just need to be sure I’m not losing an electrical bill. 

When I was growing up, my mom had a total bill-paying system, and there was always one day a month when she would pay all of the bills.  As each bill came, she’d open it and stick it in a special file; then, on the right day, she’d take them all out and pay them in concert.  I don’t think this would work with my bills.  They all have really different due-dates, for one, and they come at totally random times. 

My system is, admittedly, totally haphazard.  The bill comes, I pay it.  Then I put it into a little excel spreadsheet I call “east-coast expenses.”  Like I’m on a temporary assignment? Or a three-hour tour?  Yeah, I’ve been here a year and a half, with no immediate plans of departing. Seriously, sometimes I worry myself.  Especially since it’s been more than a month since I’ve updated this sheet, and I have a pile of receipts accruing on the floor, since me and my Visa? Totally in love.  In love!  I show it off everywhere!  But really, that’s another story entirely.

For now, though, my interest in the daily accrual of junk mail is simply that I’m petrified that Giant’s Super Deals is going to eat something really important, and mar the credit score I’ve worked so hard for, and it will SO not be my fault.  I’ve yet to find any offenders.  But still.

Miss Earth National Capital Area was standing by the side of the road near the Alexandria Whole Foods tonight, waving her little beauty queen wave at all of the commuters on Duke Street.  Conveniently (insofar as I love flashing that credit card) I live but a block away, so I passed her leaving the train tonight.  I’ve just googled that title and I think it’s totally bogus; my guess is that Whole Foods made her up to promote Earth Day specials.  Still, I’ve half a mind to march my bag of paper recycling, currently near over-flowing (thanks, unnecessary ads!) down to her perch and demand some action out of her title.  Her assistant did give me an eco-friendly keychain as I passed, however, and she flashed me a bright smile as she reminded me to bring my own bag! (imagine here one of those cheesy tooth “ding!” shines from TV).

Sigh.  There’s only so much a girl can do.

There’s something to be said for being really open and forthright about sex. The Sex and the City model is a good one for liberalism and feminism and all that is great about the modern, all-accepting era: gather your friends, talk about who’s getting what from whom and when over coffee like you’d talk about the last novel you read.

I love to watch these kind of conversations go down. But I’m not exactly the girl who’ll jump right in and participate, volunteering details of her sordid night in.

I live in something of a 1950s world where what goes on in my bedroom stays right there, beneath the crisply made sheets, thanks so much. I’ll ask you about your flower garden, or your casserole recipe, but never, ever you and your husband’s nocturnal affairs. Even thinking about sex seems, to me, somehow taboo. Yes, I was raised by puritans.

Out shopping last week, a friend invited me to a party she was hosting. We were out and it was loud and all I heard was “Sunday, my apartment, party.” Excellent, thought I. She sent a later e-mail with her address and the time, and I wrote back an enthusiastic yes, sign me up, I’d love to come. DETAILS, magda, the me of the future cries. Details would have been good.

I arrived late, because I got lost. I always get lost. My car has a GPS but still, believe me, I will detour to a ridiculous degree (chalk that up to “follows instructions poorly”). That and the signs around here really suck (yes, DC, I hate you). I blame the sign commission of the greater Mid-Atlantic for how quickly I’ve become really dangerous driver. No U-Turns? Nah, I didn’t see that. No turn on red? Oops! Oh look, my exit! By the time I eventually get pulled over, I’ll have certainly had it coming, and looking at it that way, each error amortizes to what, like, a nickel? No problem.

But I made it there. I came into the living room, a little bit wet and a little bit agitated, and what ho! No wine, no music, no mingling. Oh no. There, front and center, is a woman demonstrating a dildo. Behind her is a table of exotic erotica.

They handed me a naughty nametag and an ink pen shaped like a penis. I took my seat to watch the continued presentation in something of a shocked stupor.

Had I realized it was a sex toy party, I definitely would have made other plans. In the end, though, I did have a good time—I warmed up to it, met some interesting people, and was living, for a moment, at that table with Carrie and Charlotte et al.

Being matter-of-fact and open-minded about sex is very healthy, and as much as I love my apron and the idea of spending the day vacuuming the house in pearls, the realities of a Doris Day world would not, I don’t think, be as ideal as they seem from this distance. Somewhere, there must be a balance between dildos and dusters in my living room. I think I’m on the way to finding it.

It’s a total thunderstorm outside in these parts, washing out the memories of an 80’ sunny day yesterday.  I spent the morning down at the water, and my arms are just ever-so-slightly less sickly pale as I sit here and type in the low lighting of J’s apartment.  We came back from mass in the pouring rain, showered off, and have just finished a late lunch of leftovers from Passover dinner.

I don’t understand a lot of things about modern, assimilated Judaism, but I’m totally into matzo ball soup.  I think it’s a little bit fraudulent for J to run around and call himself Jewish without the knowledge and the discipline of the faith, but reading about the plagues with a tall glass of Manischewitz is a pretty fun way to spend a Saturday.

We weren’t quite kosher in our Passover preparations last night—the beer we drank while cooking killed that—and we were really only in it for the food.  Happily, I’m becoming quite a kick-ass non-Jewish girlfriend in the kitchen. I’m a total matzo ball mistress, and my haroseth will blow you away.  I also made a very tasty zucchini and carrot quinoa, courtesy of the Bon Appetit Passover section.

J is Jewish in much the same way as I’m German, which sometimes really gets me going. It’s where my great-grandparents lived until the first war, and where my grandfather is from.  It’s my heritage without a doubt, but I’ve never been to Germany, I don’t really know anyone there, and I certainly don’t speak the language very well. I could hang little flags around, get some dirndls, and drink beer in October—but is that enough to make me German? I mean, can’t practically anyone do that?  J doesn’t go to temple, and he did only about a year of Hebrew school.  I know more of the old testament stories that he does, which is at once sad and frustrating.  He identifies with Judaism because it’s his family’s heritage—not because it’s anything they practice.  

Once I get my mind around this disconnect, it all becomes a little clearer.  We can go to church and have my faith, but still take time for his traditions.  Like Passover.  I’m a total sucker for holidays, so throwing a few more into the year seems like a steal of a deal.

We didn’t do a Seder and we didn’t say prayers, but the food was so delicious, and we did read parts of Exodus aloud.  Let my people go, and all that.  Tradition really is important, and I would never want him to give that up.  I think, and I hope, that we can mesh our lives and our beliefs and our heritages into something workable.  We may end up with children named Michael Ezekiel Berndt, or Rachel Mary-Elizabeth Helga, but as long as there’s good food, real tradition, active faith and a sense of belonging? Then I have great confidence that we’ll all be fulfilled and happy in the end.

It’s summertime out there for sure today, and it somehow feels like a change is in the air.

I was walking downtown early yesterday morning en route to a quickie doctor’s appointment; dodging past barricades and weaving through crowds that, even at 8.30, were already beginning to form along Pennsylvania. People cram the metro with signs and posters, prayers and rosaries.

The Pope is in Washington this week, and it’s these subtle changes, these sparks in energy that make it real to me.

I won’t see him; I work in ghettosville Northern Virginia, for one, and for a dictator who, though he takes off at 3, requires so much more of me. Being something of a transient Catholic where parishes are concerned, of course I was not on any of the lists for papal mass tickets. And I do not, as do many of my more gung-ho religious acquaintances, work for a company that sees cloying by the side of the road for a glimpse of His Excellency within the ambit of “all in a day’s work.”

But I still feel a part of it. It’s like there’s something in the air here, and it’s more than just a crowd mentality. Yes, there are throngs of pushing people and confused tourists and really, really bad traffic. Above that, though, hovering somewhere, is something really different. There’s a feeling, a peace, a harmony that may be just in my head—it may just be a figment of knowing that there’s something big going on, and it’s nearby—but it sure feels real.

It’s no news that Washington is home to the celebrated diplomat, the international figure. It happens all the time, but I have never felt it so tangibly as it related to me, to my outlook.

The Queen was here last year, as a rather apt example. I took interest, at least to the extent of following the coverage; true, I used to have a major thing for the Royal Family. It may or may not have involved Prince William, but that’s another story; the point is, I know a LOT about the Queen. History, lineage, all number of facts gleaned from hours of documentaries. When dear old H.M. came over the summer, I did, by chance, see her motorcade. Nothing more than a memory.

Here, though, and now? Despite my knowing about zilch on this Pope, these days are marked by something much more than fast cars and newsprint photos. I can’t help but think I would sense that something was different even absent the flashy pictures splashed across the paper. This is love and peace and contentment coursing through me, and I never want to let that go.

There are lots of reasons I should have studied Spanish. The Cinco de Mayo parties, for one. The global usefulness, for another. Oh, Hmm, MY FUTURE, say.

In my own defense, I was thinking long term when, as an innocent sixth grader, I chose to follow the big imagination of Le Petit Prince down the French track. It just wasn’t the right long-term. I was thinking glamor, fashion, semester in Paris. Turns out I should have been thinking of resumes.

J, tired as ever of me bitching about the at-times audacity of my daily life at work, today forwarded me an awesome job opportunity as a writer/editor with the government. It’s here in DC, matches my interests and qualifications to a near T, pays a considerable amount for federal work, and though I’d planned to hang on here for a little longer, I thought eh, I’ll look into it.

The key requirements: US Citizenship, background check. Yup, yup. All clear. Eligibility and qualification requirements: “one year general experience.” Got that and then some.

It wasn’t until the substantive application that in “in English and Spanish” started cropping up in questions about past writing experience. I was just skimming though it—I’m still at work, you see—and I’m awfully glad, because before long it asked me to answer with an essay response in both English and Spanish.

It would have been one thing if, in the general or key requirements, it would have said “Spanish fluency.” But it didn’t. It would have made sense if this was a job with the Spanish embassy, or a committee on Latin American Affairs. But it wasn’t. This was just a normal, “hey come work for the feds” type of posting. And now I’m kind of mad.

I would be so great for this job except for the whole not bilingual part. As far as I’m concerned, if the federal government wants to make Spanish fluency an inherent requirement of federal jobs, it should damn well make studying Spanish a requirement in public schools. Students should not be allowed to be seduced by cartoons and crepes if it’s going to harm the country later. (And yes, it may well be an extrapolation for me to equate my non-candidacy with harm to the country. I would have been fantastic, though. It’s a loss to the American People that I do not speak Spanish. If I could, I’d clearly get this job and save the world. Or something.)

Dear, sweet Little Prince, you were great and all. But you were a big mistake.

I have found it: the perfect dress for the Correspondents Dinner.  Tuesday’s strike-out was followed by serious success over the weekend; add to that the 80’ heat wave we had here yesterday and the rocket ships I visited at the Smithsonian today, I couldn’t have celebrated the week’s conclusion any better.

The dress is here:

And because the back just doesn’t come across very well on a hanger, I give you my experiment in self-photography, take 51,552:

I seriously could subtitle this little gem “Ballgown, mirror, digital camera: just watch, she’ll entertain herself for hours.”  Really, that’s about how it went down, and all of about none of them really turned out.  Sadly, this is the best one, but at least it gives you a sense of the cross-straps in the back.  Oh, and pardon the whole chunk of my head in the bottom… photography is definitely not my calling, but hey, it sure is fun. 

Those of you with a keen eye will notice that this is the very dress suggested last week by the  fashion-savvy Penelope over at The Rivers of Addiction Flow (A million thanks, P!).  The minute she sent the link (here) I was in love, and was actually planning to order it online if I couldn’t find it (or didn’t find anything better) by next week. 

Oh happy fortune, I found it squished between some less attractive options at the Saks outlet in Leesburg, where I spent a seriously successful half-day browsing.   It was a total sign; it was the only dress they had in my size that was even try-on worthy.  The color, “cobalt blue,” isn’t available on the site, which makes me think it’s probably last season, but the sales girls there assured me that it’s a classic cut, and the others at the communal three-way mirror all agreed that the color really worked on me.  And for $127?  I could not, COULD NOT let this dress join the sad pile of rejects at the back of the fitting rooms. 

The search goes on for shoes and a clutch.  I want a new formal clutch; the one I have actually is from prom, and I just want a new feel.  If I end up getting something metallic, I’d be able to wear my shoes from the biochemistry wedding, which would be marvelous since they’ve been worn all of about three times, though they are really cute.  The biochemistry wedding was my little sister’s nuptials two summers ago: she and her now-husband got engaged in college, where they met majoring in, get ready for this, biochemistry, biophysics, AND molecular biology. Blech. A mouthful, but so smart.  I’m proud.  She’s a biochemist now; he’s a PhD student.  I fully intend to corrupt their germ-phobic and totally geeky future children.  I’ll be the coolest aunt EVER, and I get all excited every time I pass the children’s section, or see little tiny shoes, or peer into a toy store.  Sure, I want my own … but first I’d like to spoil hers. 

I’d also like to see her do it first.  I realized at her wedding, once I got over the initial “holy hell, my little sister’s getting married and I’m not even dating anyone” shock and panic, that it wasn’t all that bad to cede the right of first preference. There’s something almost calming in knowing that you don’t have to be first, don’t have to plow the course; no, you get to sit back, take notes, see how it’s done and plan ahead to avoid the pitfalls.  You pre-design your version to be an improvement. 

I’m the oldest, and have never had this perspective before.  Honestly, I’d like to hang onto it for a little bit.  Go on ahead with those babies, sweetheart.  I’ll be watching, from a safe distance, drinking champagne out of the bottle in my blue dress and livin’ it up till I’m good and ready.  I will be, one day.  But not today. 

For many things, one is sufficient.  A spare tire, say, or a mother-in-law, or a toothbrush.  For others, though, two is best.  There are times when just one is lonely; is sad; is just plain inadequate.

Sometimes I feel like my life is a bad 7th Heaven episode, when the underlying theme is painfully and palpably obvious from the outset, carries through to every aspect.  The hour will end with some cheesy lesson and consequent change. 

This week in the life of magda, the theme is “one is the loneliest number: studies in why being one half of an absent pair can really suck sometimes.”

It started when my boss sent our associate editor to San Francisco. This was a trip that I wanted and that she should have had, but, like most things, began as a trip he assigned himself (inner monologue: asshole). Familial obligations intervened for him (hey, it happens when you’ve sired SIX offspring, several illegitimate), and he ended up sending her.  At the last second, he added a totally heinous hades twist by piggy-backing a Dallas conference into her “layover.” (Asshole encore).  She’s doing a tremendous job.

She’s like my little sister, our associate. She’s fantastic, and while I know this week’s been hard for her, things haven’t exactly been peachy back in these parts, either. The work raining down on me? No fun.

I came home last night, made macaroni and cheese, and got into my pajamas in front of a movie.  No roommate to cramp my space or use the TV, no boyfriend to angst over my non-nutritious choices, no children needing shuttling to after-school activities.  It was peace for an hour or two.

Then, realizing I was low on so many staples (hi, I was eating macaroni and cheese), I got inspired and went to Costco. Costco is a hard place to be just a one, just a single girl pushing a cart in a fight for herself.  I did have a good time cruising the aisles for the usuals—I have this thing for going down every row, even when I don’t think I need anything there.  I forget that I want things, you know.  As much as I added, though, and as many exciting things as found, I couldn’t oust the loneliness that is shopping For One.  No one to help me with the heavy things.  No one to discourage me from the industrial-sized nutella (in a twin-pack!). No one to laugh at me when OF COURSE I picked the one cart with defective front wheels.

Costco, or at least the Virginia version thereof, is the penultimate experience of why being friendless and alone is possibly the worst condition Ever In The World, period.  I grew up in Costco’s homeland, where the checkers were friendly and boxed things for you, and where I was always flanked by my parents, and usually a sister or two.  Many hands make light the work, or something.  Last night, it was girl versus shopping cart, smack-down style.  I’m just not all that coordinated when it comes to presenting my membership; loading my own cart; paying; departing.  They had no boxes, and no cart-packers.  The clerk yelled at me to get my things–and it’s not like there were all that many–out of the way fast enough for the next customer.  I’m just one person!  I can’t move this fast!  Send help!  I felt like yelling.  Instead, my eyes just welled and, blurred vision notwithstanding, I hurriedly maneuvered the night’s catch out into the dark air. Air that was warm; I opened the sunroof on the way home, for the first time this season. It was magic, enjoyed au solitaire.

As the cherry on top, I had my eyes checked after work today.  I noticed at the shooting range on Sunday that my right eye’s distance-sight is a bit blurry (and for the record, this is not advisable: to realize, “hey, I can’t see straight!” while holding a loaded weapon.  Only me). Needless to say, I shot with my left eye.

Come to find out, my left eye is perfect—but the right’s just not cooperating.  In fact, it isn’t doing much of anything at all.  It’s just there, hanging out, waiting to be called upon but not really putting out any effort. 

My new eye doctor had me look through little 3D glasses at a book.  Except I didn’t see 3D.  He asked me to identify the contents of a box on the page, and all I saw was an L.  Closing my left eye, an R appeared.  R, L. R, L, but never together.   Actually, thinking on it now, this might explain my extremely tragic sense of space.  I run into walls.  I have serious parking issues.  It’s just like that.  Or is it?

Medical benefits plus $300 later, I picked out some truly adorable glasses: nothing more than tempered plastic in the left lens, a prescription in the right to help my little troublemaker joint the class.  “As a precaution,” the kind doctor said, but all I heard was “yup, you’re getting old.” 

In all fairness, there are some real perks to being but a one.  The monstrous chocolate milkshake here to the right of my keyboard, for instance, and the blender that will likely remain in the sink until tomorrow. The freedom to wear jeans in the office every day, because you’ll be holed up there from dawn to dusk anyhow and there’s no one really there to notice.  To have the uninhibited schedule to go where I want, and buy what I want, when I want. I like the freedom of coming and going, existing for no one but me.

Still, though, despite the cost, and the emotion, and the compromise? It’s tough to beat two parts together.  Certainly something worth working towards.

I’m in the market for a dress.  A nice dress; a ball gown, to be exact. I spent the better part of a late lunch looking for the same, because really, who says lunch has to be spent eating? It’s all too common for me to spend an hour shopping, which is detrimental on so many levels.  But moving right along.

Today was our publication day, which meant I was busy busy busy and couldn’t get away till circa 3pm.  It also meant I was wearing jeans.  There once was a time when sitting and staring at proof pages inspired adorable suits and totally urban chic professional attire.  That day, my friends, has passed, and today I was just so not feeling it.

I suppose it would be a common reaction, to think that a young woman in jeans shopping in the “special occasion” section at 3pm on a Tuesday would be looking for a prom dress.  But really? I commonly get carded, but do I look like I’d produce a learner’s permit?

One hundred percent—we’re talking 4 for 4—of the helpful salespeople in the shops I visited today asked me a variation of “Where do you go to school,” “Will this be your first prom,” and “When’s your prom, sweetheart?” 

That last one really got me.  First, I am not a perky twenty-year-old clerk’s sweetheart.  Second, I think I was older than she was.  I lied to the others—not because I particularly cared to be cast as a high schooler, but because I just didn’t want to make them feel bad.  I’d say something simple like, oh, in May; to one I gave the name of a Catholic high school I knew was nearby.  I know that seems pathetic; I’m just like that.

Ms. Perky sweetheart got the true tale, however.  Maybe because it had been a long day, maybe because I was (I’ll admit) a little bit intimidated by how perfectly put together she was, or maybe because I was just fed up with the whole scene, I told her in (I’m sorry to say) a rather unfriendly tone that no, actually, my prom had been circa 1999, and I was in fact looking for a dress for the White House Correspondent’s Dinner.  I felt like adding “Because I’m an award-winning journalist, biatch,” but that was too over the top for my style.  It is true, though, that by happy fortune, I’ve come into a pair of tickets (squee!).  I want to be sure the final ensemble does NOT resemble a prom dress; clearly, I told her, it’ll need to make me look older. 

To her credit, despite my initial rudeness, she turned out to be quite helpful, and I tried on a few … but nothing really stuck.  The search goes on.  This time, thank all goodness, without the teenage angst.

So our wine weekend ended with a bang when J and I took a detour to the shooting range.  All decked out in massive earphones and armed with a real live .22, I annihilated a cardboard man.

This was not the plan.  But I kind of liked it.

We had a good weekend, and it was so amazingly nice to be away.  We were in Southern Pennsylvania, just across the Maryland border, in a bed and breakfast that used to be an old railroad hotel and, an article I read said, a brothel.  

This is especially amusing since there was some kind of a mix-up with our reservation, and we ended up being upgraded to the Bordello Room.  It was so called because the room was decorated in a 30s and 40s-era pin-up girl theme, but I couldn’t help but find the reference outright hilarious.  Especially since all of the other guests were older married couples.  J slept in this morning, so I was at breakfast alone, and they were all asking where my husband was.  He’s … um … still sleeping, I’d say, furtively hiding my give-away left hand beneath the table.

We visited some of the historic railroad cities, and toured some wineries.  It was good, and we have some bottles brought home to show for it.  I’m a bit of a wine snob, though, and while Pennsylvania gives a really good effort—go there for the experience.  True, I regularly drink really cheap wine, and I’ve been known to throw myself in front of bottles my dad is staged to pour out as “undrinkable.” “NO!” I’ll shriek.  “We’ll drink it! Save the wine!”  This is how my law school roommate and I underwrote many drunken evenings in, in fact: dad’s reject wine.

But still.  I turned 21 in Washington Wine Country, and I’ve spent spring break in Napa.  I’m spoiled, and I know a good vintage when I meet it.

We’d had about all we (and the fast-filling crate in the trunk) could take by about 2, and the idea of returning to DC was just so wholly depressing we started paging through the local paper over a late lunch.   

That’s when J saw an ad for the shooting range.  “Your Second Amendment Connection,” it was subtitled. 

I’d never held a gun before, and I admit I was a bit freaked out by the whole idea.  He sold me on safety.  Every girl should know how to handle a handgun, he said; you may need to disarm the enemy, or protect yourself; you’ve got to know what you’re dealing with.  All true.  So we went, I destroyed the cutout man, and I actually enjoyed it.  In fact, I intend to go again sometime. Maybe not often and maybe not soon, but again.  I’m not too bad a shot, it turns out. 

I’m thinking of pinning up my destroyed target in my office.  Somewhere inauspicious, like on the back of the door.  I can’t be drinking the wine at work, but I’ll be damned if I can’t be remembering some of the weekend’s stress releases more perpetually. 

When I was growing up, I had this system.  If I looked outside and it was raining, it was a little sign from God that everything was going to be okay. I took great comfort in it; no matter what was going on, no matter the complexities of circumstance plaguing me, I’d let the rain wash it away. Ah, I’d say, the rain’s here.  Everything is righting itself again.

I think I’d watched too many documentaries on parched African cultures, or had studied too many Native rain dances.  I grew up in Seattle, where the constant drizzle is as signature as the latte addiction. My dependence on the rain, then? Possibly self-serving.  Still, coming out of work today, the droplets on my skin reminded me of that comfort I used to find.

This has been a workweek that’s lasted a lifetime.  Really, I love my job—but the environment is, I fear, slowly growing toxic.  I hate my manager, and quoting my mother, yes, hate is a strong word.  I’m quickly growing disenchanted with the tedium of the day-to-day, and sure as this happens with any job—really, wasn’t it so much better when we were still in school?—I’m drowning in the thought that this is it, the final train, my destination this lonely depot.

I should say not. 

The rain spoke to me today.  The common “it’s going to be okay” message remained, but with teeth: it’s going to be okay, and better; different things are coming.

I spent the ride home drowning out reality listening to really loud Postal Service.  I think everyone has moments when the constant hum of the commuters is too much, when the buzz of the doors opening, doors closing routine seems altogether stifling.  The only escape is within, and thank all goodness for the iPod. 

It can, at times, be easier to just move forward than acknowledge the stops and starts along the way. Still, though, there’s something about that routine that’s comforting.  It’s dependable, it’s calculated, it’s certain.  I think that’s what scares me the most about this thing called adulthood.  I’m worried I’ll lose myself in the wash of sights and sounds, colors and movement and, adrift, grasp sightlessly for the parameters I’ve so long clung to.

I think it’s going to go like this.  I’ll stick around courting the rain at this job until 2009.  Then, come January, I’ll look elsewhere and I’m out like a sprout.  A charming, if unconventional, simile:  I’ll be out like a sprout and doing new things, growing in new places, meeting new people, and sinking my roots into different soil.  Which makes the next eight months so much more bearable, somehow. 

I think the best April Fool’s trick we pulled as kids was when we rubber-banded the sprayer in the kitchen sink closed so mom got hosed when she tried to rinse our breakfast dishes.

I really appreciate April Fool’s pranks. Missing doors from bathroom stalls, wildly rearranged furniture, desk accessories glued in place: all of this I find endlessly entertaining.

It’s the plays on reality that get me. Like when I logged into my gmail this morning: I was all guns a blazin’ to write a post blasting the new time stamp campaign.

Says gmail: “Ever wish you could go back in time and send that crucial email that could have changed everything — if only it hadn’t slipped your mind? Gmail can now help you with those missed deadlines, missed birthdays and missed opportunities.” Cheaters! I was ready to cry. No fair!

And then it occurred to me: it was a joke. Google has one every year. I’m just a little slow like that. (More details from those clever, clever Google guys and gals here: http://mail.google.com/mail/help/customtime/index.html)

Our boss had a bit of fun with me, too, when he sent the specs for our issue, which I was putting together today. He designated the lead report to be “the write-up on the increasing online prevalence of pet-on-pet pornography.” I was thoroughly confused, and frantically searched our folders for nearly half an hour looking for that file. I was really ready to walk over to his office, apologize for my ineptitude, and admit that I just couldn’t find that piece anywhere when I caught myself. “Wait a minute,” I said. “We don’t write about pet porn!” Ha Ha. Very funny, stupid boss.

I don’t know what it is about me that so persistently takes the world at face value. I do, though, and I always have. You’d think I would have overcome this, seeing as both my parents are serious jokers. One year, my dad had us going that my grandma, his mom, was pregnant with twins. I was totally excited to have aunts and uncles who were younger than me; it seemed such a novelty. When I was an exchange student my junior year of high school, my mom sent me a terrible e-mail informing me that my English teacher from home, a very harsh and not tremendously friendly nun, was insisting that I take her mid-term, even though I hadn’t been there all semester. “I’ll mail it to you,” Mom wrote, adding “sorry about this.” Not real. Not at all.

Notwithstanding this upbringing, still I have countless stories of ways I’ve been duped, outlandish tales that I’ve swallowed hook, line and sinker for no other reason than that the teller seemed so serious, and I’m just so willing to believe.

Though it will certainly wear off, for the rest of today, at least, consider my guard up. Time-altering e-mail and pet porn, sheesh.