Category Archive

As was made unfortunately clear in my last post, uncertainty is not something I deal with especially well.  It looks like J will be living part-time in Richmond.  For real.  He wants to look at apartments, condos and the like once I get back from a much-needed vacation in August.  He wants me to move there, too; to find something new, and just start over. 

Sometimes that idea sounds really good.  Most of the time, actually; divorce myself from all the losers here at work, get out of the city (but still be close), and be in love and have some room to breathe. 

I do really well with ideas.  I get excited and plan and it’s all sunshine and lollipops.  It’s the looming certainty of it–and in fact the inherent uncertainty of it–that’s getting me drunk on irrationality (and, oh yeah, tequila). The grandiose ideas in the map of my mind don’t translate so well into reality, I have found.  What would I do there?  Where would I live? I won’t live with him–not until we’re at least engaged–but is now the right time?  And there I go again.  The idea of being Mrs. J is so, so lovely to me.  But I think the recent influx of so many friends getting engaged and married and this climate of Weddings! Weddings! Weddings! has gotten me all turned around.  I still like the idea of marrying him. It’s just the all-of-the-sudden very real prospect that’s got me cowering. 

Happily, some things do respond well to careful planning, and are known, and follow their course as they should.  Like the Nordstrom Sale.  Oh, the oasis of sale shoes and suits and back-to-school-ish clothes!  It’s been in my calendar since, well, since I got the calendar, which works out to slightly over six months ago. 

I think it’s genetic.  Mom used to plan our family vacations around the sale. 

Happily, the stores here aren’t near the warzones that they are in Seattle, so my shopping experience tonight resembled what one might find on an ordinary Saturday back home.  People, but not too many.  No lines for the dressing rooms.  No numbers handed out in the shoe department.  That sort of thing.   

Tonight’s goal was primarily to cruise through, and get the lay of the land.  I bought the MOST ADORABLE suit, here:

I’ll try to hit it up again next Monday because they bring out new things during the second week.  Not a lot.  But some.  I used to work there; I can confirm the truth of this chocolate morsel.  I might even be nice and invite my non-car-owning Seattle friend out for that last encounter.  Because really, it’s kind of too good to keep all to myself. 

And, I suppose, at the end of the day, a balance of certainty and uncertainty, planned shopping and spontaneous friendship, isn’t so bad at all.  It’s probably just about the way it should be. I can’t live my life with the precision of a well-executed shopping weekend, and if I’m honest, I don’t think I’d want to.  I’m working on being okay with whatever life brings.  It’s a process.

I’m always amused by the ads that pop up on my gmail. Privacy advocates like to cry about how I’m surrendering my liberties and being exploited by advertising magnates, but for me, it’s really pretty entertaining–what off-the-wall ads will I be served today? They must be successful, these crazy ads that appear, but I wonder what people are thinking when they click.  Are they really looking for something, or just bored? Or curious?

I’m looking at a sponsored link right now: Are You a Good Sister? Take our quiz and find out for sure!

I can’t think that anyone legitimately believes that the almighty Mr. Internet can make that determination. I also happen to know (thanks to some days of serious boredom) that Mr. Internet won’t likely reveal his secrets in any event without a valid e-mail address that just may be later used to sell you some discount online pharmaceuticals.  Satisfy her tonight!

It’s a diversion, though; a cosmo quiz for the less risqué and desk-bound. Like the love match? Where you match your astrological sign up with your other’s sign and see how you line up? Yeah, I’ve tried that. Compulsively. I might even have it bookmarked. Not that I believe it; it’s just fun.

If my sponsored links and my own time-wasters are a fair sampling, there’s a lot of garbage on the Internet. This makes me wonder if all the recent hype about expanding the namespace is really worth it. At the Paris conference I was meant to go to last week, the gears started moving to allow new top-level domain registrations more easily; to allow dot-whatever because, the argument goes, there’s so much demand for new names and .com is running out. Whether or not people agree kept me occupied for most of the day. It’s on my brain, what can I say.

I think I’ll get a faster answer to whether or not I’m a good sister come Wednesday, when my youngest sister comes down from New York to spend an extended Fourth of July weekend being a tourist in a city that really goes all out this time of year. She’s an intern up in NYC this summer, and I intend to visit her … soon? But until then, I’m busy plotting our exploits here. I’m so so so excited to see her; it’s been since Christmas, which really is too long. It’s a strange shift to go from seeing someone every day, rain or shine, to living states and miles and highways apart. 

I haven’t yet decided whether or not I’m glad that she’s 21 now. Yes, we can go out—fun, to order a drink with my baby sister! But since she can go out, I feel like we will, all the time, just for the novelty of it. My sister can drink. Being 21 hasn’t changed anything but the venue, which sometimes worries me. I remember being an intern, and going out in the city every night; all the time, every night—it’s just what you did. Drinking till crazy hours, and still getting up for work the next morning. Summertime, fun bars, cool people. Party on!

Now, I hate to say it, but something of that shine has worn off. Going out and getting trashed every night? Not exactly my agenda. [Aside: when did I get all old and uncool? When did I start dreading youth’s knock on my door? WTF, self?]

I think we’ll draw a good balance; she really is a good kid. Just to cover the bases, though, I have now in plentiful stock here apartment-side (a) white wine; (b) vodka; (c) kahlua; (d) malibu. All of her favorites. On the nights we stay in, she can pour hers strong and sleep it off, and I can just take a taste and still be functional at work. A win-win.

Who knows, maybe I’ll put in a bid for a new website: magda.awesomesister. HA. Ahahaha.

Sometimes sympathetic coworkers and listening ears over beers after work are the best thing in the world.  Especially when said coworkers are the only contemporaries on a floor of “could be my parents”-style people.

Sometimes a last-minute email from an old friend saying “hey, meet me for dinner tonight” can be a lifesaver. 

Sometimes numbers lose meaning.  Bills involving pitchers of sangria, or tanks of gas? Those are numbers? Coming out of my bank account? Whatever, send me the receipt.

Sometimes empty trains and ipods full of emo music = bliss.

Sometimes having a boyfriend away for two entire weekends can seem impossible, but sometimes it (contradictorily) seems amazing; a chance to regain a bit of independence, and to remember how it used to be.  Weekends of empty agendas and poolside afternoons and museums with the self as the center and the stopwatch. 

Sometimes it feels amazing to outwit Bill Gates’ Word with words like “contradictorily.” (Should one draft posts in Word.  Which, um, I do.  That red underline? SO unnecessary.)

Sometimes it’s hard to have grown up in Bill Gates’ suburb. And to have his daughter attend your alma mater, now that she’s, you know, old enough to go to school.

Sometimes it’s hard to come from privilege, and to prove that you’re still making it on your own, and existing entirely independently of the world in which you’ve found yourself in by fortune of family circumstance.

Sometimes the happiest thing is to fall into bed, with the laptop, and type off thoughts and feelings to the world. 

Sometimes it’s just like that.  Just a moment of calm, where everything seems somehow aligned, and you know that, while it will certainly be short-lived, it’s something worth holding onto.

There lots of reasons why I am IN LOVE, to a likely unhealthy degree, with my macbook.  It’s slick, and beautiful, and little, and perfect.  It’s true love.

I brought it out here to the pool deck to draft responses to the five billion e-mails starred in my gmail (all long overdue–of course).  Most fantastic of all discoveries: I am connected to the internet!  Specifically, to the crappy comcastic internet from my apartment! Sure, I just live upstairs, but the internet should not, in my limited wireless experience, extend this far.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the airport express.  Sheer genius!  Dear Apple, I heart you.  xx, magda.

The week ended better than expected.  It was a busy day, sure, but I feel like I’m pulling through; things are looking a little less grey. (And no, I do not credit that solely to the fruity cocktail disguised in a waterbottle here to my left.  Not solely).

My boss left this afternoon for vacation; two weeks in Disney World.  Two weeks!  I’d appreciate probably, um, a weekend.  There’s only so much Mickey Mouse a girl can take, you know?  The good news is, he’s out of my hair.  The bad news is, I’m the pro tem manager of our preposterous little publication.  It’s a lot of hard work, that, and I’m entirely unamused at how it all boiled down. 

I’m one of those sugar and spice and everything nice type of girls, though, so I’d never let him know.  I swear, sometimes I’m so sugary I could be mistaken for a giant cavity with little arms and legs. 

“Have a great trip!” I said.  What I was thinking: “I hope your train explodes after a harrowing experience being molested by Donald Duck!”

“No, managing everything will be no problem!” I said.  What I was thinking: “I plan to run a feature article on how much of a jerk you are!” (If only…)

Fun times.  The good news is, I’m feeling close to peppy again, things are looking up, and everything is starting to seem manageable once more.  Sometimes it’s easy to lost that focus, I guess. 

Moments like this bring that focus back.  Where I’m sitting here on the terrace, pretending I’m on a tropical vacation, and everything is molto bene. 

Here’s a postcard, wish you were here:

I tried to go all bloggy, and just do nose down or something—but they all came out sort of looking like photos of my chest, with a little smile attached at the top.  Not exactly what I was going for.  But really? Photo booth? Has seriously entertained me for about an hour now.  Ingenius! 

The world was blurred out the window on the ride home from work tonight.  The greens and greys distorted; a once familiar landscape transformed into something so close to known, but so not quite.  Like seeing the outside through tears, but safe inside where it’s warm and dry and so, so quiet.  Despite the closeness of bodies and the hum of distant iPods, sometimes the metro at rush hour is eerily silent.

Everything moves more slowly in the rain.  The trains, the traffic, the escalators (broken, all of them, or shut off?).

Sometimes I just need a good rainstorm.  The cracks of thunder, the whipping sideways rains: they clear the slate, and when the sun comes out, it’s like starting fresh.  Clean.  Renewed.  Forget the heat and the hailstorms, and just remember what it’s like to live.  Breathe in.

The school year finishes tomorrow for all of the high schoolers back home, and I’ve graded the last of their essays till fall.  The students all showed great potential, I wrote in my memos; they struggled, but they pulled through.  Sometimes it was the larger meanings that swallowed them; they couldn’t take it all in, and were lost making sense of a sea of chopped waves and floating lines and words.  Others of them were seduced by perceived simplicity, trotting out a one-sided analysis that, while beautifully composed, ignored the overarching and underlying What It’s Actually All About.  Some of them just didn’t get it.  But they all tried, I wrote; they all paddled on.

If confined to the four corners of a page, my life would receive much the same commentary, I think, from someone more seasoned at life and its intricate contours. 

She tried hard, they’d say.  She was on the right path, but she sometimes got distracted, and sometimes gave credence to that which was illogical, nonsensical, not really worth it.  She acknowledged the larger meaning, but she didn’t quite grasp it.  Too much trying and wanting, and not enough doing; telling without really showing.

And then a rainstorm, and a summer vacation.  The promise of another chance. 

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’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. 

When I think of people who do “amazing work,” I envision Peace Corps volunteers, people working on disaster relief, and low-paying service to the less fortunate. I see people working for change, be it social, humanitarian, or political. “Amazing,” to me, connotes something with a bigger purpose.

Predictably, then, I was rather surprised to receive this weekend an e-mail from my high school, asking to profile me in an “alumnae doing amazing work” feature they’re preparing.

At least in my mind’s eye, a girl who sometimes works hard, but sometimes writes her blog, who analyzes cases, but only for a narrow sector of stiff IP lawyers, and who’s constantly bopping down the elevator for more coffee because woe is me, work is so dull sometimes doesn’t quite qualify.

The most troubling question on their prepared survey asks me what my ultimate career goal is. My high school, true to its elite all-girls mentality, is clawing for an answer along the lines of “I want to run my own internationally-traded, Fortune 100 company. After that, I aim to be President of the United States. I’ll be so successful, that I’ll run the world! And it’s all because of the confidence I gained in high school!”

They want to see ambition, and power, and prestige. Honestly, I’m a little torn up on the issue.

Part of me does want to move up, to move on, to be a booming bright star. She’s a legend, my bio will say, printed out in neat script under my photo on the programs at my speaking engagements. I want to wear a power suit in a big city and authoritatively lead meetings; present big ideas and really do something. I don’t think a life like this is out of reach, if I worked at it.

Sometimes I want that life, that identity. Other times—today being one of them—I’d like nothing more than to milk the money and the benefits from this job for a few more years, then get married, move somewhere quiet with big sidewalks and the ocean nearby and a mailman who whistles as he greets our dog. I want to bake cookies and be a room mom and forget that being a lawyer ever happened. I want to write creatively while the children are at school, and read stories when they get home. I want to send them to fancy schools like mine and I want them to have the wherewithal to be what is outwardly “amazing,” but I want them to know that that isn’t required, and that being amazing, if it doesn’t fulfill you, is an enormous waste of time and energy.

This sometimes-conviction fares poorly, I fear, in print. I can see it now: Angie is a high-powered businesswoman and aspiring CEO. Theresa is a human rights activist risking her life for radical change in Darfur. Magda wants to quit her job and be a housewife (cough). Amelia has started a hugely successful fund to improve health and low-income housing in the inner cities, and she and the orphans she’s saving regularly testify before Congress on the travesty of American poverty.

It’s enough to make me want to change my e-mail and never write back, disappear in an “oh! You were looking for me? Really!” cloud of feigned ignorance.

I probably should be doing more, helping people and whatnot, and I probably should be challenging myself to be just one step better here at work. Maybe I will. In the meantime, I’m going to work on being content with what I am doing and with what I want to be doing, even if it’s not as envious as the work of my ex-classmates. Because really, you never know. I may have a serious go-getter, world-changing daughter who, 30 years from now, says she owes it all to her mom, to the attention she got and the love she felt at home. That, I’d say, would be pretty amazing.

J came back from Nashville last night, all in one piece, apparently. He called around 9 and wanted to see me, but it was going to involve some crazy scheme whereby I’d have to drive over there, follow him to the car repair man, then either drive him back with me or leave my car in his garage or something; apparently, busting back and forth to freaking Tennessee leaves some hard miles on a car. Who knew.

I opted for the “no” side of that choice, and stayed home, nursing my blah-ness. My parents’ departure and J’s disappearing act have been stale bread sandwiching the continued idocity of my job and the early-March weather the sky’s spat back out. The “specials” chalkboard of my life this week has read a giant BLAH. Color, color, nowhere. Just a lot of grey that says, magda, go back to bed; a grey that says yes, crying will make it all better! (Lies! Terrible lies!).

I don’t know the cure for the blahs. They come and they go. A temporary fix, though? Cheese. And wine. And fresh and delicious seafood. Preferably all served together; preferably all from Washington; preferably all at the Washington State Society Dinner that is (so convenient!) tonight, in downtown D.C. I’ll be there, at my college’s alumni table, with one of my best home-state gal pals.

So no J again tonight, but really, I think that’s okay. And I’m kind of looking forward to it, in a no-I-don’t-secretly-want-to-break-up-with-him way.

To the blahs I say good riddance. Choosing happiness is so often the hardest part, but tonight, with wine as my side-kick, I’m making a comeback. Yes siree.

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.

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

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

Here are the rules:

-link to the person that tagged you

-post the rules on your blog

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

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

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

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

Right. Moving on…

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now you know.

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

I have 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Time Traveler’s Wife, Audrey Niffenegger

The Four Agreements, Don Miguel Ruiz

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

The Solomon Sisters Wise Up, Melissa Senate

Night, Eli Weisel

Chasing Fireflies, Charles Martin

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

Brick Lane, Monica Ali

The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini

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

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

Yay for springtime, and for books!  YAY. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Subtitle: for some reason they pay me for this.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

6. How long is your commute?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

27. Ever been toilet papering?
Nope.

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

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

30. Favorite restaurant?
Zaytinya, downtown DC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there you are. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is an origami basket with a pinecone in it.

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

I work for a weekly publication that arrives in the inboxes of the elite (aka, our blessed subscribers) each and every Wednesday morning. Tuesdays thus are reserved for assembling the issue and, ultimately, releasing it: this latter bit falls to me. Ta da! I’m imagining a light beaming down on me, there’s wild applause, and I’m doing a little curtsy. But I’m getting beside myself.

We publish in-house, in what I have always suspected is an industrial revolution-era workshop somewhere in the basement, where there are heavy metal printing presses, men in ink-stained aprons, and loud clanking noises that permeate the day and night. We send them our proofs before checking out at 5.30, then they stay up all night arranging the little letters on the plates and running them off, manually. Despite these somewhat throw-back conditions, these printing-men appreciate an e-mail letting them know your pages are on the way. I’ve still not figured how this fits into my mindscape, but I’m working on it.

January 23 was our release day (obviously, you say; let’s get to the point!). I wrote the same in my e-mail, but I caught myself just staring at it. January 23, January 23, hmmm, there’s something that looks really familiar about that.

Dad’s birthday.

Today is my dad’s birthday, and I only remembered with about six hours to spare. Shame! On! Me! I actually bought a card a few weeks back, but some sort of disconnect since then has left it to languish in my desk drawer.

My dad, my hero, the man with the plan and He Who Does All Most Excellently. I never, ever forget a sister’s birthday, or my mom’s birthday, or even an aunt’s birthday. What’s up with me, seriously?

I think karma must owe me one, because my parents are up in their mountain house this week. This means that he’ll get my card along with all the others when he returns back home. Unless he notices that the card was postmarked, um, today, he’ll never know. Thanks for that one (upward nod). I’ve e-mailed, and will call, so all seems smooth.

But still. I’ve got to get my act together! I’ve got to make paying attention, living not so much inside myself, more of a priority. Aarg. I really am such a piece of work sometimes; it’s a bit amazing that a man as clever and put together as my dad is so much a part of me.

Leaving work last week, I was seriously tempted to make up fantastic plans for the weekend.  You: “What are you doing this weekend, magda?” Me: “I’m so glad you asked!  Tonight I’ve been invited to a black-tie dinner at the Italian embassy, then I’ll do my Saturday morning volunteering early before jetting off for the weekend with J in the Virgin Islands, where we’ll share a little bungalow and tropical drinks and plenty of warm sunshine till Monday night.” You: “Liar!”

You would, unfortunately, be correct.  J and I had tentative plans to head up to his parents’ house in NY, but that dissolved when J was called away on work-related affairs all. freaking. weekend. On the side of his still at times undecided career, J helps manage a band, at least as far as their legal affairs are concerned. That band has a recording session this weekend, and as their lawyer he pretty much needs to be there to examine the contracts, rights disclosures, etc., etc. that go along with it.  This has left me pretty much to my own defenses this weekend, which I initially thought would be a bit of a drag.  I was wrong.  There’s something really precious about nothing., and I think I’ve just been too busy with everything to notice.  I haven’t had such a lazy few days since after finals, feels like.  Even when I’m not out with J or various other DC friends, I find myself busy, with an agenda; go do this, see this, find this.  Not this weekend.  This weekend has been all about me; my own little rejuvenating spa, right here in this apartment. 

Welcome to the spa chez magda, a priceless little oasis in hectic city.  Our qualified relaxation specialists are at your beck and call, and will assist you in finding tranquility and inner harmony for three blissful days.  Highlights from our service menu include:

• long mineral baths with your choice of wines from our extensive counter-top cellars
• kitchen adventures, including forays into spiced nuts and kick-ass cookies
• organizational help, bringing you a step closer to your resolutions by guiding your closet inventory and removing unworn and extraneous items
• breakfast in bed, featuring beer pancakes, a chez magda specialty (born of the college days of yore, when we wanted pancakes but had run clean out of milk in the house.  Beer to the rescue! So light and fluffy.  Totally amazing, and forever a staple since).
• pajama parties involving ice cream, popcorn, Chinese takeout and a veritable Doris Day movie marathon
• construction projects.

That last bullet references a bookcase-building adventure I entered into Saturday, which really was quite monstrous but worked out in the end. 

I have a lot of books; many that I read often, some that I like to look at, and a fair number of school texts that realistically should have been sold back, but that I couldn’t part with.  I read them! Look how big and imposing they are! I’m so smart!  Or something along those lines. 

In any event, most of them got left at my parents’ house when I moved out here.  My moving company was essentially the good ol’ guys at UPS: I didn’t have that many effects, save some not -really-worth-its-weight IKEA-style apartment furniture.  My sister, having just gotten married at the time, was all too happy to relieve me of me of the bulkier pieces.  The rest went into the boxes, but books are frighteningly expensive to ship—thus, they mostly stayed behind. 

My mom was slowly shipping them, stretching installments out over a few months in those handy flat-rate boxes.  I was always delighted to receive them—look, remember these? I loved this one!—but I really had nowhere to put them once they were here.  I’d line them all, carefully and ordered, along my bedroom baseboard.  Mom visited last March, and she was having none of that.  “This? This is what you’ve done with the books I’ve shipped?  No more until you get a proper bookshelf!”

I thought about this for a time, but like other things, it slipped my mind.  I didn’t so much mind the books-on-the-floor scenario; not ideal, but it worked.

Seeing all my books being held captive at home over Christmas had me quickly singing a different tune, however, and I resolved to find a bookshelf post haste.

I found the winning candidate at the Crate & Barrel outlet (which I love, by the way—the store, that is).  Also, outlet prices=good things, less money.  Also=good things, no delivery men to come and assemble them.  Hmmm.

The first problem was when the box of disassembled bookshelf wouldn’t fit in my car.  Come on! I drive a compact sedan.  It’s not like I’m tooling around in a Miata or something, seriously.  In any event, the loading dock guy and I spent a rousing twenty minutes ripping open the box and reloading the pieces into my backseat.  Of course, this meant that it took me about four trips from the garage to my apartment, lacking now the cohesive box-ness of it all.

There were frequent references in the directions to “with another adult,” and “you’ll need two people for this step.” Whatever, said I.  Hurrah for the single people! Hurrah for independent competence!  Hurrah for not relying on another!  Except, I think another person might have actually been useful in this instance.  The thing was a complete fiasco to build, and there was actually a point at the end—the very, very, absolute end, when all that was left was to slide the shelves into place—when they wouldn’t go.  It just wouldn’t come together.  It was then that I realized that the very first piece was in backwards, which was like a massive blow to my go-single-girl ego. However.  I am not the kind of girl who goes around letting bookshelves win, so I took it apart and rebuilt it in its entirety.  It was quite fulfilling, at the end of it.  Now I can look at it and say, biatch bookshelf, I own you.  I know all the sweat and tears that went into building you.  So there, I win.  Hold some books or something.

Photos, to commemorate this momentous feat:

 before (chaos!)

…And after (perfection!)

I seriously should be allowed at least one day like this a week.