School Days, Part II

Hey, Internet. I missed you over the last week. A lot has happened, a lot is going to happen, and in the midst of it all, today is spring registration. OH THE REGISTRATION. Oh, the procrastinating returning students who never applied, got financial aid or even bothered to read their emails. Oh, the procrastinating students who have shown up this morning, demanded quality customer service despite their lack of preparation. OH THE REGISTRATION.

It’s been a good distraction.

You all remember Ruthie, right? My petite little ray of sunshine? My little trooper who marches through each day, conquering everything around her? Ruthie, and consequently all of us who love her, are struggling to get through the week. Her husband, also a trooper and a fighter, lost his battle with cancer on Sunday morning. Tonight we are gathering with friends and family to celebrate his life and his fight. My family and I have been at the house since Sunday afternoon, and we are exhausted from accepting friends and visitors, from giving pep talks to his grandchildren and others upset, but most especially because we want Ruthie to stay strong like she has been.

It’s been hard.

I’m so proud of her for hanging in there and bravely facing each new day. I can only imagine how hard it has been to put one foot in front of the other and move forward, but she’s doing it, and resolves to do it every day. I know I said last week that I wasn’t going to resolve anything myself, but I think I lied. I think that I will resolve to attack each day with the same fierce attitude that she does. I will not let the mornings – especially the work ones – get the best of me and force me to dread getting up.

School days are back, the break is over. The break that had me sick as ever, that forced me to miss Christmas and all the parties that surrounded it, is finally through. It’s a new year, a new day, the students are back and ready to tackle their classes, and I should follow suit.

Today.

10 years in 10 minutes (or less)

If there were ever a time for lists, I think this would be it.

2000:

I ring in the new millennium with my “best friend” in DC.

We graduate college in May, I start my first job June 1.

I report the stories, the breaking news, but mostly the boring features.

I go to LA, interview hometown boy working on hit show “Survivor.”

I spend most afternoons with my grandparents, glad to have time with them.

I make new friends, try new drinks, live at home with my parents, trying new rules.

2001:

12:01, New Year’s Day. I lose my Nana, the first love of my life.

I spend more and more time with my grandfather, less and less time caring about reporting.

June 1, last day of work. Off to Europe with old friend, new again, to find myself. (Finding myself apparently means collecting designer handbags and drinking my way through 8 countries.)

August, home from Europe, no jobs to be found, must toil away in retail again.

Labor Day, I meet the second love of my life.

September 11^th, the towers fall on what would have been my Nana’s birthday. My friends flee New York. I flee to my boyfriend’s apartment. Still living at home, still breaking unspoken rules.

October 28^th, I kiss my grandfather goodbye, promise to make “that boy” be good to me, and tell him I love him for the last time.

One year, two devastating losses. Still crying, even now.

2002:

No work in retail, no work at all. Boyfriend thinks I make bad job decisions, parents think I make bad life decisions. Smoking nearly a pack a day, living on the sex diet. Maybe they’re all right.

February, the bottom falls out. Broke, in horrific debt, ashamed of myself. Get back to work in retail and suck it up, for now.

Spend the summer at the beach, soaking up the sun and all the Coronas I can hold.

October 28^th, one year since losing one wonderful man. Another wonderful man has mercy on me, hires me despite my inexperience and a new life begins.

2003:

Atlanta, MLK weekend. Panic attacks resurface as old friend gets married, start looking at engagement rings for myself. Hard to believe, harder not to believe.

February, “best friend” embarrasses me in front of my family, devastates me by going after my almost-fiancé.

Valentine’s Day: I say yes! We set the date for a year and a half later.

Finally I put my big-girl panties on and move out. Live exactly one year with my new best friend. Both of them.

Summer spent at the beach, making wedding plans, attending friends’ weddings, thinking that a wedding is too much trouble.

Fall brings the advent of graduate school. Who knew it would take so long to finish one damn degree? Will 2010 be the year?

2004:

Future father-in-law is getting worse; will the cancer let him make it to our wedding?

Super Bowl Sunday, first night in new house. We are homeowners! The bank is crazy.

Whirlwind spring, wedding coming soon. Parties, dresses, pearls, weekends in DC, thinking that I made the best decision ever – would almost rather marry bridesmaids, they are so wonderful.

May 15^th, amidst worst panic attack of my life, I say “I do.” And I mean it. Pure joy overcomes me, only to be thwarted by Mexican sunburn. At least we’ll remember it, we say.

Father’s Day, we celebrate by rescuing Lucy and Charlie, the two new loves of our lives.

Summer at the beach again, only this time Pepsi calls. Long road trips to and from Nags Head, alone in my Honda.

September, the doctors tell us it won’t be long. They are right. Panic gets worse, finally see a doctor myself. Medication to soothe, but it doesn’t work for shit.

October 10^th, we lose him. We sit with him as we tell him it’s okay to go. I hold his ankle as I watch my new husband weep next to his father. I continue to touch him as life leaves him. Most heartbreaking moment of my life.

Christmas comes, our hearts are heavy. Not sure we can celebrate.

2005:

Long hours at Pepsi, long nights alone for me. More trips alone to the beach, this time to comfort grieving mother-in-law.

Trying to settle in, this new marriage thing so difficult. Friends are having babies now, we decide it could be for us, too.

Five year reunion at Sweet Briar, can’t believe it’s been that long since I’ve seen these girls. Next five will surely go slower.

Summer brings me a new co-worker, thankful for a kindred spirit who doesn’t instill panic. At the beach yet again, bringing friends becoming a tradition.

Happy 1^st birthday, Lucy and Charlie! Your party is a hit and quickly becomes the talk of the town. Who knew a birthday party for two cats would turn out such a crowd?

Fall brings with it World War 3 featuring my in-laws. If marriage is this hard, I’m not sure I want to do it. I do, however, want to show off the new Volvo.

At Christmas, we are estranged from one side of the family. We refuse to mend fences; by “we,” I mean me.

2006:

I start grad school again. I join the Episcopal Church. Getting confirmed breaks the ice, sister-in-law is speaking again.

Teaching is my second job, though I think I want it to be my first. Banner year at work, moving into new offices, helping new students, keeps my mind off other things.

Summer at the beach for the last time?

We throw my parents a 30^th anniversary party, my “debut” on the party circuit in town. It’s a hit, my mother sends me a thank-you plant. Haven’t killed it…yet.

10 year high school reunion, but I don’t go. Too busy, too self-involved, too panicked?

Weekend trips here and there, feel like I’m forgetting something. Oh yes, World War 4 at Thanksgiving.

Another holiday of not speaking. 2006 isn’t very memorable, unless you count the visits from girlfriends, and I do.

2007:

Beach house is sold, we spend Spring Break in the snow.

Another banner year at work, but not so much at Pepsi. He makes a move, one town to another, we hope for better days.

Friends still getting married, friends still having babies. Showers for this, showers for that, where is my money?

This summer we crowd into a beach house with three other families; too many children, too many days, too little air conditioning. We are grateful for vacation being over.

Fall Break and we head to the mountains. Blog life is born! I call it “The New Adventures of the Ol’ Bakers” and post pictures of our trips.

Plans begin for my 30^th year – 2008 is MINE, I say!

2008:

School year is half over, is graduation on the horizon? We are both in school now, he for his MBA. We are “smart” and “ambitious,” we tell ourselves. Really, we are poor as church mice and nerdily stay home on the weekends.

Scrape together some money and force my three friends to join me on a cruise to the Bahamas. Excuse is that it’s an early 30^th birthday gift. Sure. Cruise is magnificent, at least to some. Fab Four moniker is born.

More beach trips, this time tagging along with friends. Spend part of August in Hilton Head, get back just in time for Clues to begin. (Read the archives if you really want to know.)

September 15^th, black balloons at work. Recovering from surprise party weekend – best party of my life, have mother and husband to thank.

New Orleans to see one of my bestest get married, catch up with another bestest, making it through an entire weekend of traveling alone without a panic attack.

Birthdays continue into October and December, with 80s costumes, more surprise parties and not so much focus on school. Cousin gets engaged, Egyptians are here, throw a New Year’s party for less than a few people.

2009:

This year will be quieter, we say. The economy will make us stay home, save our money. We borrow from Peter to pay tuition, life savings slipping through our hands.

Six months into “Half Baked, Twice as Good.” Making new friends in the blogosphere, realizing that this little side project could be my calling. For real?

No vacations this year, no fun to be had, we think. Vandals break into our beloved farm, we have oyster roast to retaliate.

Cousin is married in April, bringing entire family together for a fun weekend. Drink too much, reveal long lost hidden secrets. Ramifications? Not yet.

June, I am robbed at work for the second time in a year. Panic is back, so bad I can barely leave the house. Work is a monster, I am frightened by everything.

July, blog is thriving. Panic is worse. Is there a correlation? Head to family vacation with the in-laws for over a week; magically, it is painless. MIL’s new boyfriend to thank?

Birthday comes and goes, unable to enjoy it – my favorite holiday – because of panic. Two shocking deaths, two beautifully sad funerals. Therapist sends me to specialist, finally. Blood pressure sky high, newly-minted nurse scares me to death. Almost.

New meds, new day. At first. Long road, I am told. Work gets better, mostly because holiday vacations are up next. Thanksgiving a success, thanks to doctors and lots upon lots of medication.

More parties this fall, join Cotillion, head out into society, again have meds to thank.

Uncle gets worse, breaks our hearts, we prepare ourselves. Sickness sidelines us at Christmas, we have new name for New Year’s: Peace the Fuck Out Already, 2009. The “Aughts” are over, almost a decade as one-half of a couple.

Ten hardest years of my life, wouldn’t trade them for the world. Unless the next ten are better.

Check out Anna, the original list maker.

High Maintenance

I’m not sure that I’ve talked much about the fact that we own a 1997 Nissan Pathfinder, mainly because that is not at all an interesting fact about us. Sure, we’re wild and crazy, what with our kid-free household, two tame fat lazy good-for-nothing cats, and our risky graduate school pursuits, so I can see how you might overlook our old, gas-guzzling SUV as non-news. (And if you didn’t quite catch the sarcasm back there, then start over and read again. We are THE most boring people who ever lived.)

This car has been the bane of my existence since BB and I first started dating. Back in my somewhat-skinnier days, I had this great pair of white pants that I really loved and that magically didn’t make my ass look like Montana and Idaho put together. One day when Brian picked me up for a date, I got in the car, rode for a while, got out of the car at a party and had to cover up my ass the whole night because people kept telling me about this mysterious brown stain on the back of my pants. Nope, didn’t crap in the  car. Just sat in some unidentifiable substance that was now spread across my fabulous white pants. Mortifying. Horrifying. RIDICULOUS.

As the years went on, the passenger side started to attack me, first by catching the seatbelt so that every time I tried to move, it choked me. Then the door got in on it and quit unlocking automatically. Finally the window stopped rolling down unless Brian used his controls and by then, I spat on that car every time I saw it. The only redeeming qualities it has at this point in time are that a) it transports Christmas trees and dirty recyclables fairly well, and b) the seats fold down in the back for when we have to move furniture (another blog post, don’t ask).

Needless to say, when Brian called me from the car repair place last week to tell me that our Christmas LCD TV money had to go towards new front brakes and bearings instead, I was a little irate.

Me: So yeah, he called me from the place and was all, “It is way more important for me to drive safely in my car than for us to have a new TV.” Whatever.

Ruthie: But he needs to be safe, doesn’t he? I mean, they’re brakes.

Me: And?

Ruthie: . . .

This morning he takes our Christmas gift money from his mother, trots down to the ass raper car repair place, and calls me back.

Me: WHAT.

BB: Hey. Uh, there’s a problem with the muffler. It needs to be welded back on before the car can pass inspection in January.

Me: WHAT.

BB: I can’t help this, you know. It’s the car and it’s how I get back and forth to work and we can’t afford a new car payment right now . . .

Me: Click.

Back in its hey-day, this is what BB's piece of shit car WOULD have looked like. Now it's just dirty, broken and useless. To me, anyway.

Internet, I do not wish for my husband to be in danger. Ever. In a car or otherwise. But when I am chained to my den, night after night, month after month, with no outside, costs-money fun in sight, my TV environment needs to be optimal. In other words, I am SICK OF THE FUCKING TUBE TV WITH IT’S FUZZY PICTURE AND TINNY SOUND and I want that gift money to go towards what it was intended.

Is that too much to ask?

In support of the everysize girl

There’s a great discussion going on over at BlogHer today about Glamour magazine’s plus-sized photo shoot. I highly suggest you check out the discussion, because not only is it informative, it also really gives a woman some food for thought (no pun intended?). Since I read Susan Wagner’s post, I’ve been thinking about designers and stylists in general, and what they are doing to our self images.

Media is flooded with talk about the fashion industry, and what it means for society. Little girls are obsessed with their bodies, and who do we blame? Do we blame magazines? Television? Mothers? I say we blame none of the above. What I noted in the BlogHer discussion, and will note here, is that the designers we all love are being supported by both the model-thin and the plus-sized and the everything-in-between. Don’t we buy Marc Jacobs handbags no matter what size we are? Don’t Jimmy Choos fit most every girl (regardless of whether we can afford them)? Haven’t we bought the “frugalista” lines of Anya Hindmarch and Anna Sui and Isaac Mizrahi? When the economy tanked, high-end designers found a new niche: Target shoppers. You can’t tell me that only the model-thin shop at Target, because I shop there and to think of me as anything but larger than the average girl is laughable.

It’s no secret that very few women are sample size, much less smaller than a 12 (I believe that’s still the national “average”).  Certainly we should all strive to be healthy, but as Oprah, Kirstie Alley, Valerie Bertinelli and I know all too well, it takes a while to get where you’re going. And sometimes you go there and come back – several times. I’m not saying here that I think more or less of someone because of their size (except YOU, Blake Lively, I do hate you and your tall skinny self) but I do think less of designers that limit their products to the very rich and the very skinny.

Rachel Zoe

I love fashion magazines. I watch Project Runway and The Rachel Zoe Project. I see Rachel’s collar bones and spine sticking out like a sharp coffee table edge, and I see the models the Runway hopefuls design for. We support their shows and their work; it’s time for designers – and the magazines and shows that feature them – to support everysized women by designing for ALL of us. Haute couture will never be within my financial reach, and to be honest, I wouldn’t wear half the crap that goes down the runway each fall and spring. BUT – and this is a big BUT – Americans are bigger now than they were last year, and I don’t see that trend changing much. We’re not all getting gastric bypass for Christmas, so until the national “average” turns around, design some decent-looking clothes for the rest of us, would ya?

The one where my head turns into a TV set – the old, console kind.

Have you seen that commercial for Bing, the new search engine? It’s the one where everyone is spouting out all this useless information that has nothing to do with anything, except someone asked them a question and they’re all Search Overload! Search Overload! Part of me thinks that commercial is funny, but the other parts of me want to rip my TV out of the wall when it comes on.

My brain feels kind of like that right now – kind of like Overloaded! Please press f6 to reboot and start over! – but I think it has less to do with the amount of Internet searching I do and more to do with the fact that I have been MIA for the last 5 days because SOMEONE GAVE ME THE FLU. I’m looking at you, BB.

Well, it might not be the flu flu. I mean, it technically could be the flu if you consider the chills and aching and head congestion and coughing and misery and insomnia and WILL SOMEONE PLEASE HAND ME A GUN ALREADY? But I haven’t had a fever (someone told me this was the good news) and I don’t so much think I’m going to die today as much as I thought I would on Saturday, so probably I’m in the clear.

But that’s not really my point. My point is: I have watched so much television in the last 5 days that I am pretty for sure that if you asked me a random reality TV question, I would not only ace it, I would also be able to give you background research and statistics and maybe some genealogy (re: the Kardashians, the Lamases – wait, how do you pluralize “Lamas” when it’s a last name attached to people who should not reproduce?). I can tell you about ALL the balloon boy interviews, the number of houses HGTV helped sell in the last month, how many people are left in the running for the next Iron Chef and that Shakira wore the same outfit to SNL that she had on for last week’s Dancing with the Stars performance. I can tell you that Dexter’s hair is longer this season than last. I can tell you that on October 28th “The Proposal” will be available OnDemand, and also that Nightline is rerunning its story about evangelist Benny Hinn again tonight.

My brain is tired.

I think normal sick people probably sleep, or read books or newspapers or something, but not me. No sir. I have had at least one cat attached to my thighs at all times, and my right hand has the remote. Left hand free for phone, Kleenex, juice, whatever. Right hand on the remote at all times. I woke up yesterday morning and the damn thing was still in my hand, right where I left it the night before. I think I need some help.

So, for those of you who called to make sure that I was alive – not because you were necessarily concerned that I might be dying of swine flu, but because I haven’t posted in days – settle down. It’s taken me 5 days to move myself to the computer and I can’t make any promises until my head has finished exploding from all the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader high kicks.