monumental

I wasn't ever one of those girls who sat around dreaming up my lavish, impossibly perfect wedding down to the baby's breath filler. The most romantic, wedding-focused mind game I ever played was designing a perfect day of kayaking and horseback riding in the mountains that might culminate in a ring. But I'd always get stuck in the details of racing at a dead gallop over a meadow, scaring up a moose or some caribou and forget the intended end of the daydream in the first place. I never fawned over my mother's wedding album, or pawed through costume trunks to make myself into a bride for an afternoon. I was far too busy building tree-houses and piloting my dad's sawhorses into F-16 fighter jets.

Last weekend, it occurred to me that I could count down the weeks to The Big Day on my hands. I sat there staring at my spread fingers. Somehow, having this tangible calendar of sorts made the whole thing a little more real. But honestly, none of this process has felt like I thought - even in my lack of forethought - it would be. Despite the omission of this fantasy from my childhood, I still had unexamined expectations of what the build up to getting married would be like. The pile of largely useless wedding planning books and magazines I have unintentionally accumulated since is no less realistic. I am not floating on a happy cloud of flower-choosing bliss. I did not hear angels singing when, exhausted, I chose a dress largely based on being sick of pulling the 20 lb monstrosities on. If asked, I would have denied that I expected to be in a state of blissful bubbly anticipation. But I think, deep down in that secret effusive girly place, I did.

Two weeks ago I was in a panic about ordering wedding invitations. There are entire twenty page chapters in most of the 'planners' going over how and what and where this should take place. Photos of gleaming bride models in the thick of things with their gleaming stationer models, hashing out exactly which shade of blush should go with the intricate hand calligraphy side designs. I had spent a total of an hour browsing the internet before Christmas, but had subsequently lost the scrap where I'd recorded the website and top picks. Peter and I sat down at my computer and googled "buy wedding invitations online," then clicked the first search result. Less than an hour later, after a few frantic calls about wording to my parents (who were at a Spurs game in San Antonio - my mom had to leave the stadium twice so I could hear her over the buzzers and screaming) the invitations were ordered. Two days later, I came home to a box on my porch. And there they were. This monumental thing, the Wedding Invitation, held with such awe in my mind, was sitting there in a cardboard box, dented at the corners, in the murk of my stoop (the porch light is one of the many malfunctioning staples that remind me daily how little I am paying on rent.) It was very unspecial. Like ordering bulk dishsoap from a shady e-bay dealer.

But the sweet, monumental moments are there, too. Unexpected. Quieter. I was still reeling from the letdown of invitations-by-internet when Peter and I opened the box together. He pulled out the little shrink-wrapped pile amid the envelopes and reply cards. And there, in a pretty script, with a pearl border much more elegant in person than on a computer screen, were the names of our parents, and then our names and then the date, that intangible number that we have been holding in our minds for months. And he put one arm around me, and ran his finger over the raised letters of our names, and I had another tangible, count-in-on-your-fingers moment that takes my breath away the way the back of my mind imagined it would. A moment when I remember that I get to build a life with my best friend for as long as our hearts keep pumping, and I can count down to it on my hands.

rational

I can't decide if it was the cold or the cravings that did it. The cold was unexpected. At least, unexpected in it's force. I'd read about how you get really cold, but sitting in my fully heated house, clothed for an arctic expedition, wrapped in blankets, shivering, I thought: this is ridiculous. And I suppose it wasn't really the cravings, those were managable. I sorta wanted pizza. I had a dream about getting a buffalo chicken salad at the mall this morning. But really, I wasn't hungry at all. The crazy maple lemonade crap was quite filling. I just wanted to eat. To cook. I missed having the experiance of partaking in food being part of my day.

In the end, Peter and I decided to do this another time. Going on a super-long, cold inducing, energy sapping (at least initially) health fast in the middle of the first major cold snap in the area, while working 50+ hours a week, planning a wedding and applying to graduate school just didn't seem like stellar timing on our part.

Or we should go into professional rationalization. At least, we are resolved to do it when it warms up in the spring. At any rate, that buffalo chicken salad at the mall tonight sure hit the spot.

restart

After some deliberation and much dread, Peter and I have decided to try the 10-day Master Cleanse (now more often referred to as the Lemonade Diet.) This new name is unfortunate for several reasons. First of all, it is not a diet inasmuch as it is not a weight loss fad. Second, the "Lemonade" one drinks in place of food does not taste like lemonade at all. What children's roadside stand sells the stuff with smoky maple syrup as sweetener and cayenne pepper for kick, much less warm? Hardly the refreshing summer drink that the unfortunate moniker brings to mind. In all, the system is designed to give one's digestive system a rest and a good scrub-down, while giving the body some time to clean itself some of the toxins built up from a lifetime of over-processed, hormone-injected, preservative-coated food.

My sister warned me that the hardest part of the cleanse is the daily morning salt drink, designed to quickly and effectively wash out one's innards. Without it, the lemon-drink alone would cause system clogging, and make one quite ill. This morning, I had my first go at guzzling a quart of the stuff. It took me twenty minutes to get it all down, and I was certain I was going to throw up after every swig. Half an hour after the last sip, I had a regularish bowel movement and was (I am a bit embarrassed to admit) slightly disappointed. Ten minutes later ... and about every fifteen minutes after that for over an hour ... I got my just desserts as the quart came shooting through the other end of my digestive track with surprising force, carrying quite a nasty cargo with it. And, weirdly, I feel really good now that I’m not parked on the toilet with an old Edward Abbey tome to keep me company. The closest I can come to describing it is like the day you wake up after having been sick for a week. You feel a little tired, but you are clear-headed and a little giddy. You feel so *well*.

Of course, I am only a few hours into this whole process. It is going to be an educational tten days. According to all the literature (and gossip) I read, if I can get through the first three or four days – and get used to that damn sea-water – I will be home free. At least the "lemonade" is cravable, cayenne pepper notwithstanding. I'm just glad I found an unused electric lemon juicer at Meg's house the day before this started. We are going to go through a lot of citrus.

custody

My landlords have disappeared (I harbor some concern ... last time their van was gone for this long, Norm was having a quadruple bypass.) The weather has fallen well below freezing. And Taku has returned to us. Although she has food out under the landlord's porch, she was waiting by my door two nights ago, ducking against snow flurries. She spent most of the night trying to get into the bedroom with me. Nyssa has learned this is fruitless. Taku was frightened by my stamping, flailing, fatigue angred figure several times before she gave up mewling at the bedroom door. She has been with us two nights now, but I hold no illusion it will last. She disappeared this morning through the bathroom window, but there is still no sign of my landlords' van. I let both of the animals into the bedroom this morning (I was groggy with the inklings of a head-cold and wanted some creature comfort.) Taku hopped up onto the bed near the window, and began an hour-long bath. Nyssa slunk in a few minutes later and curled up at my knees. Taku stopped her bath long enough to trot across my tummy and give Nyssa a kiss on the nose. I hope she stays for awhile.

trumped

An update on our adoption by Taku:

We have been displaced. Our landlady downstairs has catfood and a dog that's not quite so high-energy (intimidating?) as our dear Lion Hound. The cat disappeared for a few days. I finally ran into my landlady, who was desperate to find out why the cat wouldn't use the litter box she provided, but insisted on being let out. Apparently their warmer apartment, older dog and (presumably) better tasting kitty kibble, has ousted us from the running.

Nyssa, for her part, was hurt by the move. A few days ago, she cornered the cat in the yard (asking her, no doubt, why she hadn't been around for the past few nights.) The cat had few words, but a sharp swat in reply. Nyssa came back with a bleeding scalp and is now working on healing up the newest of her collection of scars.

In related news, my friend Janelle told me that there are people who cross-breed Border Collies and Burmese Mountain Dogs - the very breeds we were trying to decide between. So we have our next cat (a Maine Coon, whose name we have already picked out) and dog all lined up. Our house is filling up, and we don't even have one!

adoption

Peter and I were watching Princess Mononoke last week when we heard a sound outside on the porch. The stray cat that has been hanging around our building (and has been fed by the landlord's wife somewhat sporadically) was sitting on my mat. She meowed louder and louder until I came outside. I have tried to get close to her before, but she would have none of it. She was still a little skittish at first, but the initiation was hers this time. Once I got close enough to pet her, she walked right past me into the house and up to Nyssa's water bowl. The cat must have known that we have a huge dog; they have had several stand-offs in the yard over the last month. Nyssa, who had been sleeping on the couch, was all eyes and ears as her territory was invaded, but she's been smacked across the muzzle enough times to know better than to tangle with a strange feline. The cat explored the apartment for about 15 minutes before Nyssa could contain herself no more and got up to say hello. The cat didn't even flinch, just looked at her and raised a warning paw, then trotted back into the kitchen, keeping herself between the hound and the door. I put her out after that, but she was sitting on my front mat when I left for work the next morning. The next night, she was back and wanted in. I opened the door for her, and showed her where I'd opened the bathroom window so she could get in and out without a butler. It was late, so I shut myself in my bedroom, hoping she and Nyssa would work out their differences without waking me up. The next morning, Nyssa was stretched out on the couch and the cat was curled in a ball on the comfy chair. I hadn't heard a peep out of them all night. The cat left through the window as I was getting dressed, but met us on the back porch and gave Nyssa a kiss on the nose before we got into the car to come to work. When I got back from my sister's this weekend, the cat was waiting and trotted into the apartment with us when we arrived, even after Nyssa chased her around the yard. When I had a good hard cry later that night for no good reason, she curled up next to me (on the other side from Nyssa) and hung out until I was all dried out. So I guess we passed the adoption inspection. Peter has decided to call her Taku (yes, we know the red elk in the movie is male, but the cat doesn’t know any better and the name fits.) Now I'll have to add cat food to the budget.

mathematics

It has been a great point of pride for me that I dropped out of Calculus in High School, in favor of a Photography class that changed my life. The sappy story of how a sarcastic art teacher and creepy darkroom tech might alter a course of personal history is a tale for another time. I am writing today to regersiter a complaint against the esteemed George W. Bush. In a round-about way, lest the Feds get my address this time.

In light of my current occupation changing the diapers of twin six month olds (Monkey and Turtle) and the fact that various Nanny web-sites assured me that I will never, ever, in a million years of economic upturn, make a penny more, or have any sort of job security, or have benefits or paid vacations, ever, I am looking for (yet another) career change. This makes seven in three years. This time, I'm hoping it will stick. Instead of looking for glam jobs, like kayaking near mile-long glaciers looking for whales, or hanging out with male prostitutes at 2am on dark street corners of sketchy 'hoods, or teaching crack addicts how to avoid rattlesnakes and start fires with sticks fifty miles from the nearest road in the Utah desert, I am buckling down and going for something a little more (gasp) mainstream. Maybe it has something to do with getting married (settling down?) in March. Maybe I am aging. Either way, it's a scary step for my little soul to plunge down.

I have been scowering the web for post-baccalaureate teaching certification programs. Every so-called "job" I've had has involved some form of teaching, and usually the teaching parts of the job are the only palatable bits. (ok, so surfing glacial drift and being tailed by angry bull-seals was pretty cool, too. but i'm trying hard to be positive, here.) I finally found one that looked good. It's on-line, so no matter how many times Peter and I uproot, I can continue to take the classes. They'll work with whatever state we end up in to find a student-teaching spot. It looks like it will take me less than a year. I hail the unsullied blessing of the Internet. The good news keeps on rolling in ...

Until I actually talk to a human, a very helpful and informative and infinitely discouraging human. This interaction reminds me once again that I should have become a luddite. She informs me that in addition to the very hard graduate level online classes, I have to take any number of "core" courses - she'll have to look at my college transcripts to be sure - but they will include chemistry, physics, history and (i nearly dropped Turtle at this point) calculus. Let me remind my listeners here that I am looking to teach FIFTH graders. Pint-sized, fashion maven, 4-square playing, eager-to-please ten year olds who are lucky if they can put a couple of fractions together without breaking a sweat. Calculus.

When I worked in a school district last year, I interacted with teachers in every subject at nearly every grade level. I also know many teachers from all over the country (thanks to my exponentially expanding list of places I've crashed.) I have yet to talk to a single professional educator who does not physically bristle when the No Child Left Behind Act is mentioned, referenced or hinted at. They become visibly irate, their mannerisms become jerky, faces turn red, speech becomes curt. This generally does not leave a favorable impression on a soul.

Now that I may have to take remedial mathematics for a decade or so, in order to teach tykes how to divide up a pizza into eights and then add them together to make a half, I am beginning to become a little bristly myself.