Category Archive

My mornings generally follow this synopsis: 7.15, alarm goes off.  It’s my iPod, with a playlist that I really need to change because I know all the songs and what order they come, so I usually just lay there and think about getting up when the next song starts.  Somewhere around 7.30, my cell phone goes off.  I’ll tell you that I set it to because I know all about my iPod habits.  That’s part of it.  The other part is that I have this gripping fear that the power just might suddenly go out over night, allowing me to sleep uninhibited till way past 9.  This has never ever happened, and the cell phone is my insurance that it never will. 

I feel like I do a lot of seemingly normal things for totally odd reasons.  Like I feel really bad when I leave my apartment a mess in the morning; I always make my bed and try to straighten things up.  Sure, I like to have things neat when I get home; a privilege of not having a roommate.  But the bigger (secret) reason is that I often get this really morbid outlook, and start wondering what my parents would think if something tragic happened to me and they had to come get all of my stuff.  The empty wine bottles littering the kitchen, and the laundry a far cry from the hamper?  Not the daughter we knew!  Strange.  I know.

But back to my mornings.  I stumble out of bed, put the water on for tea, and jump in the shower, where I usually  remain much longer than needed just because, well, I like long hot showers.  I also like postponing the inevitable.  Obviously.

I turn on the tv while I fix my hair, generally try on variations of approximately four outfits, and slide out the door just as the clock squeaks 8.40. 

I discovered today that just by adding one hour and a bit of dedication, a heck of a lot more can be accomplished.

Note the modified schedule du jour: 6.15, alarm goes off.  I get out of bed, and make tea while the rest of the playlist rolls on.  I shower quickly, long enough to rinse my hair and decide what to wear; I fix myself up, then head down to the garage, and drive my darling car to its 7am service appointment (I KNOW.  That’s so freaking early.  I tried to complain, but it was this or mid-day Saturday.  I don’t like disrupting the peace of a long and happy weekend with errands involving brightly lit service rooms and coffee out of styrofoam).

I’ll pick it up tonight, after they check it out and run their little tests.  In the meantime, I am the temporary owner of a sparkly loaner.  My dealership is cruelly kind, in that their loaners are all the newest, nicest cars with all the toys. 

The magical space pod in my parking spot right now has a push-button ignition—the keys only have to be in the car, which means I could physically attach them to my person and never ever lose them.  You push the dashboard button and the car just starts; smoothly, quietly, perfectly.  It has a totally high-tech computer system that is not only a fancy new GPS, but also will answer your phone and will play your iPod so long as if these things are somewhere in the car, in its little magical range. 

I realized pulling out of the grocery store on the way home that the screen turns into a camera showing the space behind the car the moment you go into reverse.  Parking in the garage, it beeped and showed me sensors and a diagram of dangerous things (i.e. the posts) near the car’s edges.  I fit all the week’s groceries in the efficient netted compartments in the trunk.

Driving it is an extraordinary experience.  Still, though—it’s not my car.  It hasn’t held my CDs, hasn’t driven those miles; its steering wheel hasn’t felt the splash of my tears, and its leather is missing those dents and flaws from moving furniture and other things of the “probably won’t fit in the backseat but darn it, it’s going in” variety.  It’s seductive.  It’s nice to think about for the day.  By tomorrow, though, I bet I’ll be ready to go back.

There’s something really comfortable about what’s yours.  No matter how shiny the alternatives seem, how quickly they start or how promising they purport to be at carrying baggage, concealing the ordinary, or taking the edge off of all the bad parts, there’s something missing.  The flaws and the quirks and the low-technology originals aren’t always bad. They’re what makes the experience yours at all, and what makes it an experience, not a vacation, a few hours in wonderland.

So yes, my car has some dents from those cursed posts.  I cried for each one.  But it’s made me more careful, and it’s made me better.  I’m pretty sure this goes for a lot more than cars.

I made it home, eggs and cheese in tow and feeling very Euro-posh, in time to send a quick e-mail to my mom, eat the banana I shanghaied from the dealership’s coffee bar, and head out—by 8.40.

All this, and the only difference an hour.  Amazing. 

I’m a real believer in writing as therapy. Thus, even though writing something for the blog is really the last thing on my mind right now, and even though I’d really like nothing more than to close the computer, go sit outside in the grass, close my eyes and hope to wake up in some foreign land, I’m going to deposit a few thoughts, incoherent as they are, in this space, and hope to make sense of something.

I feel like I’m living in a cloud.  Not on a cloud—that would be nice.  Rather, in the cloud, where it’s foggy, and confusing, and hard to breathe.  I think it’ll be worth it once I get out and am on top, however.  Sometimes you just have to struggle.

I have no energy.  Thinking about work and all of the assignments on my desk makes me want to collapse with exhaustion, and just fade into the carpet.

I’m afraid that things are on the fritz with J. For so long, I wanted and wanted (and wanted some more) to be with him always. Having friends get engaged would send me into a tailspin of waiting for OUR shiny, diamond-studded moment. These days, I wonder if he’s really what I want. Do I really want to be engaged to him? Does he fit the happy ideal of the couples around me? Is this, being married to an ex-lawyer and wanna-be music insider, a life I really want to sign up for? Really? All of the sudden I feel like I need way more time to prepare. Like that test that you felt so confident about, but you get there and open the bluebook, and holy sh!t I don’t know anything; how did I study all wrong?

I’ve never felt as homesick as I do right now. I’m starting to feel really guilty about moving so far away, now that I’ve essentially proved my point: yup, I’m self sufficient, I did it, look at meee! My family is so important to me, and I’ve only got this one life, and I’m starting to realize that I’m betting my most valuable chips on the gamble of always having more time. More time later to do the things you love, and see the people you need; buy now, pay later! Put in the hours now, and cash out later! All of this, of course, presupposes the existence of a glittering “later.” I feel like the older I get, the more foolish I am to bank on that illusion. My parents are young now—51 and 50, respectively—and I sometimes look at myself and say, stupid girl, get home and hang out with them and know them while you still can. I think I’m going to come back to this in 20 years where they’re all pent up in assisted living, and wonder what the hell I thought I was doing, running around being “independent” during the best years of their lives.

I wish we all lived in Ireland, where they have close families and it’s okay and expected to live nearby, and even if you move to the whole other side of the island, you could basically drive it in a day if you wanted. Some of their assisted living homes have pubs in them, too, which is TOTALLY the way to go. Totally.

I had my one-year review today, which was totally unexpected since, oh that’s right, I was hired in October. So, over the last year and eight months … As it happened, I’d forgotten (?) that I had a little fist-fight with upper management right before Christmas about a promotion I had been promised but had, at that point, still not been awarded. We came to an agreement (read: they listed to me and the grievance panel groupies I gathered) and promoted me retroactive to June 10. Had the effect of a marvelous Christmas bonus, plus apparently reset my hire date to June 10—aka last week—which kind of makes no sense to me, but whatever.

I’m doing just fine, they said. And the greatest part is, it doesn’t matter AT ALL as our company automatically gives you a nice raise ever year, with or without your manager’s approval. Very good, since I work for the Stingiest Man Alive. Also rather makes up for the fact that I still haven’t seen my stimulus check yet. I’m going to have to call those IRS commies at their little “if you don’t receive your check in six weeks…” number. The United States hates me. Probably doesn’t help that I first typed that as the “untied” states. Huh.

Now I’m going to hand over some of the fruits of that raise to the barrista man at Starbucks, lose myself in a book for an hour, and probably come back about the same, but eh, we’ll see. It’s all about progress, even if the steps are really small (or in this case, are wildly disjointed paragraphs). You get what you get.

I used to be that girl: the one who was first to get to the office, and last to leave; the one who would take quick lunch breaks and get back to work; the one who always walked around smiling and energetic. You know, the girl who really cared.

I think that girl is temporarily under a storm cloud. I’ve been in this funk, and nothing seems exciting. I’m not falling for any of the usual seductions: the blog holds no interest. Cheese doesn’t sound that tasty. Even the promise of Friday night seems rather lackluster. And, to top it off, I’d rather eat this sad granola bar than take a field trip to Chipotle. What! Is! Wrong here?

I went to a work conference this morning down on Embassy Row, which was pretty exciting. But I just kind of sat there. My panel of interest ended at 10.15, and walking back, I just sort of wandered: I just walked, and walked, and walked, looking at the houses and wondering what it would be like to live in them. I found myself in a park down in Georgetown (read: in the wrong direction). Rather than snapping to it and saying, hey, this isn’t where I should be! I’m at work!, I slid onto a bench, watching the world of stroller runners and mid-day dog enthusiasts from behind the shield of my sunglasses. One of these things is not like the others: gold star if you guess “girl in the business suit.”

I just stared for awhile, thinking about how nice it would be to be happy again. Such a nice thing, to have just sat there forever, to have said eh, whatever to work, and to have just, like, never resurfaced. I wonder if it would have even made a difference.

I managed to get back to the train, and to convince myself to get off at the right stop. If you get off, we’ll go get a tasty burrito, I said to myself. And a frappuccino! You love frappuccinos. Now move.

It got me off the train, sure, but I’m not rising to the bait anymore. I bet I have salmonella. That one mutant strain that crawls into your head, and just stays there. Stupid tomato farmers. Could be worse, I suppose; and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, yes?  Definitely looking forward to a weekend recovery.

So here I am, another day in my office with no windows, watching the clock tick, tick, tick by; looking at the picture of me and J from his Christmas party two seasons past and convincing myself that it’s real. I’m also eating thin mint cookies that miraculously presented themselves in my freezer this morning when I was looking for berries for a breakfast smoothie, so my mouth kind of tastes like Christmas, which is a nice tie-in (All right, magda, you’re cut off from caffeine effective: now).

I was talking with a friend of mine last night; she called to invite J and me to a barbeque she’ll be throwing next weekend. My calendar was free but, in typical J fashion, he had an outstanding obligation.

“You know, Magda, I’m beginning to wonder if this guy exists!” she said. Jokingly, of course, but it gave me pause: I’ve been dating the guy for a year and a half, and she’s never met him. She’s been my friend since college.

Granted, I don’t see her all that often, but every time we have managed to coordinate, J’s been absent, or has had to duck out at the last minute.

Now I’m trying to think if there are other people out there who suspect, even subconsciously somewhere in the back of their heads, that I’ve just hallucinated him: the ghost guest perpetually on magda’s arm. He wanted to come, but. He wished he could be here, but. He may drop in later, but. A distraction born of desperation, do they think? Or maybe a brain tumor?

J is one of the most over-involved people I’ve ever met, and that’s where I lay the blame. He rides on a bicycle team. He trains for and runs marathons. He plays and takes lessons for the mandolin. He plays in (I’m sorry to say) a mandolin band. He manages/provides legal advice to a “real” band. He does a lot of “on the side” legal work for musicians/entertainment people. He works on the Hill being all legislatively influential and important.

Here’s a little contrast. I go to work from 9-5. I sometimes grade essays. I read a lot of novels. And that’s all, folks.

Sometimes it’s really hard being in a couple with this kind of imbalance; it leaves me with a lot of sort of “grey area” time on my hands.

I’m constantly saying no to my single friends, the friends who tend to call spontaneously on a Friday night and want to hang out. Especially on weekends, there’s kind of a presumption that I’ll be spending the evening with J, and maybe I’m just getting old, but at the end of the week sometimes I like to just stay in. Even if we do nothing but hang out on the couch and watch dvds, it’s us time, and it makes up for all that we miss mid-week. I need more notice to disrupt that status quo, and it doesn’t take long for the phone calls to slow, slow, slow down. Ah, magda’ll be with her boyfriend, they say.

With my luck, the nights he’s out and I’m wishing said single friends would call and we could plan something, it’s my coupled friends who rise to the occasion (go figure) and they (naturally) want to go out in pairs. It’s easier to be a single girl amidst couples than one half of a whole, though neither is an enviable position; I feel like I spend all my time out with these friends missing J, and fixated on what they’re all thinking. “Oh, poor magda, couldn’t get her guy to come out,” they say in my mind. “Poor magda can’t find a boyfriend who’ll stand by her and be there.” Or, worst of all, “poor magda, this J character probably doesn’t even exist.”

He does, though! And he would come out, he’s just busy! Right? Right.

Really, though, he’s been SO busy recently that we’ve really only talked for a few minutes each night, right before I go to bed. I wake up and I start to wonder if it was all just some crazy dream. It’s only Wednesday, right, and the weekend wasn’t that long ago … but something about this week has felt so long, like it’s been AGES since we’ve seen each other, like he’s on the whole other side of the world and our only communication comes via very crackly, WWII-era transatlantic phone lines and the calls are so expensive and the background is so noisy that we can only get a few words in.

Right.  So now if you’ll excuse me, I have some cookies to eat and a boyfriend to call, just to hear his voice and prove that he’s out there, right here, in this same city. And not just in my head.

I crawled into my apartment this afternoon thinking only of a cold shower, and the sure demise of my sweat-stained clothing.  It’s as humid as hades outside, and I’m sure it isn’t natural to sweat this much.  I’m pretty positive I haven’t taken in as much water as is coming out, which must mean … I’m in imminent danger of total evaporation.  Yes, it’s a troubling diagnosis indeed, and the white wine I’m drinking now is definitely not helping.

I’ve been having a “stupidly stingy” problem recently.  Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem spending money (definitely not).  But I get into this funk about not wasting money.  On things like, oh, AIR CONDITIONING.  I have central air in my apartment.  I didn’t turn it on till just this weekend.  I’d been so proud of myself, sitting there sweltering with the windows open; think of all the money I’m saving, living life like a jungle refugee!  Pennies, probably.

I also decided to walk to Costco tonight.  This isn’t quite as outrageous as it sounds, as it’s a pretty easy walk from work.  I was planning to go later in the evening, but I got off a bit early.  And that’s when stupid stingy came in.  “You have a big tote bag, right here in your office,” the voice said. “Just go now, and don’t waste the gas later.”  Waste the gas?  Costco!  Big heavy things!  Sure, what I got did actually fit in my bag, as I wasn’t after much.  But then I had to carry their sorry asses all the way back home. Home again, home again, jiggety jog, and my shoulder is aching and my face is still red.  Awesomeness. 

Congratulations, you saved money, the stupid stingy voice says.  He is delusional.  I want to excise him from my thoughts, and take his clutches off my visa.

Which begs the question: where was he when I just suddenly needed a whole new summer outfit at lunch today?  Or when I decided to just buy the giant bottle of good tequila for margaritas this weekend because, you know, more is better?  Help a girl out, stingy voice!

Oh goodness, it’s going to be a looooong summer. 

The Girl Scout’s Guide to Life Past Your Early Twenties: earn your way to fortune, fulfillment and true love, plus earn sensational patches for your achievements.

If only it were so easy! I’d love a simple recipe, a step-by-step guide to today’s wilderness of existence.  I’d be a sucker of a sale; they’d have my photo on powerpoint slides called TARGET AUDIENCE at marketing conferences the nation over.

In a handbook world, today I would have earned patches for Making New Friends and Surviving a Male-Inhabited Wasteland.

I’m over at J’s at the moment, but J is not in.  He left me a voicemail letting me know he’s out with a friend from work for drinks, but he’ll be back soon.  Disappointing, sure, as I’m just back from watching Sex & the City, which is putting me in a very lovey dovey, “oh just hug me and never leave me and we’ll make everything work” mood.  Also, in the mood for cookies.  And cereal, for some reason.  Both in stock in my kitchen BUT ALAS, not here.

Dear boyfriend,

Please buy groceries.  Plain pasta and tequila do not a tasty snack make.  I’m going to eat whatever I can find, in your bed, while broadcasting live to the internet.  Then I’ll do the dishes and you’ll never know!

Thanks, and love you!

Girlfriend.

I’ve made a really sub-par pasta with egg, a sad version of carbonara without any of the good stuff like bacon. Still, though, there’s something comforting about sitting here using someone else’s dishes, wearing someone else’s boxers as pajamas, siphoning off of someone else’s internet; I’m feeling quite at home despite it all.

I think I’m starting to find my place.  In life and in love and in everything, really …  some days it just comes together and it’s like, aha, this is it.  This is what I’ve been missing.  Other days, of course, everything seems grey, or falling apart at lightening speed; today’s focus is on the good, however, and really, there is so much good.

I had the rare opportunity this weekend to meet not one, not two, but three fabulous bloggers here in DC.  J and I met notsojenny and her M for drinks in the afternoon, and I really, truly could have stayed for and talked to her for hours.  Hours and hours and hours; she was every bit the amazing girl her blog anticipates. I had to jet, however, as later on I was meeting Heidi and Lexi for a superfun SATC girls night, complete with pink drinks.  The movie? Amazing.  So good, so perfect in all the right places, so exactly what I needed, a two-plus hour dose of that fabulous foursome. And new friends.

Add to this bloggy-dates with lawyerish last week and Devon before that, and I think I’ve irrevocably lost a piece of my anonymous blogger identity. No, I tell them, I’m not really named magda.  (true). Yes, everything else I write is real. (true, encore). And I intend it to stay that way. Face or no face, I’m still me, and this is still my space, and what I have to say is still going to show up here from time to time.

I’m still a bit amazed, honestly, that people read what I say here and want to meet me in real life.  Really? Truly? But I’m just, like, a voice on the internet!  I could be anyone! I could be really weird!  I think you’ve all earned your trusting patch, dear internets.

I didn’t start writing here to make real-life friends.  Writing that—“real life” friends—reminds me of a hilarious spam message I got the other day.  Yes, sometimes I read my spam folder.  It amuses me, whatever.  The spam in question was from Roberto.  He wanted me to move to Paris and be his wife; he promised love and affection and many children (oh my).  It came with but one condition:  “in your actual life only.”  Dang.  Because my alternate existences really wanted to be impregnated by a foreign man I met through the gmail spam connection.

No, I think I started writing here just as a new way to play with words: a new space to write and be unknown and just say what I want to say without inhibitions, but with more coherence and grace than my diary writings usually find.  I scribble away on the train, or while waiting for hearings and conferences to get underway; my writing there is much less censored, and would probably lead an average person to think I was raving mad insane. I just hope I’m not called as a witness in anyone’s trial.

Lawyer: so, witness, do you keep a diary?

Me: um, yes.

Lawyer: the prosecution will be subpoenaing that now, thanks.

Me: well, shoot.

Lawyer: your honor, the prosecution moves to incarcerate witness, as we believe she is a psycho. 

If life was only about surviving, about checking off accomplishments and meeting goals, I’d say it would be pretty dull.  Surviving misses the point. It’s too minimalist: it doesn’t involve chances, or risks; it instructs to stick to the straight and narrow and avoid the unknown. 

I want to do more than survive what’s left of my twenties.  I want to take them out with an almighty bang, and keep the momentum going well past that. The chances and the risks are the fabric of this story. Chances in friendship, in love, and in life depend on just getting out there and toughing it out.  It’s worth it. 

I don’t know when I became so wildly paranoid about my relationship with J. Some minutes, I’m naming our children and everything is bliss. Should one cloud pass over the sun, however? It’s over, it’s a sign, we weren’t actually meant to be after all. I really don’t think I’ve always been this edgy, so fickle with the feelings I’m so quick to call strong.

Take Sunday, for instance. In the morning, I’m amusing myself by looking at engagement rings (and matching wedding bands!) on the tiffany website. By nightfall, I’m bickering with J outside of my car over a bottle of wine, which was a totally ridiculous back-and-forth scene that ended with me telling him I am having “serious doubts” about the relationship. I don’t even know if that’s true. I’m a bad arguer; when I start to feel like I’m losing, I pull out the biggest punches I can muster. And it’s been happening more and more.

I’m not used to arguing with anyone other than my sisters. We used to fight fiercely and, I later learned, regularly sent mom to bed in tears, convinced she’d failed as a parent by raising three children who routinely professed undying hatred for each other. We’re all friends now, incidentally, so maybe it’s not such a big deal? I don’t know. I never argued much with any other boyfriends (like, not at all), and I feel like this could go a couple of different ways. J could be the real deal, like family, and we’re still just growing up and I’m feeling vulnerable. Equally compelling, he’s a bad clash with my personality and it may never resolve.

J isn’t one to hold a grudge, thankfully, and while I have a fiery temper, it subsides. I love this guy, I do. We got together last night; he picked me up and we went to Costco (oh happy oasis). He’s going to put some Connecticut in me and teach me to play tennis this summer, and we were looking for rackets.

My tennis experience is, shall we say, limited. I love to watch matches on tv, but that’s mostly because I like the whoosh-and-snap sounds and the british announcer-man’s voice. I’m also quite partial to Wimbledon, the Kirsten Dunst movie, but this similarly is a poor substitute for actually getting out on the court.

They didn’t have rackets at Costco.

I sent him an email today, with a link to a sports store nearby. I signed it “tennis love, magda.”

Only later did that british announcer man pop back into my head, reminding me that in tennis, love is zero.

Why? Why is love zero? I feel like this symbolism bodes badly. I’ve backed myself into a love-love corner: but win-win, like love enough to go around, or totally nill? The distinction, at least in my current mindset, is quite troubling.

I’m something of a spy.  I’m like an undercover agent.  I save the world.  One semicolon at a time, I save the world, most every day.

It started back when I lived at home; I was waiting for my bar results to come down, but wasn’t too keen on the idea of doing nothing in the meantime.  I’m just not a girl for nothing.  Sitting still?  Not really a skill.  Patience? Not so much a virtue as a rote practice. 

Turns out, the school district where I grew up out-sources the grading of their English essays.  I still find this a bit suspect, but seeing as they hired me, and let me keep working even after I moved to Virginia, I’m willing to overlook any possible fraud on the students (heh).  The system is simple: teacher assigns an essay.  Teacher sends me the almighty keys to the curriculum, and says “have at it” once the students’ work is in.  I log into the system, ignoring the “Welcome, Mr. Teacher!” banner, and score—actually assign a numeric score—to all of the essays. 

Pansy teachers.  But, pansy teachers keep magda in designer jeans, so all’s well that end’s well, eh?  How do I love thee, pansy school district, let me count the ways.

That love has a fast way of deteriorating, however, when 151 ninth grade Shakespearean sonnet analyses crash land into the in-queue.  If I read one more thesis that says something lame-ass like “In this sonnet, Shakespeare talks about love,” I just might lose it. 

And I might take it out on the HP ordering services man if he calls me one more time.  Somehow, HP thinks that someone at my cell phone number has ordered a massive quantity of computer products.  Last month, they were calling nearly every day to confirm the products’ readiness, but as my cell is usually off at work, all it amounted to was a string of nonsensical voicemails.  Apparently another order is ready.  They called at 2.30 am to tell me about it.  Then again at 3.  I tried to tell them to STOP CALLING, but I’m pretty sure they were in India and I’m pretty sure they didn’t speak much more English than was printed on their script.  You’ve got the wrong number, I’d say.  And he’d start his spiel over.  Stop calling in the middle of the night, I’d insist.  He’d apologize, then start over still again.  I hung up on him.  I hate doing that, but I had so totally been asleep, and Shakespeare has fried my brain.

Bastards.  If they call back, I’ll send the pain and agony of sonnet 147 upon them.  That’ll teach ‘em. 

She’s stumbling through Paris tonight, but with a certain grace, as suits her.  She’s got her party hat on, is charming the euro-locals at the bar with a French that has finally surpassed mine, and is, with all certainty, rip-roaring drunk.

She’s my littlest sister, and she’s 21 today.  Twenty-one.  She exists only as a frenchie caricature in my mind, because I just can’t grasp the reality.  I remember so distinctly being 21. I also remember doing things as a twenty-one-year-old that, ahem, no one’s little sister should be allowed to even know about.

Although there’s significantly more fuzz, I also remember the day she was born.  I was in kindergarten, and she was my blue-eyed baby.  Hooray!  You’re 10 today!  I seriously considered sending her a birthday card with this message printed inside.  Behold the power of Hallmark; you, too can reverse time; back-track; take a do-over.  If only it was so simple.

(And seriously?  A 21st birthday in Paris?  Who does that?  How do I know this person?)

In other news, J’s apparently in Nashville this week.  I say “apparently” because it all sort of flew out of nowhere, and as my other sister, the biochemist, oh-so-helpfully pointed out on the phone earlier, I don’t actually know. And thanks, dear.

When I started dating J, he was an attorney in a high-powered firm downtown.  Stable.  Secure. Known.  Earlier this fall, he declared himself miserable, and went to work for a Senator. Starting in about January, he began a tortuous process I can only define as “finding himself.”  Cliché, yes, but hey, if the shoe fits…

On the side, he’s started doing some legal work for a start-up band starring, hilariously, his mandolin teacher. (J’s been playing mandolin for maybe 2 years now.  It’s not something I’m particularly fond of).

He’s started looking into real estate.  He thinks maybe he’ll be a businessman.  In my books, he’s walked the career plank, but rather than furiously and determinedly swimming for shore, he’s splashing around and amusing himself, and wondering if there’s a better beach off in a better direction.

And then I get this call on Sunday. He says he’s leaving his parents’ early and is heading to Nashville.  “I’m going to negotiate a contract for the band,” he said.  He’ll be gone for the week.  Oh really. And I guess work doesn’t mind? You can just write them and say, peace out, I’m driving to Tennessee this week, see you around?

They’ll be really busy, he said, so he may not have time to talk when I call. “I’ll call you when I get time.”  Um. 

From a man who is freaking obsessed with his mobile e-mail (and has been known to regularly check his personal e-mail while we are at restaurants and in church), I have received a whopping ZERO notes of affection/amour/otherwise.  No text messages.  A series of short calls, all late at night. 

Granted, I’m a suspicious person naturally.  It’s an affliction for which I’m a confirmed carrier. The biochemist put it into words, though.  I don’t actually know. It’s not that I doubt, really; it’s more that I fear. I fear that I’m losing touch with who he is at all. 

And now I’m back to googling his ex-live-in girlfriend.  Very. Bad. Behavior. 

Days like today, and moments like right now, I’d like nothing more than to wriggle my nose and freeze the world for a bit, a la Samantha Stevens.

I was rather bored at work today; I had plenty to do, but the hours stretched on, and on, and on. In between summarizing two rather dull cases, I pulled together a little list of my activities for this evening.

• Go to the grocery store.
• Work out for a full hour.
• Reconcile finances and catalogue the hideous pile of receipts on floor.
• Do laundry.
• E-mail mom.
• E-mail grandma.
• Call best friend in Seattle.
• Write letter to sister.
• Write J’s anniversary card (a year and a half this week!)
• Take out recycling.
• Vacuum apartment.
• Look for brown boots that have mysteriously gone missing.

I think I may be delusional. I get home around 6, on a good night, and time after work always goes so. much. faster. Why is this?

Accomplished: the store. They gym. The finances. And that’s about it.

Granted, I haven’t organized my budget since mid-march, so it’s fitting (maybe?) that it took nearly two hours to enter and file everything. I opted to take it out in one fell swoop as my parents are coming later this week; perpetuating the illusion of a daughter totally together, I cannot sit by and let the paperwork pile up.

It’s 10:38 and I haven’t even gotten to the laundry. I have a very limited wardrobe of clean clothes remaining. Scheisse.

Not on the list but duly accomplished: consume a near-entire bottle of wine. Make a nearly healthy and deliciously cheesy Mexican-style dinner (Cinco de Mayo, you know). Write this blog post.

Well, I guess that’s progress.

There’s a line, howsoever blurred or indistinct, dividing luck and chance from reality and skill.  I just don’t know where it is.  I’ve never been a traditionally lucky person; I don’t win door prizes, and I’d hit bankrupt a hundred times on Wheel of Fortune before I came near the “Tropical Vacation!” box. Luck or no luck, though, a certain fascination attaches to trying—could be me! Maybe this time! We could beat the odds!

With that (and a drumroll, please), the winner of Pay it Forward here at Thunderstorms Highly Likely is notsojenny. Hooray! Balloons, streamers, etc.  If you don’t already read her, you should; she’s fantastic.

Here are the official stats from the secret magic randomizer (aka random.org):

There were 7 items in your list. Here they are in random order:

1. notsojenny
2. margot
3. la
4. lawyerish
5. bunny
6. ashley
7. um…yum!

Timestamp: 2008-05-05 03:20:20 UTC 

Send me your contact info, Miss Number One, and I’ll send on your goodies. 

Luck—sometimes you have it, sometimes you don’t. 

A horse named J. Alfred Prufrock raced in the Virginia Gold Cup yesterday.  If I were a betting girl, I would have put my chips down on him.  And, coming out of the second jump, it’s Head West in the lead, followed closely by J. Alfred Prufrock, and King Lear making a valiant charge ahead, the announcer-man says.  Those odd words just rolled off his tongue, taking with them my support and proving that so much, in fact, is in a name.  

Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky. I think of that T.S. Eliot poem every so often, though it usually creeps into my thoughts at work conferences.  Days when I’m dead exhausted, lining up for the free coffee in hotel china; I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. Harrowing, really.

Alas, he didn’t win, that horse.  I don’t even think he placed. I stood up there at the edge of luck v. reality to cheer him on, however; adding my applause to the sea of hands and voices, claiming a space for me and my sundress among the truly outlandish ensembles on display.

Never again will I walk into JCrew and scoff at the orange pants with green dolphins embroidered on.  “Who buys these clown pants?” I’ve asked, rather recently.  Ah. Gold Cup goers.  The great mystery of crazy expensive preppy plaid baby clothes, too, has been solved.  Sure, you may not be wise to bring Junior to the play park in his Vineyard Vines seersucker rompers (with easy-access diaper snaps, natch), and he’ll probably lose his pink checked bow-tie between the car seat and the front part of the shopping cart.  But heavens forefend you dress your offspring in anything else to meet your pals at Members Hill!

It’s no secret that I’m very new to the whole east coast experience.  Based on what I saw yesterday, it’ll take a bit more time for me to acclimatize.

I went with two of my west coast friends, and we spent most of our time parked on a picnic blanket pretending to be photographers for People’s Best and Worst Dressed, Gold Cup Edition. 

It was the guys’ apparent enthusiasm that we just couldn’t figure out.  No hometown man I’ve ever met would be caught dead in most of the ensembles that fit right in on that series of lawns.  We had a game going for a while: man walks by.  Friend to me: “imagine your dad wearing that.”  Bwahahaha! Ha! We’d collapse into hilarious laughter, which most people I’m sure assumed was owing the vast amounts of alcohol we were not, in fact, consuming.  The people-watching never really got old, either.  The whole event was like a costume party for the office-oppressed prep.

J swears it’s normal, which of course led to a covert search of the depths of his closet the moment he took out the recycling.  Good news: no embroidered farm animals assuming residence; no wild floral trousers or patchwork plaid caps.  At least, none that I found.

Still, somewhere in my head, I could see myself there.  Me in a big hat with coordinating shoes and purse, holding the hand of a doll-dressed little girl.  J in his plaidness opens the hatchback of our prep-mobile, and he and a smaller version of himself pull a perfectly coordinated and gourmet-homemade picnic from within.  We set up tables dressed in fine linens, and have a civilized afternoon with our seersucker friends.  Their children and ours romp around together, grass-staining their saddle shoes but receiving only superficial scolding. 

Maybe I’d be that lucky.  Or maybe I’m just insane.  Sometimes it really is a difficult line. 

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.

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.

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 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.

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.  

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.  

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

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

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

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

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

 ”Attack kills Pakistani army officer”

“Thousands participate in anti-Arroyo demonstrations”

“Turkey Reports 41 Kurdish deaths in Northern Iraq”

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

“South Africa revives Elephant Culls” 

“Suicide bomber in wheelchair kills Iraqi official”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loving it! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t know quite how it is that I again find myself blogging near midnight when I’m dead tired, but absolutely itching to write something, anything, on this site I’m slowly growing to love.  I still don’t know what made me do it, register this space, but here I am, and I’m warming up to it.

I found this quote today that just made me feel all warm and happy, so I’ll share it (with proper accreditation, of course, as I respect copyright and all that.  Sometimes.  True.). 

“All humans are storytellers with their own unique point of view.  When we understand this, we no longer feel the need to impose our story on others or to defend what we believe.  Instead, we see all of us as artists with the right to create our own art.”

It’s from Don Miguel Ruiz’ The Four Agreements, but I actually got it out of my new day planner.

This is how hilarious my mom is: I tell her I want two calendars for Christmas, one that’s bound and I can carry in my work bag, and the other that is one of those ones where the pages pull off to sit