Six Months (a story of uncertain endings).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Farewell, Favored Status.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Takeoffs and Landings, of Sorts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ideal Customer, Right Here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Didn’t Go to the Gym Again Today.

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

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

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

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

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