if i had written Dante's Inferno

I would have made wedding planning* one of the punishments in the third circle of hell.

But that's just me.




*Let me clarify: planning MY wedding is a nightmare. It would so much fun to work on a wedding for a friend or family member, where THEY would be the ones making all the decisions and I could come up with thousands of cool ideas and then pull a few all nighters making them happen. But when it's me answering for why stuff isn't done (YET!?!) when I spend basically every moment on it that I'm not eating, asleep or at work, then that there is where this earns a spot in the Inferno.

happy birthday, eileen. I wish you were still here.

I don't even know what to write. My coworker and friend, Eileen, with whom I shared crappy hours and a very small office for almost two years, passed away unexpectedly last Thursday night. Today she would have turned 34.

To make a long story short, Eileen had medical issues, the most significant being multiple sclerosis. But sickeningly, what actually took her away were complications (two blood clots in the lung and three more in her leg) of routine knee surgery. The technical term is Pulmonary Embolism, and it happens extremely quickly. She was complaining of severe pain, called her doctor and got her checkup appointment moved up from two weeks after the surgery to one. Then her husband went to the bathroom, and when he returned she wasn't breathing. CPR did not help.

I'm still trying to make sense of this. Every time someone opens the door to the office and just stands there without making an announcement, I turn around thinking she's ready for the day with her purple water bottle in one hand and her Disney lunch bag in the other. We spent a lot of time together in that office, and got to know each other very well.

* The smell of hard-boiled eggs/egg salad makes her gag.
* She's the only person I know who uses the word "boob" in a non-anatomical sense--to describe her husband when he forgets to do something.
* If there's ever an option to choose a color, she always picks purple, no hesitation.
* She loves Dave Matthews Band as much as my brother; they were often at the same concerts.
* She is a wonderful stepmom--it's a shame she never got to have a child who could live with her for more than a few weeks at a time.
* She puts ketchup on everything; the whole year I've been waiting for her birthday to give her a huge bottle to keep in the office fridge. Now it's just too late.
* She always remembers when something was going on with your family and asked how they were doing the next time she saw you.
* She'd been working on a puzzle of Cinderella's castle and it was driving her crazy.
* Last fall, she'd wanted to see the comedian Brian Regan but her friend got tickets for something else. She recently got to see him, at a show that Jon and Madelyn were also attending.
* Every time I went to California, she'd ask me to take pictures of palm trees to show her. She got married in the Bahamas and wore a jeweled palm tree necklace that her husband gave her every day.
* She is a really good friend, and suffered a lot when her best friends were going through tough times.
* She is so great with the patients, especially the really young and the really old.

Eileen loved flowers. She made the bouquets for her own wedding and we were looking forward to downtime in the office for her to help me with mine this summer. This past mother's day, her husband/stepdaughter got her a bouquet of "rainbow roses." I'm still unclear on how people get each petal to be a different color, but it looks stunning. One bud from the bouquet just snapped off, so Eileen brought it into the office so we all could enjoy it. Her husband sure wasn't a "boob" that day.

 

I was going to take a picture of it every day, but unfortunately it didn't even last a week. Eileen kept pulling the dying petals off.

I tacked them onto my bulletin board, next to the postcard from Madelyn and a picture of Jon. And my phone list. I look at them a thousand times every day.

Unfortunately, now I have a mass card pinned up next to it, with a picture of the sun setting over the ocean. Rest in peace, Eileen.

scrubs scrubs scrubs

So for the last two years, I've been working at the hospital. For the last 15 years or so, I have worn scrubs as lounging-around-the-house-wear/pajamas. So if you do the math, these days I'm pretty much wearing scrubs 350 days a year. I get home from work, take off the official navy scrubs and put on the unofficial, washed-so-often-they're-satiny-soft not-navy scrubs and go about my day.

I don't have a problem with this.

EXCEPT

When you wear scrubs all the time and 99% of your scrubs are a) way too big, b) kept on your body via drawstring or c) a combination of both, then it's easy to overlook where all that junk food and sweets have been accumulating all this time. And realizing the dire necessity to visit the gym frequently and intensely comes as somewhat of a punch in the rather soft gut.

So yeah, this summer I'm going to have to find something other than scrubs to work out in.

be careful what you tell people at a bar

So I'm taking a break from freelancing. Also trying to keep from freaking out over how much wedding crap I have YET to do (staring at this pile of to-do stuff is making me want to jump off the balcony, and frankly the last thing I need is a broken leg--we only live on the second floor). It's the perfect time to procrastinate.

Two weeks ago, my brother and his friends drove to Augusta, GA for the wedding of a good friend. The night before the nuptials, the wedding party and close friends gathered at the bar for a few last rounds. During the evening, a random guy wandered over to the group and started chatting up one of the bridesmaids.

After a few minutes, this guy proved to be in big trouble because a) he was wearing a wedding ring and b) he claimed to be a cardiologist who studied/is studying at [university program I can't quite remember, but let's just call it UPenn as a placeholder].

As you might imagine, the second he overheard the word "cardiologist," my brother was instantly inclined to get involved in the conversation. After hearing a little of the garbage this guy was spouting, my bro decided to take him down a notch or two. But first, he did a little research. My brother sought out the husband of another bridesmaid who is currently studying to be a physician. He and threw his very lengthy and one-in-a-million *official* diagnosis at the guy. The med student was able to decipher it for the most part.

Satisfied, he made his way into the original conversation and casually asked the offending "cardiologist" more about his specialty. Right away, the guy started throwing out credentials that fall flat. Apparently the school where he claimed to study cardiology doesn't even have a cardiology program. Then my brother started asking specific questions any med student should be able to answer even if s/he were completely wasted. Dude did not pass.

***
Let me take a break here to say that the Monday after this weekend, my brother called my mom up at work and told her he'd gotten into a fight. He routinely gets her to believe the most ridiculous things, and even worry over them. I can't believe she bought the bit about how there were two hits: my brother hitting the guy, and the guy hitting the floor. My poor mom fell for that cheezeball line and came to me, worrying about how hurt my brother must be after a fistfight (he is most certainly not a large man by any means). He was delighted to hear this.

***

Anyway, so my brother was trying to get this pretend cardiologist to trip up. And even after it had become evident that he was a fraud AND married, the guy continued to maintain his lame story. Finally my brother (who had had several drinks by now) had enough. He untucked his shirt, lifted it up to show the entire establishment the long white scar running from his breastbone to his navel, the two U-shaped scars curving under his armpits and the various other reminders of having been opened up for 11 open-heart surgeries. And he says, "Diagnose THIS, bitch." Everyone at the bar turned and stared. The guy had no other choice but to give up his game and leave.

I have never heard of my brother showing his scars to anyone. He even goes to the pool with a t-shirt on. That guy must really have been a sleaze.

snapshot

Sometimes when I'm out and about in life, I wish I could freeze time and have a photograph of whatever is in front of me, because it so completely captures the essence of the moment.


Yesterday, Jon and I went to the wedding of a friend of mine from college. The ceremony and reception were beautiful, and the bride looked stunning in her white gown. The skirt was pinned up on itself all over with little decorative details, and it swayed so gracefully when she was walking. At the party, she traded the veil for a white feather fascinator and just looked like an all-around princess. Her man didn't look too shabby either.

The bride has a 9-year-old from a previous relationship, and it was so obvious that her new husband and her son get along like lifelong pals. It was clear that the three of them have already been acting like a family for quite some time now. I got teary during the Unity Candle lighting, when instead of joining two flames, the couple and the son joined three.

We didn't see too much of the son at the reception, however. When introduced, he sprinted across the room and to his seat at the head table to avoid as many cameras as possible and shielded his face as if he were going to jail. I don't even know where he was for the majority of the evening while we all broke it down--even getting up as a table to shout out the lyrics to "Ice Ice Baby" to get the newlymarrieds to kiss (glass clinking was strictly forbidden).

But somewhere toward the end of the evening, after many guests were heading out, the girls yelled along to "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" (someone didn't know who sang that song and was reprimanded accordingly), Michael Jackson's "Beat It" video was haphazardly recreated, and we twirled around to a merengue or two. Somewhere in the middle of all that, a few groomsmen were evidently coaxing my friend's son back toward the dancefloor by getting him to do the moonwalk. He was attempting it, in slow, deliberate motion.  And soon enough he was in the middle of the crowd, moonwalking back and forth in his own world. Suddenly, without even looking up from the floor, he began to do the robot.

The crowd, who'd formed a circle around him, exploded in cheers. He was the center of attention for the rest of the night. He even hit the floor a few times, attempting to do the worm.

At one point, the gorgeous bride, the dapper groom and their son were surrounded by a dance circle of their friends and family, bouncing to the groove. The lights were flashing. The beat was bumping. And the bride took a second. She knelt down, her fancy skirt spread out in a fan around her, and tied her little boy's shoes.

If only my camera battery hadn't died.

and i CANNOT stress this enough

Today, as I was about to send the images of our invitations to the printer, Jon mentioned that I should ask cc (as in COPY chief) to give them a once over for any errors.

On one of the insert cards for a secondary event, I had arranged all the letters perfectly to spell out who it was for, what it was, where it was, what time it started and what time it ended. Cc gently pointed out that I had left off the FRICKING DATE. I cannot imagine my mortification if they had gone out that way. I know, there are way bigger problems in the world than that, but when you're running around correcting people all the time, it's hard to play it off when you've missed something that big yourself.

Plus it became clear that I've been sending all Birthday, Mother's Day, Christmas correspondence to my godmother with the incorrect postal code on it for more than 20 years.

I'll say it again, though I've said it eleventybazillion times: everyone needs a copyeditor.

picking up speed

Madelyn is somewhere in Iowa, driving a car packed full of her worldly belongings, moving here. I am frantically trying to get everything in order. Because the last thing a person needs after driving thousands of miles is to find a place for her stuff among piles of half-finished centerpieces, magazine cutouts and crafting supplies all over the place. Plus there's a big deadline tomorrow for which I am not nearly as prepared as I should be, 24 hours out.

So as much as I would love to spend an hour writing a post to get me motivated, I should really get going. That bathroom is not going to clean itself.

Drive safe, Madelyn!

all i can say is that he'd better be just as devoted to me

My fiance doesn't drink. He's never done drugs. He doesn't look for a thrill in gambling. And when we pull up to a red light next to a car in which someone is smoking, we have to roll up the windows because he gets a headache. But everyone has a vice. And Jon's has to do with sports.

This evening we went to a very nice restaurant in Bucktown, a gelateria and a Wrigleyville bar, dressed pretty respectably. I even had on a smidge of makeup. Jon had a full beard. On exactly HALF of his face. For that, I blame the Los Angeles Lakers.

Let's start at the beginning.

I grew up in a pretty typical Indian family. Except for the fact that we all gathered in the family room for football every NFL Sunday even though roughly half of us could not care less about the score. My brother would run around in front of the tv wearing t-shirts he'd marked up with a Sharpie to replicate his favorite players' jerseys, throwing a nerf football to himself and calling the play-by-play in an increasingly higher-pitched voice. When Jim McMahon hurt his shoulder, my brother would suddenly need to have his shoulder wrapped with an Ace Bandage. In fact, one time when he was four he snuck upstairs and called our pediatrician in tears to ask him to fix a quarterback's injuries. When his team was close to playoff elimination, he'd scoot all the way up to the screen, drop to his knees and start praying. His devotion was undying. And to be honest, it was sort of cute. But we're talking every single weekend. A few years later, just in time for the three-peats, he got really into basketball without losing any of his football fervor. And then he added baseball to the mix. At that point I was safely away at college, far from the madness.

And yet somehow, among all the men in the entire United States and abroad, I managed to procure for myself the one that is just as insane as my brother. In September Jon is going to marry me, but he and sports are celebrating their 30-something-th anniversary.

Generally, this is all right by me. I'm happy to sit on the couch with my sports-obsessed loved ones as long as there's something else I can do. Perhaps the reason I have such an affinity for knitting is because that is what my mother did on those neverending Sunday afternoons of timeouts and scrimmages. You're "spending time with them" while they generally just scream at the television; you might as well make some headway on that baby blanket for your friend. Don't get me wrong, I actually like sports (basketball especially). It's just when Major League Baseball season overlaps with National Football League season, which overlaps with National Basketball Association season (please don't let him get into college football or else there goes Saturdays), there is no such thing as an offseason. Sometimes a girl just needs a breather.

Things have been tense around here for the last week. While the Los Angeles Lakers have had their fair share of Championships, they weren't expected to sail right into the final round this year. And that was making my number-one L.A. fan very nervous. So nervous, in fact, that he vowed to the whole world (Okay, just on Facebook) that he was going to shave off the right side of his beard if the Lakers didn't pull out a victory on Friday night.

I'm sure you know what happened. As the yelling and gnashing of teeth grew louder and stronger, I steeled myself for the inevitable grumpy mood that would linger for at least a week, making food not taste as good, television not as funny and smiles nowhere to be seen--and nothing I do will fix it. I posted my own lament on Facebook about how the Lakers essentially ruined my weekend. People think that's an exaggeration, but when one of his teams doesn't perform up to par, there truly is a palpable dampening in the zest for life around these parts. It's kind of a downer.

Suddenly, the buzzing of the electric razor started up in the bathroom. Initially I thought okay, so he will Victor/Victoria the beard, take a picture, post it and then shave the rest. Right? Nope.

But it actually didn't bother me. What, were people going to stare? Don't they already because we're sort of an odd couple? Nothing new there. We went about our evening and the next day. My mom didn't even notice right away. All he had to say was that he'd lost a bet. He didn't mention that it was with himself. We met up with his sister M and her husband in the city, going to three separate places. Nobody said a thing. I didn't even see anyone notice. He wanted to prove that he doesn't go back on his word, so he had a picture of us taken in the restaurant (where we were sitting at one long community table, by the way) and posted it on the Internet for all to see. And I'm there, smiling right next to him. No big deal.

Except now I can't help but feel like it was sort of big. I'll never know for sure, but I wonder if he was gauging my reaction to being out and about with him looking a tiny bit ridiculous. To see if I'd look around sheepishly or make him shave before leaving the house. Sort of a test.

I hope I passed.

six years ago he said he wasn't too sure about Thai food

"Here, I got this for you--it's still pretty warm, I think just your temperature."

"Wow, this is so good I'm eating green beans."

"WHAT?!?"

"Or maybe it's that I'm just really hungry."

just get to the president already, guys

" 'Where were YOU when you heard Osama bin Laden was dead?' "

"Seriously. These guys are so dramatic. Especially that guy with Wolf Blitzer."

"And they're repeating themselves so much, too! If I have to hear 'THIS IS SUCH A HISTORIC MOMENT AROUND THE WORLD' again within the next thirty seconds..."

"Too bad it's Sunday or we could do a drinking game."

no turning back now

"So...I see you still haven't responded to my request on Facebook."

"What, that relationship status thing?"

"That's the one."

"Um, [holds up hand with ring on it] I think it's pretty clear what my response is. 'Til death do us part."

"Yes, but how about making it official? You know, where it really counts. On Facebook."

be sure to check on me if i ever have a kid

A long time ago when people used to make fun of me for knitting (before it was a trendy hipster thing to do) and making clothes and other crafty stuff, I used to laugh and say I'm honing those skills "to prepare for the depression." That might have gotten a snicker in the heyday of the '90s/early-'00s, but it sure isn't funny now.

Another thing I always say is that I must have used up all of my allotted all-nighters writing papers in college. Tonight I'm really really praying that's not true. Because if I wake up in a puddle of drool at this desk at noon tomorrow, I AM SCREWED.

except now it's 3 p.m. instead of 3 a.m.

On Friday, I switched shifts so I could get together in Greektown with my girls from college for dinner. This was remarkable because a) in the TWELVE years they've been celebrating every year in April, I believe this is the first time I'd been able to make it b) despite having gotten up at 5 a.m., taking a nap after work, Friday-night traffic and circling for parking, I managed to get there on time, and c) the organization for which we were celebrating the anniversary technically doesn't exist at our university anymore. That last part broke my heart a little bit to hear.

We were seated at a very long rectangular table at Rodity's. On my left were two people expecting babies this summer. On my right were three girls I had never met that are the latest to join the group. Across from me was my roommate for the entirety of college, pp, and one of the first friends we'd made during our freshman year.

So of course, the reminiscing began even before the saganaki went up in flames.

pp tried to deny that she'd ever worn overalls in the '90s. Sorry, pal. I found some photographic proof. We talked about how we pretty much dressed like Rachel, Monica and Phoebe on Friends back then, down to the high-waisted jeans and the children's-size tshirts (which, in some cases, are now being worn by a six-year-old nephew). We recalled those crazy parties in falling-down houses and the inexpensive winecoolers that went a long way. The new girls mentioned people they're infatuated with and the drama that comes along with that. Old-schoolers shook their heads and smiled: What's that my professor used to say about how college is like a tollbooth? Yeah, that the people are constantly changing but it's generally always the same.

I would have left there feeling old and lame, but toward the end of the night, there were updates. In the last year there were at least two new babies, three new pregnancies, four weddings. Three people are now doctors, several are successful businesswomen (pp will soon get on a plane, go to a meeting and then fly back all in the same day). People are traveling the world, saving the world one charity function at a time, and still rocking the world at the club. We really have come a long way.

And yet, just as I used to do all those nights back in college when I'd write lengthy, descriptive emails to all of them about the freaks in the computer lab with me at 4 a.m., I'm here, tip-tapping away when I should be working on my freelance project. The more things change...

for Maxy and Belle: two dogs i feel like i knew

When my brother and I were kids, we really wanted a dog. Like ready-to-bargain-on-Christmas/Birthday-presents-really-wanted-a-dog. There were all sorts of promises about how we'd take care of it in every way ourselves and my parents would never have to worry about a thing. There's a chance my mom would have eventually caved, as she is wont to do, but my dad simply wouldn't relent. He always says that the pain of losing a beloved pet is just too much to handle. And that he never got over the sadness of his dog, Maxy, dying in his arms.

Maxy was an energetic golden retriever that my dad found when he was a kid in Bombay. Dad holds his hands out like the AllState logo to show us how he "raised that dog from when he was this big." He was completely my dad's dog, sleeping next to him every night, waiting for him at the door every day. And Maxy wouldn't obey anyone else. I see how attached my father got to our neighbor's dog here a few years ago, and I can only imagine what he must have been like with a pup of his own.

Unfortunately, back in the day Maxy kept getting into the neighbors' yard, digging around the flowers while my dad was at school. And one day he came home to find the dog vomiting and shaking uncontrollably. It was impossible for a 13-year-old to carry a full-grown golden retriever all the way to the vet, but my dad tried. And when he physically couldn't go any further, no taxi or rickshaw drivers would allow such a sick dog into their vehicle. So my poor dad did the best he could to make the dog comfortable where they were in the street, and he watched as Maxy died in his arms. From rat poisoning.

***
My brother's roommate, Mark, bought his grandparents' house in Mobile, AL, and while it's off a major road, the neighborhood has a lovely house-in-the-woods kind of feel. Almost everyone has a huge back yard, and the street is flanked with so many beautiful old, tall trees it's actually cooler because of all the shade. You can hear birds and crickets, and it's just a peaceful place to be.

A little less than three years ago, this small brown puppy came to the door. No tags, no collar. She just arrived and didn't show any intentions of leaving. Mark and my brother went around the neighborhood trying to find out if anyone had lost a dog; they may have even put up signs. No one ever came forward, and they started to suspect someone just dropped her in off the neighborhood in the hopes people would take care of her. So they got her checked out and gave her the necessary shots, and the little chocolate lab mix became their dog, Belle.

Neither one of the guys had ever had a dog growing up, so everything Belle did was a novelty, from the never-faltering excitement when one of them came home, to tearing up the laundry room and all the clothes in it, to the lazy weekends just playing in the yard. My brother was terrified of dogs when he was very little, so the loving tone he'd use to call her or coax her to do her business in the yard while he was on the phone with me was really sweet to hear. You only really get to hear him speak that tenderly when he's just had surgery and is high as a kite on pain medication. I know he loves that dog very much. And, while I'd only seen pictures, he talked about her so much that I feel like I knew her.

My brother is in some town 30 minutes west of Austin, Texas right now, working evenings through the weekend. Yesterday he sent me a text message that Belle had died. My brother can never just give the full story in one go, so after some prodding, I found out that Mark had let her out and when he whistled and she didn't come, he began to worry. Apparently she had wandered out to the street and was hit by a car. She probably heard his whistle and tried to make her way back, but only made it as far as the grass, where he found her, bleeding. Mark called a neighbor, took her in his arms and was rushing to the veterinarian when the neighbor looked down and said, "Mark, I think she's gone."

When I talked to him later, my brother said he's never been this depressed in his life. He said now he understands how dad must have felt, and other friends he's seen have to put their pet down after having them be a part of the family for years. When he worked in town, my brother came home during lunch to let Belle out and play with her. He said that sometimes Belle would pull his slept-in pajamas out of the hamper and into her crate to sleep on while he was gone more than a few days. And when he would leave for a project, he made a point to give Belle a special treat and a kiss goodbye before he went out the door. This time he had to take off mid-week when Mark was at work, so he had to feed her, let her out and he was in a hurry to get to the airport. So he didn't have a chance to say goodbye in the usual way.

It's true, losing a pet is brutal. Hell, I've been sitting here crying over this dog that I never even met. But is having one worth the pain? I think maybe it is.

everyone thinks their kid is the cutest

I don't have any kids. But I do think my parents are the cutest. I had Pandora playing on my phone during an especially crazy night at work. I had to stop and laugh when I got this text message:

I can sympathize; I've been trying to get three stars on all the Angry Birds levels for weeks. And now I feel guilty because I introduced him to the game. He's probably even more determined than I am to beat it. 

best first mate

Long, long ago I knew a person who watched me take four months to knit a sweater and said, "why would you go to all that trouble when you can just buy a sweater from Target for ten bucks?" That statement was the equivalent of hocking a fat, yellow loogie and spitting it directly at my face. Looking back, that particular relationship should have been over right then and there.

I knew that Jon was something special when he recognized how much I love to make stuff and began asking thoughtful questions about my craft du jour. He has come to give excellent logistical advice and opinions, and nowadays I almost don't want to start a project without consulting him. When I'm so bored at the electronics store with him that I want to take a quad-core processor and knock myself unconscious, I try my very best to remember how patient he is with me at the craft store when I take six hours deciding on fabric colors.

Recently a dear friend overseas had a baby. All she had said was that the nursery was going to be turquoise and black and that it would have a pirate theme. I decided to make the baby a quilt. Jon came with me to the fabric store and helped me choose a variety of turquoise and other blue colors. And then he came up with an idea that he justified with, "no self-respecting pirate goes around without his own pirate flag."

Here is the front, with its watery theme:

 Two of our wedding colors have come from swatches of this quilt. Photos by Jonathan Muller

Here is the back, a cutesy pirate flag for an adorable pirate:

I was really afraid my friend would be offended by the skull on something for her baby. Especially after the violent reaction my mom had: She decreed that no grandbaby of hers would wear anything with a skull on it. But Jon insisted that if you're going to do pirates, you should go the full jolly roger or just stay home. 

staying up late

Today is my mother's birthday. 6-0. For real this time.

Last year, her friends took her out and made her wear a plastic tiara and gave her a bunch of joke gifts. She didn't have the heart to tell them that official documents say she was born March 15, 1950 instead of 1951 because she was precocious and the family wanted to get her into school early. She never tells people that she went on to skip two more grades before high school. The only reason she even told me was because she wanted to deter me from skipping during elementary.

"The kids your age won't play with you because they think you're oversmart, and the kids in your class won't play with you because they think you're a baby." I guess book learning isn't all that counts after all.

I went over there after work with two gifts: a humongous one wrapped in a plastic bag with a bow and a small one in a gift bag with a fat rose printed on the side and decorated in glitter. The latter is for her, I was very clear to explain, and the former is for the house. I learned this lesson the year my father presented to her on her birthday a brand-new microwave and couldn't understand why she didn't take it out of the box for a month.

The smaller bag had another bag in it, one she can take to the gym after work every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I've been hunting down gym bags for weeks, and most of them are big enough for my mother to climb into--but all she needs is a place where her little T-shirt, yoga pants and size 5.5 wide-width New Balances can go for the 12 second commute from work to the fitness center. So I purchased a general craft-supply bag from the fabric store that's the perfect size (individual pouches for shoes!). It has a cute flowery pattern in cream and light blue, which are her favorite colors. I had carefully removed the tag because I was certain she would make me take it back because the promotional backpack embroidered with Hinckley and Schmidt suits her just fine and I ought to save my money, especially this year. I was right.

When she opened the big bag with the gift for the house, I mentioned that all of us pitched in together for this and got it on a tremendous sale. It's the 14-piece stainless steel cookware set a coworker had seen her looking at in the Macy's catalog. I made sure to find the exact one she had lingered over. She started going down the I'll-just-to-give-this-to-you-and-I'll-keep-the-old-stuff road, but I could tell she's thinking about maybe hanging onto this one for herself. I've got the receipt, just in case.

She says that the fact that I come home and let her feed me and watch Sasural Genda Phool* with her most evenings is a way better gift to her than anything I could buy at the store. I know she means that, because I feel the same way. I tried to explain that my trying to find a gift for her that will inevitably turn out to be something she doesn't need or even really want is my lame attempt to show her how much she means to me. Then the calls from India begin. I kiss her forehead and let myself out.

***

During the last couple of years, I've been listening to the podcasts from This American Life. From the beginning. In order. Tonight, as I stir the mushrooms and the onions at 12:30 a.m., I happen to be on the episode from September 14, 2001. It's the first show they did after the 9/11 terror attacks, and listening to how shell-shocked everyone sounds just takes me back to how I felt after it happened. One of the people interviewed had been on a floor directly hit by a plane and had somehow, by the light of someone's cellphone, found her way down the stairs and out of the Twin Towers. She had called her boss, her boyfriend and her mother from the office when the the door to the emergency stairs was locked, but after someone opened it and they were rushing down, there was no way, and no time, to contact them. What struck me hardest was that her family in Pennsylvania gathered with their minister and watched the towers fall on television--in their words, they had "watched her die." Her brother had even brought a suit and white shirt and tie with him because he expected there to be a memorial or funeral.

What kind of nightmare that must have been for so many people: To see the building where your loved one was sending a fax or typing an email just crumble to the ground right before you on your living room tv. And to truly believe they were dead, even if it was just for half an hour. I've never had to deal with a major loss. But I catch myself thinking about it all the time. In fact, the fear of someone I love being snatched away from me is like a shadow, constantly following me around, tapping me on the shoulder every time people talk about something tragic on the news or in the lunchroom. I don't foresee myself being able to keep on living, let alone get out of bed if something like that were to occur. I was made aware of how fragile life is when I was four years old; and I don't care if I tell them 400 times a day but the people I love will never wonder how I really felt about them.


***
It's 1 a.m. and I'm stirring the vegetables. Jon has likely been eating beef stew for lunch every day for the last week. He can wake up to something new. If the chopping sounds haven't awoken him already. Ira Glass is talking about how everyone is United We Stand right after the terror attacks, but it's weird how in a few years things will get closer back to normal. Ten years later, they have.


The phone rings. My aunt is calling my mom from Mumbai, where she's in the store hunting for wedding outfits for me. I had thought, oh I'm going to be all Indian-y for my wedding, my aunt can get the stuff from India! No brainer, right? Except I don't live in India, so I conveniently forgot that the Hindu-to-Christian ratio there is pretty much exactly the same as the Christian-to-Hindu ratio in the United States. Translation: Not a lot of white saris available in India because Hindus wear them to funerals and Christian Indian brides have started wearing western gowns these days. I've essentially made my aunt go looking for a needle in a haystack. I think this will have more than made up for having missed all those birthday parties in the backyard and all the birthday parties I may have in the future. She describes the outfit in general terms and I start to panic. I ASKED her to do this. She's put effort and love into the task. I am going to wear whatever she picks out, and I'm sure it'll be nice... I stopped myself from that line of thinking and said, "If my cousin approves of it, go ahead and buy." My cousin has great taste.


***
So here I am, rambling on as I used to do at 3 a.m. in college when I had a paper due the next morning. My mom is 60, but it seems like she's still 45. That would make me 17, which is about right when I stop and think about how confused I STILL AM about my career path. At this moment, my Aunt is probably in that labyrinthine mall we went to that one time with all the sariwallas sitting on cushions unfurling stuff that will probably take an hour to re-roll later. She is finding my wedding dress. And I'm totally OK with it. Because, honestly, as long as I get to marry Jon, the only thing that matters is that I have the people I love around me that day. So I can put my arms around them and tell them that I love them so very very much. And how I'm thrilled that they will be sharing my happiness, and I hope they will be there to share in my sorrows as well. Because I know those will be there, too. They're just hiding around the corner, ready to strike me down on a random Tuesday morning.


But for today, I am thankful for what I have. God bless America. And God bless my mom.




*My foreign-language soap opera is the only thing exempt from my Lenten No-TV vow this year. Jon can watch sports.

tough love

Wedding planning has been frustrating. It's been well-documented that I freak out when having to make decisions. The fact that we made the biggest and most crucial decision--finding/choosing each other--makes me feel so accomplished that I want to sit back and watch the rest of this thing plan itself.  Oh, it's not going to? Crap.

I've shied away from talking about the nuptials because it gets boring for other people within about 45 seconds (I feel lucky to have a whole 20-minute window with the groom before his iPhone sneaks out of his pocket). There is little to report because we only have the bare bones checked off so far. Shh, don't tell the dozens of people who continually ask me how the planning is going. And don't get me started on the-knot-dot-com reminding me that THERE ARE ONLY 191 DAYS LEFT UNTIL YOUR WEDDING! YOU HAVE ONLY COMPLETED 13 OF THE 175 TASKS THAT YOU HAVE TO HAVE DONE! YOU ARE SO TOTALLY SCREWED!


The thing is, I NEED this kind of mean personal trainer or I'd be dilly-dallying around with color swatches until the week before.


Now, don't get me wrong. Getting married? Awesome. Making beautiful things like escort cards or invitations? Super-rad. Having a big old party with most all the people I care about? I couldn't BE more excited! But calling fifty people (who are likely trying to take all my money) to get price quotes on [insert costly item here], comparing, deciding and then setting up a time to meet with them and choose? ANNOYING. And that is the limbo in which I am currently stuck.


Thank God for my friends and family, who have been so generous with their time and efforts to help. They're all ready to rock, but the underlying problem is that Jon and I still have to a) decide what we'd like to have and b) set the budgets. Sadly those two things are directly dependent on one another. And this would be a lot easier if our communication didn't consist mainly of text message, email and/or dry-erase board.

But it'll get done. Jon suggested we give up television for the next 40 days (check back with me in April to see if I'm even still alive) so that we can better manage our time and get stuff checked off the list. At this point, I'm ready to do anything to make the-knot-dot-com shut the hell up. Even give up The Daily Show for awhile.

milestone: year 6

Wow, SIX years of Do They Read Obituaries in Hell. Here's what you may have missed:

The next thing I remember was that I was having a really vivid dream and woke up to one of those scenes from a movie where silhouettes standing over me were starting to become clearer. I was lying on the floor. There was an ice pack on my neck and on my belly under my shirt, they had a fan on me and the guy was telling me to rock my knees back and forth. And way off in the distance, I heard someone say, "Get me my purse! I have to call her mother!"

I get to see my mom's smile during the day, and if things are quiet enough I can catch the sound of her laugh as I'm walking by. I cannot explain the boost I get inside when I hear it--as if there IS a chance that things may turn out okay after all.

Random comments about Encyclopedia Brown vs. Nancy Drew that started it all: 2
Miles of separation in March 2005: 2039
Initial text messages—determining how all future children will be named: 6

My CSI training tells me that either you're a hacker and you're spoofing Jon's IP address OR you're at Jon's computer.

After the fraudulent votes (I guess we had three) were thrown out, we placed 70th with a total of 764 votes. AND THAT IS DAMN IMPRESSIVE, FOLKS, considering there were what I believe to be thousands of other entries to choose from.

"You know, 'Women's Sizes.' That's where all the men go to buy their women. They have them in all sizes."

As the sun came up through the floor-to-ceiling windows we got the last of our stuff out of the condo. It was sad. That place was the last remainder of my old professional life, ten years of slogging crap hours for little pay doing what I enjoyed and hoping it would eventually pay off. All those weekends not going out with my friends, of living with my parents so I could save to buy a place of my own. And it's all vapor, now.

"C'mon, you know me. I bite off more than I can chew with EVERYTHING I do. But then I somehow manage to chew it all."

And now I can add balloon-animal artist to my resume.

It's just business. But when business is about one of the most important days of your life, it's hard not to take personally.

Thanks for reading!!

it's a preference, not an orientation

"Your hair is getting long, Cadiz!"

"Yeah, I guess it is. My mom and I are going to cut and donate our hair after the wedding."

"What is Jon going to say about that?"

"He'll be fine. In fact, he prefers short hair on women. And glasses."

"So he likes lesbians?"