Destiny's Children

Jeff and I were looking through old pictures of ourselves for our wedding slideshow and found some hilarious similarities in our respective photo journals. My favorite pose-- hands on hips-- was part of the repertoire of of both of our photographic pasts. The pose is the same, but it has very different meanings for these two little kids. My pose is part of an overall expression that exudes eager little girl who has a staring-straight-at-the-camera earnestness. This is an early flourish of the "like me - like me - PLEASE" people pleaser I was well on my way to becoming. I don't really look much like I am thinking. I look like I am trying. Trying really hard to look cute or to mug for the camera or to win the love of the photographer. My habits of trying to garner love and approval started early and they started strong.

Jeff's, on the other hand, is a pose I see probably 17 times per week. This is Jeff's signature "I am taking a survey of what is going down" pose. He's thinking. He's deciding whether the kids in the sandbox are putting the sand in the pails in the most efficient way. He's analyzing whether it's best for him to join in the sandbox project by actually getting in the sandbox or by remaining outside of the sandbox and performing more of a foreman's role. I saw this very pose last night when we were putting those little felt pads on some new bookshelves and a media center we just got. I was a little confused about how we were going to put those little felt circles on the bottom of a bookshelf that was already full of books and pictures and a delux Scrabble set, but Jeff figured out a way to jigger the shelves by propping them up on cookbooks and now our new furniture has ceased to make grooves in the wood floors every time we scoot it around.

Purusing old pictures is a really profound experience. On the one hand I can remember many of the pictures taken of me, but it can still be hard to recognize myself in them. In some pictures of myself I remember feeling fat or ugly or sad, but the picture doesn't show a me that looks fat, ugly or sad. It's strange to see how tender and fresh-faced I looked in college, which was a sort of tumultuous time for me on the inside. I feel a little fear when I see how great a disparity existed between my insides and my outsides. One of my thoughts was what if my daughters look this "normal" or "healthy" or "pretty," but are actually in pain, how will I know? Then, I thought, "Geez, I spent all that time worrying if I was pretty or skinny and I was perfectly fine." It's kind of hard to swallow how much time I have wasted on all things self: doubt, pity, hate, loathing. I could have had another major for all the energy I squandered picking myself apart. Maybe the best amends I can make to the Christie of the 1990s is to live today so I don't have to look back and feel sad I hated on myself when I was really doing ok.

And those old pictures of Jeff! Whoa. It's a little strange to see a baby picture of your fiance when he was dressed in a jump suit embroidered with a lady bug and curly hair. If Jeff had a sister, I would swear some of his pictures were of her. (I have no room to talk, there was more than one era when I was doing my own gender bending!)

Of course I know in theory that Jeff had a long life before me. Long-- as in about 3 decades. But to really see his past in all its 1970s and 1980s glory makes Jeff seem even more three-dimensional than before I found out he was a seriously fat baby. I can't even recognize the Jeff I know today with his baby pictures-- I can't see my Jeff until he's about 12.

From looking at the pictures, I imagine today's Jeff as a man who has all of those little boys inside himself-- the soccor and baseball player, the kid eating ice cream and pizza with his brother, or sitting on Grandma Ann's lap-- all of those little incarnations of Jeff live on in the man I will marry soon enough. And I carry the little people pleaser in the yellow dress, the chubby baby at Padre Island, and the little girl dressed up like Holly Hobby in the backyard-- they are all alive and well inside of me.

And here's the most amazing part. I have always heard that getting married (or into an intimate relationship) can heal wounded parts inside of myself. Now, I know it's true for me. I can see every single picture of Jeff and love each part, each age, and each expression. It's easier now to have the same love for myself-- even when I had that unfortunate too-short hair cut and would only wear overalls. Now that I have the capacity to love all of Jeff, it's a smaller challenge to spread it around. Even to myself.

Get This Woman Some Play Clothes

Is it any wonder that my sister had the intuition that lingerie may be in order to spruce up my wardrobe? Here's the thing: I love to shop; I am good at shopping; and I hope to die smiling either come to or from Ann Taylor Loft. But I typically buy clothes for work or for socializing in the more public areas of this great city. An area of my wardrobe that has never received sufficient attention is clothes for just hanging around at home after work. You can see from the above picture that Jeff took last night, that I have been single for a LONG time. My unwinding clothes make me look like an escapee from a mental institution who managed to find a cute hoodie to fly the coop in. And this is pretty much what Jeff has to look at all winter long. I believe he said to me when I stood up from the computer: "What exactly are you wearing?"

I think that's a fair question.

So, here's the thought process. I come home from work after 7 p.m., and nowadays it's dark and a little drafty, so I can't shimmy around in those little hot pants my friends gave me because I would die of pneumonia. It's also hard to cook in a teddie, or, so it seems, though I have never tried it. So, I put on my gap pajama pants. That's the hot striped number on my legs. But then I realized that those pants aren't so sexy or fashion forward. So, I put on my cotton Calvin Klein nightgown that is sleeveless and simple. But, then, I am cold. I accessorized with my new favorite hoodie from Anthropologie. And, finally, I hate walking around barefoot and I hate it when my feed are cold. Socks seem really like admitting feminine defeat so I just slipped my feet back into the shoes I wore during my day job-- black patent leather shoes with a little bow. And, that's the genius thought process behind my little outfit that I can be seen wearing around my house on week nights from 7-10 p.m. I am open for suggestions about what to wear that is a little more figure flattering and a little less like an outfit that screams, "I need more medication."

I do enjoy these high-class problems.

This weekend was intense ride for the BWJ staff. If I was the cursing type, I would be dropping all kinds of "f" bombs. Luckily, I am opting for more family-friendly ways to express how many feelings came up this weekend. I think the main lever for getting some of these long-buried feelings out of my gut was getting a contract on my condo-- the original bachelorette rose garden. I do love that condo. And while it's painful to possibly (fingers crossed) let her go for WAY less than I paid, I think it's more of the spiritual piece of letting go of my first piece of property that I bought all by myself with my hard-earned money. It was my first legitimate first footprint in the world and now it's going to be sold (at an outrageously low price) to a very nice gentleman relocating from a little hamlet called Harlem in New York. I have been decidedly raw since finding out that my little cocoon is on its way to being someone else's next launching pad. Another door to a piece of myself is being closed (at a very low price, but I am not bitter) and certainly making room for something else. I am now more attached to Jeff and our life here because there is no condo across town that could scoop me up at any moment. I have never consciously thought I would ever live there again or that I would ever live without Jeff, but somewhere deep inside of me, there is a seriously neurotic single woman dying a very slow death. I would say she's got about 5.8 more weeks to live and then it's time to say goodbye to her forever.

I have never been good at goodbyes, especially not for parts of myself that I am consciously and explicitly watching slip away.

I am listening to the perfect song right now for this contemplative mood: Strangers, most famously done by the Kinks and featured last year in the movie Darjeeling Limited. The version I found today was by Golden Smog. I love the lyrics:

So where are you going to I don't mind/
If I live too long I'm afraid I'll die/
So I will follow you wherever you go/
If your offered hand is still open to me/
Strangers on this road we are on/
We are not two we are one.

I do love a song that speaks to my fear of dying, and I love the image of the offered hand. I got a lot of that this weekend from Jeff, even though I was being a pain in the ass on several occasions. I know, I know, it's hard to imagine, but trust me. I was.

The preparation Jeff and I did this weekend for the wedding was mostly within our relationship. The shifting ground as we recommit everyday to continue on the path that will find us making a capital C commitment very soon sometimes feels like plate tectonics. Lots of energy being unleashed these days. I think it's just as important to sit down and have conversations that start with the question, "I know I am a pain in the ass, but do you understand that is never going to change?" as it is to find color-coordinating place cards. So, we're doing the the work that shows up on the calendar and the work that no one will see except me and Jeff, though you can be sure that as soon as I can articulate it, I will be sharing it.

This picture is from an art show at Linda Warren Gallery this winter in Chicago. I love it. I think it's vaguely naughty and innocent at the same time. I love the delight on the little boy's face. I love the curiosity and almost-horror on the little girl's face. I tell myself that they are little siblings at a moment in time before their life experiences are warped by messages that there is not enough (love, attention) to go around or before they are taught that the differences between them may rend their hearts in inseparable ways. Art is so good for the soul.

Bridled With Joy Celebrates 100th Post

In honor of the 100th post to this esteemed blog, Bridled With Joy is going to resort to a law school favorite: the bullet point. Sometimes, you just gotta use the bullet point format to get the information conveyed.

Here goes:

• Jeff relayed his FIRST ever wedding dream to me this morning. As I heard it, he was dreaming he was at our wedding and trying to make a connection with our officiant, Judge Milton Shadur. I haven't made it to get my psychology degree (yet), but I think Jeff may have had a little anxiety about meeting Judge Shadur for the FIRST time today, when we all sat down together to go over the ceremony particulars. (I had just had a dream about shopping at Home Depot. Talk about freaky friday-- I dreamed about home improvement projects and Jeff dreamed about the wedding-- that's the clearest case of role reversal I have never heard of.)


• Mr. Manager from that department store on State Street still hasn't called me. I left another voicemail today using my best Southern, lilting, business-pleasant voice. It may be time to LET IT GO.


• Letting go: still not my forte.


• Jeff and I went to see Boris the Jeweler today so I could try on my wedding band. It's already gorgeous, and it has no diamonds yet. I am becoming fast friends with the bling bling.


• We are starting to get some really fancy, shiny, professional kitchen gifts. I can't wait til Jeff uses them to cook something positively dee-lish!


• Wondering how to process the shiny red kitchen aid mixer we got from Jro, the shrink formerly known as Dr. Crimson Nose. All I have to say is thank God it wasn't sheets, because do I really need the stress of having to process a gift of bed linens for me and Jeff from my shrink? (NO! The answer is no!!! Thank god I don't have to.)


• Starting to get concerned about my little Facebook addiction. I now have 57 friends. But, 1 is too many and 57 is not enough. May be time for an intervention.


• I am very much enjoying how alive I feel from worrying and fretting about the economy and it's every rise and fall. I especially enjoy early morning emails from colleagues informing me about mass layoff at other legal organizations around the country. It's invigorating to start the day with the black cloud of economic hardship and potential unemployment looming ominously over my head, even if it is only in my imagination.


• In case I haven't mentioned it in this forum, time is crawling by. At the pace of a one-legged snail. I keep thinking any second now, time is going to start whizzing by and I'll find myself under a chuppah, reminding myself to stand up straight and be present while I say my vows to Jeff. But, it's not. Every morning this week I woke up thinking, disappointed, "yep, still about six weeks left." Last week and this week were the longest weeks of my life so far. It's like the agony of waiting for Christmas morning, except I am an adult and it's taking longer. I think Jeff said it best in an email to a friend he reconnected with on Facebook: "wedding planning is good and terrible."

180 Pictures of Our A**es

After yesterday's screed about Macy's (and Mr. Manager still hasn't called me back), it's time for some news on the other side of the spectrum. That would be the spectrum that includes effortless flow and harmony regarding things related to the big W, and I am not talking about Mr. Bush.

Today is a new day. Today we got our engagement pictures from our fabulous photographer, Jennifer Mordini. http://www.jennifermordini.com/. (NOT pictured above, but you get the idea.) She took 387 pictures of me and Jeff last month and the results are stunning. I am barely phased by the fact that about half of them are shots of my backside. She did something so amazing that as a non-photographer I just don't know how to do-- that is, take a picture that tells the viewer a story about the subjects' relationship. It's just amazing to see. Jeff and I looked at some of them together and laughed so hard when we saw pictures that perfectly capture a certain look we've seen a thousand times. My favorites are the ones where she has captured how Jeff's face looks and how his hand gestures when he is explaining something to me. There are some where it looks like I am concentrating on what he is saying and it's kind of a mindblowing experience to see how I look when I am thinking really hard. I love photo number 323, because I would swear on my vital organs that Jeff has just said "oh really?" to me with that tone that conveys his (accurate) perception that I am full of shit. And by photo 327, it looks like I have come clean and admitted I am a devious liar and the charade is up.

I will confess I am partial to the ones that make it seem like I have long legs (which I don't and that's why all my pants are either "A" for ankle length or "P" for petite-- meaning short ass legs)and a flat abs (which I do but only in comparison to my ample bosom), but mostly I love the ones that show me a split second of who Jeff and I are together. Chemistry, I believe it's called.

I also believe without a doubt that there is a God, because never in my life have I had a good hair day coincide with a day where a picture of me is going to be taken. Vain? Yes. A believer? I am now!

I have to read a treatise on copyright law before I can post the pictures on this blog. Let me get back to you on that one. Maybe I can get a junior associate at my law firm to read up on it as a pro bono project. I told Jeff I wanted a camera like Jennifer's, but he seems to think it takes more than a camera to make the kind of pictures we have just fallen in love with. Jeff says you need a degree, training and years of experience. I guess that's why the prints are about 12.00 each for a 4x6!

In case I haven't been clear, Jennifer's work has erased the bitter taste I had in my mouth from yesterday's unfortunate little incident at that department store, the name of which will never pass over my lips again. I would have married Jeff no matter how he looked in pictures, but I sure do consider it a bonus that he's extremely photogenic and has a great a**.

I Hate Macy's on State Street (Chicago)

I have worked hard to foster the parts of my psyche that love so it's going to be a strange experience to explain how much I HATE, and I mean HATE as much as I hate slow drivers or mealy apples, Macy's Bridal Salon on State Street in Chicago.

Just thinking about recounting the ineptitude and rudeness that me and my sister and bridesmaids have encountered there makes me feel all light-headed and woozy, like I just had a sneezing fit. I cannot believe that an institution that has the nerve to charge over $200.00 for a bridesmaid dress plus $100 plus for alterations employs salespeople who are so unkind and nonresponsive. Honestly, it's like a joke. As the latest snafu reached a cressendo, I thought I was being punked. There is no way in these tough commercial times that a salesperson is seriously acting the way that our sales person was acting towards me. Let's call her Marina, since that is actually her name.

I first met Marina on May 31, when my sister was in town (with the Party P!) and we decided to test drive some bridesmaid dresses. Debbie was on call with the bridal caboose that day as well, so I had my tallest and my petitest ladies accompany me to Macy's where they were having a Watters & Watters trunk show. I wasn't in love with Marina's brusque style and bossy demeanor. I sure didn't fall head over heels for her insistence that she "didn't have all day to help us out" when Caroline and I wanted to make one more pass through the samples before ordering a mere SEVEN dresses for the ladies. It would have been my preference to have some kindness and attention before asking my sister and friends to spend over $200.00 for a dress that, let's not kid ourselves, they will only wear once. But, hey, what do I know? I worked in retail back in 1995 in College Station, Texas, peddling skorts and trying to get poor college students to open an Express credit card. Maybe the whole notion of caring (or pretending you care) and paying attention to customers is some quaint, passe notion that went then way of the skort.

I was a little concerned about the situation and the Watters & Watters representative, who was as attentive and responsive as Marina was dismissive and rude, took over and also introduced me to the manager, who seemed capable and interested in the process. I called him later just to ask him to please be sure that my bridesmaids can come in and order their dresses without any hassle or grief from Marina. Mr. Manager said the following to me: "You know, Marina is new, and she's Russian. They are just like that." I said, "Like what?" He said, "You know...abrupt and gruff." Ok, Mr. Manager, run your bridal salon however you want, but it seems like an interesting business plan to hire people who basically suck and then apologize to the customers by stereotyping an entire country.

When Caroline came back to town for the bachelorette party, we spent another 1.5 hours in the Macy's bridal salon, since there is nothing else to do in Chicago during a beautiful fall day. Who wants to see a museum or go for a run, when you can sit in the 7th layer of hell trying to communicate with Marina and the cadre of bridal sales people at Macy's? What transpired then mystifies me as much as enrages me.

The sequence roughly went like this: Caroline got dumped into a room and there wasn't a sales person to be found. It was noon on a Saturday and I could have yelled fire at the top of my lungs and my 1st Amendment rights would be protected because there was literally no one to flee or stampede. Finally, alterations were called (Caroline had made an appointment 3 weeks prior to have alterations come and take care of her dress) and a very meek and skilled seamstress pinned Caroline's dress at the bodice and along the hem.

During the alterations process, Caroline noticed a white spot on the dress right in the front. She asked the seamstress about having the big white spot on her sapphire dress removed, and the seamstress called her manager. Now, Alicia from Alterations was on the scene, surveying the damage and discussing options. Because the alterations department apparently has no more authority than a family dog, guess who was called on the scene: Marina. Marina tells us she is not sure how to fix the blight on the dress. She says she has no idea if it can be cleaned without ruining the dress. Caroline and I are emphatic: we do not want the dress ruined. We explain calmly that the situation is a little complicated because the wedding is coming up quickly and Caroline lives in Texas. We asked about possible solutions. Marina kept saying that she can't give us the dress for free, which, incidentally, we weren't asking for. I used my feeling words: Marina, I feel really sad that my sister, my maid of honor, is going to have a spot on her dress for my only wedding. I told her I wasn't asking for a refund, I was asking for her to give a rat's ass and offer me some solutions. Might as well have asked for Vera Wang herself to appear and stitch a new set of dresses for everyone. My favorite part was where Marina blamed the whole situation on my sister: "If you had come here sooner, we would have found the spot and had time to find a solution." We thought that was a nice touch since it was her job to survey the dresses for any irregularities such as a big white spot as soon as they came in. Again, with the super creative and cutting edge customer service!

It devolved from there. Rapidly. Caroline and I implored both Alicia from Alterations and Marina to please just go ahead and alter the dress as it is and call us when it's done. We didn't think we had time to deal with getting another dress and having Caroline deal with alterations again. Caroline and I both said we would talk to Mr. Manager about how Macy's could compensate us for the (1) trouble and the (2) f*&^ed up maid of honor dress. In the meantime, we reiterated, just alter the dress and call me when it's done.

Guess what happened today! Marina called and said that the dress had been altered and then she sent it to the manufacturer, Watters & Watters, to get a new one for Caroline. Um, WHAT? I called her to find out what the plan was and it was like talking to that voice on the phone from the Charlie Brown cartoons. I stayed calm. I asked the relevant questions. I started with the basics:

Me: Marina, was the dress altered?

Marina: Yes.

Me: Ok, so the dress was altered, and my sister already paid $100.00 for those alterations, but then you send the dress back to get a new one from Watters & Watters?

Marina: Yes.

Me: Marina, when is my sister going to get the new and improved blight-free dress from the manufacturer?

Marina: In a few weeks.

Me: Ok, well, Marina, how will we handle alterations when Caroline lives in Texas, and moreover, has already paid for alterations on the dress you just sent back?

Marina: Well, you said you wanted perfect dress. You here practically crying about your sister's dress so I sent back to get perfect dress.

Me: I see. Why did you send it back after the alterations?

Marina: You said you want perfect dress.

Me: I am still confused about why you didn't call me as soon as it was altered as we requested? We also mentioned that little fact as my sister was giving her credit card to Alicia from Alterations, what about that?

Marina: You said you want perfect dress.

From there, I don't remember much because my head exploded and my brain matter went missing. Paint me pink and call me bridezilla but I am pretty sure there is something not quite right with the Macy's Bridal Salon approach. I haven't found much that was right, although I will say the ladies that picked up the phone this afternoon were really pleasant and professional. I am dismayed that Mr. Manager hasn't called me back either. I would just like to let him know that I will never ever step foot in Macy's again. NEVER. I will never recommend it, and if I ever run for President of anything, my platform will be comprised of anti-Macy's propaganda. I mean, Mr. Manager, I have a blog and friends who are engaged (Joanna) and those who will be soon (Trish) and to the extent that friends have any influence over friends it's a bad move to not at least pretend to care when something gets screwed up because I will spend 45 minutes of my next lunch with Joanna convincing her to register at William Sonoma or Bloomingdales. I will because I care about her. If anyone asks my advice for planning a wedding, I will say that she or he should go for smaller, locally owned businesses wherever feasible. (Get your dress at Wedding Belles!). I will say DO NOT register or get any part of your bridal ensemble at Macy's on State Street.

Yes, I am bitter and yes, I am hormonal and stressed, and the Fiber One isn't working properly, and my bra is too tight today. But I don't care. My friends and I deserve better treatment than what that team of scoundrals at Macy's dished out. I shouldn't have to point out how much money I was sending to Macy's-- it shouldn't matter how much I spend.

This experience makes me excited for the recession because maybe Macy's will have to shape up to win customers' hard-earned dollars. Not mine, not ever, but when I see the retail numbers tanking in the months to come, there will be a bright side in my mind. I hear the bridal industry is going to be hard hit. Good. I have a suggestion for a target.

FACEBOOK Strikes AGAIN

Wow. I mean, WOW. I can't believe I am about to blog about what I just learned from Facebook. But, hell, it's a happy, sunny October day and I am feeling that kind of dangerous.

I have a friend from law school who has a busy and full life-- as in, two small children and an almost-full-time law practice with a commute to and from the suburbs several times per week. Jane Doe, as we'll call her, has a hectic life and we're all headed in her direction as soon as we get our brood conceived and whatnot. Understandably, she is a little busy and hard to pin down when we all get together, but we cut her slack because it's hard to manage everything on our plates and if your friends can't give you some latitude, then who can?

Here's the funny part. When my sister sent out the invitation for my bachelorette party via e-vite, she was the first to RSVP that she would indeed join us for the hip hop fest. I was surprised at the speed in which she responded, but assumed I would see her. You know, in light of her RSVP that she was coming and all. So, the the night of the party, right before we struck up the O.P.P. and got jiggy and all, my other law school friend, Cindy, asked me if I had heard from Jane Doe, and we assumed when she never showed up that something must have come up. Sick kids, baby sitter woes, a serious second thought on dancing around a room to Beyonce with the Bridal Caboose.

Fastforward to Sunday. We got an announcement that our friend Allison had a healthy baby boy, so the emails were flying among the law school peeps. I saw an email to the group from Jane Doe and I just sent her a little note saying, essentially, "missed you at the bachelorette party. I hope all is well." She responded instantly saying, "I can't catch a break....the babysitter cancelled and my husband was out of town. We'll def see you at the wedding. When I realized I couldn't go, I changed my response on the e-vite." I literally didn't think twice about it from there. What the hell do I know about trying to get a Saturday night babysitter for two kids under the age of 6? Maybe I had a second or two of thinking about how strange it would be to log on to an email account and then scroll back to an evite sent 4 weeks prior to tell someone you are, after all, not coming to a party. Maybe I had a split moment when I thought to myself, "hmmm, she could have just emailed me or Cindy or Allison. We're all glued to our blackberries, so we would have gotten the message."

But, really that's all.

Then, Facebook, that fickle mistress changed the game. Last night I got a message from Jane Doe asking me to be her friend on Facebook. I confirmed she was my friend and spent a few minutes this morning looking at pictures of her very adorable children. But, then I scrolled down and saw an update she posted on October 4, the day of the bachelorette party. It said, "Jane Doe is going to dinner with old friends-- sitter and all."

Hmmmm. It's so weird to feel like you caught someone in a lie. Initially, I felt a rush of power, like I knew something about her that she probably didn't want me to know. It's like the power I feel for the three seconds I know gossip no one else does. The powerful feeling is fleeting, mostly because I am a big mouth and can't hold gossip of any kind more than 3 seconds. Then, I felt an uncontrollable urge to laugh-- a full on, head-cocked-back laugh that really came from deep in my belly. I assume that the feeling underneath that laughter is joy. But why joy? Why would I feel joy about finding out a friend from law school told a fib about her plans and bagged on the bachelorette party? What's so freaking happy about that?

Maybe there is joy because I feel a very deep sense of freedom that this little discovery lead me to realize consciously. I feel free because I don't really care. I don't care if Jane got a better offer or totally forgot and then lied to cover her tracks. It feels exhilerating not to care. The party came and went without her and I was surrounded by 15 dear, brave, and selfless women. I wanted for nothing that night-- except for maybe slightly more core strength and a touch more rhythym. I hope the same is true for Jane-- I hope she got what she needed and wanted that night. I looked up the restaurant where she ate that night according to Facebook: It was "ecclectic seafood in the French-American tradition." I don't exactly know what that means, except I assume it's somewhere between Long John Silvers and fancy pants scallopes and fruits de mer. Maybe she had the squab roasted with foie gras and spinach.

The point is: WHO CARES? In my younger days (like 6 months ago), I would feel all stirred up and hurt and wounded that someone "dissed" me or I would get worked up feeling betrayed by a lie. Now, I just think I am a clever, clever girl for following the clues like Daphne on Scooby Doo. The clever part is actually debatable because all I really am is a woman who was procrastinating at work by reading other people's Facebook walls while waiting for legal inspiration to strike.

To be clear, I am not a stranger to the lie-- sure, I tell them when I don't want to hurt someone's feelings or I don't want to face the truth of a situation-- like the fact that a friendship may have seen it's sunset a few years ago. So, I get it, I really do. What's new is that I have a sense of humor about it all. I think it's funny. It would be a transformative experience to bring this out in the open next time I talk to Jane. But, you know what, this isn't group therapy-- we certainly get plenty of that-- and the state of our frienship seems clear from this whole sequence of events. That's the other part of the freedom: I am free to let this go and not make an issue out of it. I can laugh about it to Jeff and Cindy and harbor some perhaps unwarranted moral superiority, even though I can imagine making similar choices in certain circumstances.

And being free to just laugh and move on is the greatest freedom in the world. I wouldn't trade that option for pointing out that I know the "truth" or demanding an explanation. I would rather be laughing and enjoying myself and learning the lesson: if I want to be close to other people, and some days I honestly do want that (however ambivalently), I have a choice about being honest about who I am, what I want, and what I choose. I am free to lie or evade or make up stories, but then no one will never know me, they will just collect an empty series of facts and will make up their own stories in their own heads without any true input from me.

No thanks.

I gotta say, Facebook is complicated, but I think I am falling madly in love with it.

Win Some; Some are Stolen

The presents are coming fast and furious over here. My goal is to get the thank-you notes out within 24 hours of gift receipt. So far so good. The trouble comes when someone sends a gift that comes in two parts in two different shipments on two different days. Then, I have a quandry. Because I had already sent the thank-you note for the first shipment of, say, wooden spoons, what do I do when the second shipments arrives 56 hours later with the placemats? Well, I have decided to just send two thank-you notes. I am pretty sure Jeff thinks I am nuts, but if you want a control freak to hold down a full-time job, get to the gym, and plan a wedding, then you are going to see some erratic behavior. If the worst I do is have a somewhat inefficient process around thank-you notes, I think there is a saying about counting your blessings that it's not pulling out my hair or buying vintage tiaras, though I still have 7 weeks to bulk up my tiara collection and was just perusing on-line....

The present situation lends itself to little gaffes and blunders. When we registered we decided to have them sent to my office so we wouldn't have to worry about packages being left on the door step of our new home in the charming, but up-and-coming neighborhood. Jeff did some registering on-line for items that he knew we needed, but I was unaware we needed considering many of the items were things I had never heard of. Today we got the "grinder" for our Kitchen-Aid mixer. If I had to say right now what the grinder was for I would only be able to come up with coffee beans, but I am pretty sure you aren't supposed to put coffee beans in the big red mixer. This makes it slightly more challenging to write a good thank-you note, when you had no idea the gift was coming and you don't know what it's for. Today's shipments inspired the following lines for me: "Dear F______________, thank you for the grinder attachment to the mixer. We love it and promise not to stick our limbs in it." It's honest and expresses gratitude, even it is a little inappropriate.

Further complicating matters is the fact that there was a serious security breach in my office last week. Yes, that was me standing on the 14th floor of my office building screaming, "it's [bad] enough to work here without my stuff being stolen." And that professional little plea was a reference to a darling J.Crew herringbone jacket (color: sweet potato; style: Fiona) that arrived here on Monday, but disappeared from my office by Wednesday morning. Said pilfered jacket still had all the tags on it and was in a see-through garment bag with J.Crew emblazoned all over it. In any case, it's gone. I hope whoever took it reads this blog, can see me sticking my tongue out at him or her and praying for a hex to be put on his or her fashion sense for the next 17 seasons, and enjoys my sweet potato all winter long. Actually, I hope someone who really needs a stylish and warm orange blazer took it from me and finds the winter a little less chilly and the wind a little less bitter as fall slips away from us. Anyway, this security breach has made me paranoid about leaving anything I care about in my office over night. If someone is going to take a ridiculous sweet potato-colored jacket, why not a Calphalon 5-quart pot? Why not a meat grinder apparatus? Why not my pictures of my newphew or my student loan bills? It's a mad, mad world. I don't pretend to understand.