Pregnancy Pact Pregnancy Pact Pregnancy Pact

Seriously?

Remember that time we all watched For Keeps in high school, and then we all vowed we would get knocked up as one big pregnant team, because, like, Molly Ringwald looked so cute with that swollen belly at prom! Remember when she complained about her hemmorhoids? That tub in the center of her dilapidated apartment?

Didn't we just yearn for it?

So, in short: shut up, Media, about this assinine pregnancy pact, and if you mention Juno one more fucking time, I will explode. Yours, HV.

In other news, just returned from Chicago, and man, did she and I ever have an amazing first date! We just clicked: shopping on the Magnificent Mile; jogging along Lake Michigan; becoming a student of the fascinating architecture; sampling the delicious Indian cuisine.

The only thing that could have made the trip any better would have been meeting one of my heroines, like, oh, Doris Kearns Goodwin, and maybe having her sign a copy of her new book, Team of Rivals.

And then:

That happened.

I heard DKG speak first. She waxed poetic about her time at the White House during Johnson's administration, her love of history, and finally, Abraham Lincoln. By the close of the speech, my eyes were brimming with tears. Surprisingly, the man next to me was also wiping tears from his face.

"She was incredible," he said to me. The lump in my throat didn't allow me to speak, so I only nodded. "That was the best part of the whole convention," he concurred.

Indeed.

Meat for Brains

Or: I couldn't help but wonder... Can this carnivirous Swede go green?

At one point during our lovely Father's Day luncheon with J's family last Sunday, we talked MEAT. Or, more specifically, meat as carcinogen. See, J's parents have a fascinating Christian monk friend who dabbles in eastern medicine, mystery novel writing, and Buddhism. I'm fairly sure he's met the Dalai Lama. He also sends emails with Power Points attached, espousing the myriad of health benefits associated with green tea. Naturally, he is my hero.

So my ears perk up when Mom o' J tells us that said friend believes, plainly, that meat is a carcinogen, equivalent to cigarette smoke. At least meat as J and I purchase it (er, Acme brand. Chock full of hormones and additives. Get it while it's hot!).

J turns to me. "Babe, we could do it. Why don't we become vegeterians?"

Then J asserts that he doesn't eat meat at all during the week, only the processed, packaged cold cuts he eats daily in his sandwich. "I don't count that anyway."

And thus beginneth J's meat-eating vegetarianism.

I give the issue a bit more thought. Without becoming vegan, and without giving up fish, could I do it?

I decide to try it for one week, beginning Monday. I travel to Syracuse, in a filthy rental car with a busted radio that reeks of cigarette smoke (oh, I also discovered books on CD this week. Stunning.) On my trip, I am bombarded with signs for McDonald's and Burger King every 15 miles or so, and suddenly I can't stop thinking about a double cheeseburger. It consumes me as I drive on, at a ridiculously legal pace. No meat and no radio make HV... something something.

I manage to quell the fierce cravings, and order grilled salmon later that night, though I can't help but feel that my head's gone a bit fuzzy. I notice it when I am leading a meeting the next day, so when I make to leave 'Cuse, I think to myself, 81 North. Remember, you need to get on 81 North.

I successfully navigate my way onto 81 North and take a business call that lasts for, oh, 30 miles. I hang up and notice another sign for Watertown.

Oh. I say to myself. Right. 81 South.

I've got meat for brains!

I turn around somewhere near Mexico, NY, and live to fuck up another day.

Like, er, today. I wake up early this morning to return the rental car to 30th Street Station. I am even clear-minded enough to negotiate a deep discount for the deeply dysfunctional vehicle. I purchase a one-way ticket to Manayunk, buy an iced decaf, and make my way to the R6 platform.

When the train for "Cynwyd" comes, I eagerly hop onboard.

And then I learn from the conductor - didn't even realize this one on my own! - that I am, indeed, on the wrong train.

Meat for brains!

I get off the train on City Line Avenue, and resign myself to walking the three miles back home. Besides, it's a beautiful morning, and the exercise will be a great warm-up for my 8:30 AM yoga class. I may be mind-numbingly stupid this week, but by God, I am in great spirits. Am Zen-Goddess. Even my yoga instructor tells me she can feel my positive energy today.

I am so pleased with the compliment, I float home in my newly relaxed and stretched body. I prepare myself two organic eggs, which I scarf down with strawberries and a perfectly ripe plum.

I am so Zen, you see, that I neglect to look at my Treo - my one saving grace in this world - until exactly 15 minutes after I was expected at my doctor's appointment.

Hormone-riddled meat: 3
HomeValley: 0

I shan't give up though. You see, I've just listened to The Alchemist on CD and I am dangerously close to prattling on about Personal Legends and Omens and all that delightful "listen to your heart" business. You can't win, Meat! I am stronger than you!

At least through Monday. Then we'll make a game time decision to see if vegetarianism is truly a fit.

Honestly...

I am dangerously close to having my future sister-in-law read this at our wedding:

His hello was the end of her endings
Her laugh was their first step down the aisle
His hand would be hers to hold forever
His forever was as simple as her smile
He said she was what was missing
She said instantly she knew
She was a question to be answered
And his answer was "I do"

And I can't be having some season two Carrie Bradshaw poems spoken on that beach in DR.

Or - or can I?

In desperate need of some inspiration. I want something magical and mystical, something that speaks to us, and our relationship. And no offense, Mr. Tradition, but once you hear those ubiquitous wedding words uttered - "Love is patient, love is kind..." - does your brain perhaps shut down, because yes, that is so beautiful! So beautiful that everyone uses it at their wedding!

Alas, folks: because of its ubiquity, it is mostly devoid of sentiment. Unless, of course, I could convince my S-I-L and my little bro to do some sort of dramatic improvisation? Like, Ry mimes raising a hand to E's face, but then she proclaims: "No! Stop! Love is patient!" And then he heaves a hugh sigh, and concurs: "Yes. Love is patient, y'all. And so, so kind."

Do you see what happens when I think about this too much?

The situation, she is grave.

So, Internet, any ideas?

I have revisited the works of great poets, philosophers, and Adam Sandler in The Wedding Singer. Through it all, I said: Meh.

Could someone perhaps point me in the right direction?

An Open Letter to the Donald

Dear Mr. Trump:

Your casino? The Trump Plaza?

Yeeech.

It absolutely needs to be vacuumed, and disinfected, and perhaps fumigated. It reeks of stale cigarettes and feet. Most of the clientele here smoke; alternately, the non-smokers are attached to oxygen masks. The irony is not lost on me.

Now I do not gamble, because lo, I hate to lose even more than I love to win. Also, I don't understand goddamn craps. The fuck?

Yesterday, however, I played the slots. And then when I was up $47, I kept going, as you, no doubt, intended. And I lost and I lost, but I stopped when I was exactly $3 up.

Haha! I win!

Fondly,

HomeValley

To the women in my life, with love.

A very belated thank you to the gorgeous women in my life, who planned an amazing bridal shower for me in, er, late April.

It was absolutely lovely, with nary a bridal bingo card in sight!

There was lots of wine, amazing food, and lord - the gifts! They were abundant, and generous, and beautiful, even if I held up everything that resembled a bowl and said, "Oh wow! A serving dish!" And then one of 18 people would tell me, "No no; that is a __________." Perhaps they then muttered under their breath, "Good luck, J."

And dudes, it was a "surprise", but I accidentally found out about it when I used my superior detective skills to jokingly discover the elaborate ruse... Only to actually discover the elaborate ruse, and then feel like an asshole. But come on, everyone wins when the bride-to-be is this talented an actress:

(Though my mother was nearby at this time, rolling her eyes and telling everyone: "She knew.")

Soon it was time to open gifts, and Vanessa gave me this apron, which I promptly put on and wore all day. I give the people what they want.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother coordinated the creation of a scrapbook, in which all the women closest to me (parents, aunts, sisters, cousins, friends) made pages, chronicling our lives together. It is quite possibly the most exquisite and hilarious gift I have ever received.

Squee! Another serving dish!

Ladies, words cannot begin to express my gratitude, not just for my lovely bridal shower, but for everything you have given me over the years: your constant love, support, friendship, and laughter. You have made me the woman I am today (perhaps one of you could have pulled me aside at some point and given me a cooking and kitchen-utensil lesson, but still). I am proud to know you; proud to be your daughter, step-daughter, sister, niece, cousin, and friend. I love each and every one of you around the world and back again.

(And dudes, yes, you are still getting thank you cards. Soon.)

Yes, I have been avoiding you.

I haven't written in many days, and for the first time in my meager blog's history, my absence was deliberate.


Today, as I was about to make a comment on another blogger's absolutely magnificently poignant post, I stopped myself.


Because I have to come clean here. I have to tell you about the fight, and the reason I have been ignoring you.


So here goes.

J and I had spent the day running wedding errands. We left the house around noon, and we finally stumbled home around 8:30 or so. We were looking forward to a quiet evening, sipping drinks in the backyard. J grabbed a beer, and I made a martini for the occasion.

We began chatting, and laughing, and then the conversation turned more serious. We started a real discussion about our careers, and our future family... Those adorable babies we will call V. and H. (Because I totally have their names picked out already! And they are so cute! In my brain!)

We do a lot of talking about V and H. Because we love them already, and we want to make sure we are providing them the best life possible. And that they like vegetables and Thai cuisine. And that they don't watch too much television, but not NO television, because that would be very restrictive and unrealistic, and hey man, we are conscientious, sensible parents. You know, to our yet-to-be conceived offspring. V and H.

One day last year J came home and proclaimed: "We will not have babies until we have 6 million dollars in the bank*." And then my eyes bugged out of my head and I argued that, J, 6 mil* is a lot of cash. Surely we could be less aggressive?

But then J convinced me that once we had that seed money, we could live comfortably, and have much more flexibility. So I went with it. Today, We save nearly 40% of our paychecks each month. We live below our means (save my penchant for expensive martinis and Coach) in order to achieve our lofty goals. And we both feel good about that.

Now, J is getting his MBA. It is a legitimate expense, but we can handle it. And since J is in school, and working full-time, he came home one day recently and proclaimed that V and H were on hold until he was nearly done with his Master's. His reasoning was sound: he wanted to be completely available to those babies after work.

With all of this happening, and V and H remaining a gleam in our eye until, er, 2010 or so, I reasoned that I should be in school now. I want an advanced degree, and why not be in school together?

Which leads us back to this idle Saturday night, in which we discuss options. Options that always seem to assume J is the constant, and I am the variable. I can continue in my job now. Or I can quit my job. Or I can get another job. It's all good.

And, that, right there, is the problem for me.

I have many faults, Internet. I am often too whimsical and idealistic. I procrastinate. I can be selfish and lazy and petulant, sometimes all in the same afternoon. I hate to share food. I am extremely unpleasant most mornings. And sometimes, just sometimes, I set lofty goals for myself - aloud - and then I forget about those goals, because, you know, something else came up. And that last sin is unforgivable, because it injures the validity of my word. It may perpetuate the notion that I am the variable. I may call you back when I say I will. But I may not. I may say I will study for the GMATs daily, but may pop in The Tudors DVD instead.

But see here: throughout all of these meaderings and foibles, I have never stopped believing that I am destined to be something.

I will score well on the GMATs. I will get an MBA, and eventually a PhD. I will publish a novel. We will be wealthy. We will raise nice children. We will make an indelible mark on this world.

I believe I matter, even if you don't. Even if I am but one blogger in a slew of 632 billion.

It follows then, that my career should matter. My job should matter. The long and short of it is: I should be a constant too.

Hello, me, over here, on the blog? I'm not killing time. I am not just pittering around in this job to throw in the towel when I have babies. I'm not. It's not me. I aspire to be a mother. I aspire to be professionally successful. I want both. And I will not forfeit either aspiration. And this blog? Believe it or not, I think it is legitimate. Even if you don't. I practice my craft here, and eventually, I am going to be published, on like, actual paper. I have before. I will again.

I should interrupt my rant here to tell you that my future husband is a wonderful, kind man, who wants to give me (along with V and H) everything I want and need in this world, and he is willing to work damn hard for it all. He is a good person, with a heart that breaks Dr. Seuss-like measuring devices. This whole fight evolved from a tragic male/female miscommunication.

He said: Do whatever you want to do! You can work or not work, whatever you want to do.

I heard: I don't value your professional contribution. It's really not as meaningful as mine, dear. Ya geddit? I am the constant. I am the breadwinner. You are the variable. You don't work? Cool. You bring in money? Even better. But, you know, whatever.

And. That's not me.

Later, I said: Well, what if I do quit my job, and work full-time as a freelance writer?

He said: You don't just become a freelance writer. You have to know people, and you have to really work at it. You won't make money overnight.

I heard: I don't believe in you.

You see what happened there? Disaster. J was being practical, and I was being idealistic. We were communicating on two completely different wavelengths.

You can imagine his initial shock and confusion when I subsequently burst into tears and walked inside the house, where I sat in the kitchen for an hour, sobbing. I ignored his pleas to stop crying, to come into the living room, to please talk about this. The pleas became angrier. Stop twisting my words! He roared, as I reiterated over and over that he didn't believe in me, that my blog was ridiculous, an inconsequential pasttime for a stupid, silly girl, who should just accept that she is merely mediocre.

Sigh.

This is communication breakdown at it's ugliest. And our worst fight to date. I eventually retreated upstairs to the bedroom, bleary-eyed. He stayed on the couch until about two AM, when he crept into bed, explaining he couldn't sleep: he was having dreams that I was having savage dogs attack him.

Yeah, that's pretty much what it felt like.

The next morning we woke early, both wounded, guarded still. We talked and talked, words chosen carefully. We tried to get it right. And we did well. Though even after J assured me that he loved my blog, that it did matter, I still couldn't bring myself to write anything.

But I'm glad I wrote this, even if it was just for me, and J. I feel lighter now. And I am convinced that it does matter, if only just to me, and J, and you, and a few other people who happen to google "orbs" or "politicians" and stumble across me. It's still something.

Also, the fight? It was a good thing, although it left us both vaguely sick for days. Now we understand each other just a bit more. I know if I say I am going to do something, well then, it needs to be done. That's just good practice. I also know how important it is to J that I get it done. Something as seemingly benign as never baking the banana muffins I swear I am making at least weekly (there are Tudors episodes to watch!), well, it shakes his faith in me, ever so slightly. And he needs to trust that I am a wife of my word. There are two of us in this relationship, after all.

Both constant.

* Numbers have been grossly inflated. Writer enjoys hyperbole.

On Orbs and Politicians

I wish I could tell you everything that is currently in my brain.

There are not enough hours in a day. It's 7:33 PM, and I am holed up in a corner of the Portland International "Jetport", which is quite possibly the tiniest and loneliest airport in all the land. Although, since Starbucks closes at 7 PM on the dot, they will take pity upon your ass at 7:12 and provide free cups of decaf joe. So there you go.

Which brings me to "go-go juice", which is what they call coffee at a certain Rockland, Maine bed and breakfast I stayed in last night.

And fuck me, I hate bed and breakfasts. Look, man: they are all haunted, and you know it.

Once, I visited a B & B in Gettysburg, PA, and the owners took pride in the pictures they had captured of GIANT ORBS OF LIGHT by guests' heads.

GIANT ORBS! Ghosts of Civil War soldiers, just meandering about the inn. Isn't that rich?

Yesterday I arrived in Rockland at 8 PM, having driven three hours from Manchester, New Hampshire. I was ill-prepared. I hadn't expected a bed and breakfast. Moreover, I hadn't expected to be placed in the "carriage house", doomed to sleep in a foreboding room marked PRIVATE.

"You've even got a washer and dryer!" Chirps Bob*, the inn-keeper. "How do you like that?"

"Wonderful," I say through clenched jaw. "I may have to do some laundry later!"

"This apartment was renovated for our 92 year-old neighbor," Bob tells me. "She asked us to build her a place so she wouldn't have to go into a nursing home."

"Oh," I say. Inside, however, I am screaming: HOLY FUCK!! That 92 year-old lady died in the bed I am about to sleep in! And she roams the apartment at night! She pokes guests as they slumber, wagging her bony ghost finger and shouting, "GET OUTTA MY BED, MISSY!"

(Now seriously, Internet. Tell me you wouldn't have thought precisely the same thing.)

My coworker arrives and we grab dinner at a local restaurant. I drink Dewar's to prepare myself for the inevitable confrontation with the spirit.

Mercifully, she leaves me alone throughout the night. (Perhaps because I woke every half-hour to turn on the light. Oh, and I slept with my contacts in.)

(ORBS!)

Was that story a bit anticlimactic?

Journey with our blog's heroine then, if you will, one day prior. An important professional conference in New Hampshire, the Granite State.

I am meandering about the exhibit hall when a short, friendly man approaches me. He extends his hand to me, and asks what we do at our company.

I give him my best spiel. I talk about markerting, and "re-branding". I wax poetic about our national television advertisements.

"Wonderful," he says politely. "So how's business?"

"Fantastic!" I claim. And then I blather on about business, finally taking a breath and asking, "And what line of work are you in?"

Beat.

"I'm the Governor of the State of New Hampshire."

Naturally.

"Oh!" I exclaim, as my face turns crimson, and I notice the security guard a few feet away. "Um, yeah. I, um, had no idea. But I'm from Philly."

And the gracious Governor chats with me for a few moments about Philadelphia, and some work he did there in the past. Soon, we part ways.

Another man saunters up shortly thereafter.

"How about when you asked the Governor of the state what he did for a living?" He asks.

Yeah. That was HILARIOUS.

Boarding. 'Night, y'all.

The Culmination

Can we talk about man crushes, just for a moment?

Specifically, J's man crush on one Joel McHale, host of The Soup on E?

So yes, J loves Joel McHale. When we went to Los Angeles, we had many goals, not least of which was to meet Mr. McHale and shake his hand, maybe adopt him and then have him perform biting pop culture commentary for us at home on a daily basis.

Alas, Joel was nowhere to be found in Hollywood! Only Howie, and Kimmel, and of course: Flav. Oh man, and Chynna (sp?). And also that guy from Prison Break. And Donovan McNabb's mom, of Chunky Beef fame. And Chef Rocco. And David Tyree.

Dude, I digress.

Because we didn't need to go to LA to find Joel. Nay, Mr. McHale showed up right in our own backyard, last weekend:

J: Joel, we went all the way to California just to find you, man!

Joel, a bit nervously: Really? And you didn't see me? Well, maybe if I'd been Mexican.

Touche, McHale. Touche.

Standby

Your blog-goddess regrets her unexpected absence. We will return to our regularly-scheduled blogging tomorrow.

Yuppie Wars

Blah blah blah been travelin' blah blee.

Now that we have gotten that out of the way: hello, Internet! Miss me?

Things have been v. hectic in the HomeValley world, though lovely. I have been on the road a lot. I have been trying to get organized with the wedding. I have been attempting to study for the damn GMATs. And also, an actual writer's conference! In New York! In which I took a personal day from my ever-demanding role in Corporate America, and indulged my creative sensibilities.

(And swooned for Joshua Ferris, author of Then We Came to the End, the best book in the history of the fucking world if a certain panel is to be believed.)

(Then I bought the book. And I'm only a few chapters in, but yes, fine, Panel, it is awesome. It's about Corporate America, and it's biting and hilarious. Go read it, and then, for the love of God, can we please have our book club finally? Man, you guys are killing me.)

And... next topic.

I have noticed an alarming new trend in the things that J and bicker about.

It all started with the reusable grocery bags.

"I am telling you, Melis!" J says definitively. "I will not use them! I take my lunch to work every day in a plastic bag. I need the plastic bags."

"My God! I will get you a lunch bag!" I huff.

"I am not using a lunch bag! I won't!" J growls, disgusted.

The indignity of a lunch bag. Egregious!

Then, it was the white bread.

"What the hell is this in the cupboard, J? Is this white bread? You had no right! There is no nutritional value in this shit! My God, are you crazy? Where is the fiber, J? The fiber!"

Then, I did the grocery shopping (with resuable, environmentally-friendly canvas bags).

Via text message: "Fiber and flax seed bread? This means war, HV!"

Then, we went bike riding on Saturday, on a trail, donning our practical helmets and tiny back-pack full of provisions.

Eight miles in: "J! It is only another 7.5 miles to Valley Forge! We can do this, babe. Man up! We are strong!"

Thirty miles and three hours later, we wanted to die.

Yeeeeaaahhhh.

Yuppies.

Officially.

The Depths of Despair

Holy God - I am in hell.

I am sitting in an office in Dublin, Ohio, with two phones beeping angrily at me. I am on hold at H & R Block, desperately trying to get an appointment there for this evening. Oh, I had an appointment there last week, and I went, and I had my state taxes done.

Seventy-five dollars later, my taxes are completely, utterly WRONG.

So, New York? This is how you want to play it? $500 for speeding, and then this horrendous tax situation. (In which, my company kept me as a New York employee after I relocated to Philadelphia. My state taxes were taken out incorrectly, and nothing was taken out for Philadelphia's egregious city wage tax. Then, hilarity ensued.)

The End.

P.S. I hate everyone. And if you think I am not drinking heavily tonight, you'd be wrong. Cheers.

Toots and Big Guy

So J calls me "Toots" when he is exasperated with my antics. You know, when I've done a bad thing. Like, I don't know, $500 speeding ticket?

There is a lot of "Toots" going around these days at the HomeValley Ranch.

In this hell of my own making, I am investigating "Points Reduction" classes in Manhattan. And... e-mail:

From: J
To: Toots

Summarize the deal here. Will the points and the added $300 fine go away if you go to a one day class?

From: Toots
To: J

No... "up to" 4 points would go away, and you get a certificate that allows for 10% off your car insurance. It may help me/us if I switch insurance, so I am willing to go.

I have to pay the $300 no matter what... and the class costs $70 and 6 hours of my life.


From: J
To: Toots

How can you get 6 points for one violation? Were you going 120?

From: Toots
To: J

You would think, wouldn't you??? I was going 86.

From: J
To: Toots

Who drives at 86 miles per hour. You made it sound like I did what you did all the time. I don’t drive at 86 mph there toots. This is a big mess you got yourself into.

From: Toots
To: J

That just cost you any love I was going to give you when you get home. Boo.

From: J
To: Toots

Is that how you spell toots?

From: Toots
To: J

No LOVE.

From: J
To: Toots

Well then how do you spell it?

From: Toots
To: J

I think that is close enough.

NO LOVE!!!

From: Toots
To: Big Guy

Well, [my co-worker who's identity must be protected], thought all rental cars just automatically had EZ Pass... And she got a million dollars in tickets. That is a mess. This was one silly violation! Which you will have to get over, "big guy" (that is the new "toots")... Because this may affect our insurance and I can't marry you if you are going to make me feel guilty for the rest of our lives.

Fondly, your-once-excited-to-see-you-wife-who-is-now-on-the-defensive-because-you-gave- her-an-undue-lecture-when-she-was-only-trying-to-do-things-to-ameliorate-the-situation-but-you-couldn't-just-bite-your-tongue-and-now-you-will-pay-later,

Toots

Edited to add:

J just arrived home and commenced hugging me. Then, he gave me a kiss and said, "Babe, I couldn't get home fast enough to see you. I drove, like, 86 miles per hour to get here."

It's going to be a long life.

All Zen-Like

You should know that whilst I am busy trying to be all serene and relaxed and optimistic, things really aren't going my way this week.

I picked up a little piece of mail from the New York State DMV at my mama's house the other night, with a little love note, saying that I now owe them $300 based on the number of points I incurred for my speeding violation. This $300 is in addition to any fines applied by Brutus Township.

So, a $500 speeding ticket.

I'm not gonna lie to you, Internet: I cried. Who else gets $500 speeding tickets? On big empty highways in Upstate New York?

Enter: Monday morning. I race drive the speed limit the entire way to the airport (um, I am not kidding. I am never driving over the speed limit again in this lifetime EVER), bound for Boston. When I arrive at B Terminal parking, both entrances are closed. Assuming the lot is full, I bear right into what I think is the A Terminal, but is actual super short-term parking, which costs more than double the normal rate.

Annoyed, I leave the lot and make my way back around the airport once again, only to find that B Terminal Parking is now open, but the line is waaayyy long. I sneak into C Terminal parking and make my way to ticketing.

Confusion! I am booked on a United flight to Boston, operated by US Airways. I have to ask two attendants what the protocol is for ticketing, and I finally make it into the check-in line.

Alas, I have missed the 45-minute window and cannot check my bag for my 7:15 AM flight. I either throw away all of my Fekkai hair products, or take the 8:15 flight.

Naturally, I book the 8:15. Do I look like a girl who can (a) afford to be without quality hair products, or (b) afford to buy any more quality hair products because hell, I just got a $500 speeding ticket?!?!

All of this breathtaking stupidity on my part is exhausting. I pass out on the plane, and am roughly shaken awake by the flight attendant to put my damn seat back up already! We are landing!

Once in Boston, I buy a fully caffeinated cup of joe. You get it.

The caffeine works. I am fully productive, presenting at meetings at getting things accomplished. I even order sushi from the restaurant across the street from my hotel and pick it up on my way to the Springhill Suites.

"Hi, Melissa," says the front desk clerk when I arrive, as I stay here quite often. Then she looks at my oddly.

"We don't have you booked here until April 28th."

Oh. Fuck.

I am actually booked at the Marriott. Yes, I went to the wrong hotel. Luckily the doll at Springhill has a room for me, and calls the Marriott to explain the situation. I retreat to my suite and gorge myself on vegetable maki. Then I drag myself to the gym; and for the first time ever, the pool.

Ten-year old Janella joins me as I am jogging back and forth in the three-foot section.

"What are you doing?" She asks.

"Im exercising. I've got a wedding coming up in July, and I need to get in shape."

"Oh," she says. "Well, I'll do it with you."

That is how Janella and I become fast friends, jogging back and forth in the three-foot section of the indoor pool. She even makes up some exercises of her own ("let's hop!") and tells me all about her family, her travels, and how her fourteen year-old sister never wants to play with her.

A little after nine, I tell her I must get back upstairs.

"OK. Well, are you gonna be here tomorrow night?"

Ah, new friends.

At Wit's End

"Better to just say yes than to piss anyone off."
-J, future loving husband

Remember the days when we were planning a small wedding? Remember after that, when it all spiraled out of control?

I just hope the resort can accommodate 894997 people at our reception.

This morning I am dangerously close to emailing Miss Manners. I know it is destination. Dudes, I know. But then I think, why did I bother sending out invitations? As everyone just invites whomever they want to come along?

Sigh.

Paybacks are a bitch, mah people. From now on, you'll get me, J, Grace or possibly the Real JC if you dare invite me to a wedding. What, it isn't okay if Grace comes? Pardon? If you wanted the Real JC there, you would have invited him? Oh! Well, too bad.

Possibly you will have more balls than me, and can tell me NO in no uncertain terms. Maybe you will ascribe to the J philosophy.

In any event: RIP, Decorum. RIP.

Ode to Howser

Yesterday, I was quite dejected.

It was raining. I was working. I was bored. During lunch, I finished a most decidedly not-at-all funny "humorous" novel, which made me irrationally angry. Then I traveled to the grocery store and forgot the new canvas grocery bags I had bought just days prior. Because I, Melissa P. HomeValley, am a friend to the environment. And also: a moron.

I realized I had forgotten the bags when I rolled through the check-out line, and then I proceeded to berate myself, because LO - HV, you are dumb! And then all of the dumb things I have done lately came spewing from my memory:

• Like, the time in December I got that damn traffic ticket for gliding through a yellow light! Then went to traffic court, and paid $117.50 to the city of Philadelphia!
• Or, that time in February when I was coming out of the White Plains parking garage, and hanging up my mobile phone, and subsequently crashing my driver's side mirror into the speaker by the exit! Then I paid what felt like 89893 dollars to the Nissan dealership, and still haven't gotten the damn mirror cap replaced, because I can't quite face the total cost of the repair. I'm too raw.
• But wait! In March, when I was cruising down I-90 in Rochester, New York? And then I thought it might be nice to get back to my Syracuse hotel a bit early? So maybe I will just speed up a little, here in good old Brutus Township? Brutus Township to HomeValley: No, moron. No, you actually won't speed in our town without a hefty fine.

And that brings us to "dejected." I returned home. I found J in the office.

"What's wrong?" He asked, upon seeing my expression.

"I forgot the grocery bags! And the Stouffer's Mac and Cheese now has 20 grams of fat and 480 calories, and I know it used to be 380 calories, and now we can never eat it again and that's probably why I am chubby!"

(What reasons are there to go on without the Stouffer's?!?!)

Well, there is CBS.

And How I Met Your Mother.

And Neil Patrick Harris.

The blue computer screen?

The blinking cursor?

The strains of a familiar theme song?

The contemplative head tilt?

Bravo, HIMYM. Bravo.

I shan't recap here; just know that Harris's character, Barney Stinson, goes through an existential crisis, then concludes - in the most brilliant fashion ever - that he is awesome.

And so am I, mostly. Though I probably shouldn't be allowed to operate a motor vehicle.

Plague.

Gah!

J is sick. And not your normal, run-of-the-mill sick. Fever, cough, aches, pains, sore throat, phlegm, etc... It's obviously the plague. He's been out of work since Tuesday; luckily I have been working from home this week and have been able to act as nurse. Though I fear he is not getting much better; at least he has not gotten any worse. He barely wants to eat; and I have offered to watch Ravenous - a strange movie that he lurves - about a zillion times, and he just shakes his head sadly and stares at me with those lovely, glassy eyes. Sometimes he moans a little. The poor, poor dear.

This morning I ushered him to our doctor's office, fearing pneumomia. Alas, it is but an ordinary plague that will last at least another four days. I asked Doc if I was in the clear, to which she replied merrily: "No, you'll get sick later."

So. Awesome.

I am warding off the bug by reveling in my stupidity; also known as "studying" for the GMATs. I use the term "studying" loosely, as I have been reading the book and totally acing the "how-to" problems. Then I attempt to take a practice test, and my brain melts and I bang my head against the table and curse stupid geometry and Ms. Marano because I didn't understand in the tenth grade and I still don't fucking get it. I jot down all of the formulas I can remember and then I cry softly at the dining room table, and shout at my sick friend, "What is the formula for area of a rectangle?!?" And duh. If you don't know the area of a rectangle, you have no business going to graduate school.

Meh.

Also - ladies? No advice on my wedding gown? Is this your way of telling me I am fucked? Or are you just tired of my infrequent posting and trying to make a statement?

I love you all. May you never see the horrors of this plague.

In Need of Your Guidance, Ladies

I want to take a quick break from the political implications of my last post to go all shallow on your asses and ask the ladies out there a very important question:

How far in advance of your wedding date did your wedding gown arrive?

This morning I called the bridal shop for the second time. Remember, my mama and I ordered that damn gown in mid-December. A gown that, while lovely, needed to be sufficiently aesthetically-altered to make it appropriately HomeValley-esque. (i.e., No fucking sparkles.)

Today??

Today I learned that my gown is not going to be shipped to the bridal shop until the FOURTH of MAY.

Apparently the manufacturer is cutting the silly train and removing the sparkles, which was not the way I understood it. I was told that the shop-owner handled all of the alterations on-site. Why the lies? Why the lack of communication?

My wedding date, for all intents and purposes, is July 8th, as that is when we are high-tailing it out of the country. I'd like it if my dress made it onto the plane with me.

Bear in mind, I travel for a living. This makes my situation that much more difficult.

Is this normal? Am I cutting it to close? Is less than two months sufficient? I need your guidance, wise women of the Internet.

Thank you.

That Time In Istanbul

The truth is, I love thinking about Istanbul.

Just this morning, whilst I was power-walking about the hills of Manayunk, I let my mind drift back to Sultanahmet. Often I imagine what it would be like to live there, temporarily. I ponder the logistics of the move (would we stay in Sultanahmet, the heart of the old city? Or should we perhaps move to suburban Uskudar, on the Asian side of the Bosphorus?). I picture my family coming to visit, and ushering them through Aya Sofya, watching their eyes widen at the sheer magnitude of the site: the gorgeous, massive ancient structure.

Aya Sofya

My yoga instructor always urges the class to visit our "happy places" at the beginning of each "practice". Oftentimes, I find myself sitting, with J, in Sultanahmet Park, in between Aya and the Blue Mosque. Sitting and staring at the two buildings; at the perfectly manicured lawns; at the people walking by. I can't remember a time when I felt more at peace.

J and I at the park. The Blue Mosque is in the background.

Of course, the great irony is that when J and I ventured to Turkey last October, the country had just invaded Iraq. The Armenians were pressuring the U.S. government to pass a resolution claiming the Turks' killing of Armenians during World War I was the first genocide of the twentieth century. Our wedding travel agent, Nicole, had raised the prices for our up-to-this-point-set-in-stone packages. Our accommodations were less than stellar, and the moment we stepped out of our hotel to explore the country on that first afternoon, a military jet whirled just above our heads, nearly deafening us.



"Hmm," J said, clasping my hand in his. "That was a little unsettling."



And yet.

The city we experienced was so warm, so inviting. We trekked throughout the streets each day, from the Blue Mosque (where we were given an expensive lesson in Islam), to the Galata Bridge (where the stench of fish nearly killed us), to the gorgeous harem at Topkapi Palace, to the Grand Bazaar, arguably the world's oldest mall, where we admired carpet after carpet, and purchased 8995 pashminas and gorgeous Ottoman-style tiles, for good measure.

Learning to worship inside the Blue Mosque.

Inside the Grand Bazaar.

The cuisine was excellent; and we sampled different dishes each night. Part Greek, part Middle Eastern fare; the Turkish pizza was my absolute favorite. And after each delicious meal, we'd sip warm apple tea and marvel at our good fortune.



Most evenings, we'd find ourselves at the Cozy Pub, watching rugby with Englishmen or smoking a hookah with new friends Mehmet and Ahmet.


And then there was this one time.


We'd spent most of the afternoon walking the streets, shopping at the Grand Bazaar and sampling Turkish delight candies at the Spice Bazaar. As the sun was setting, we meandered through Sultanahmet Park, then found ourselves once again on the main strip in the old city, at the Cozy Pub. Ahmet worked the door, enthusiastically encouraging passers-by to come in and have a drink or a snack. Mehmet ran a small gift shop behind the pub, but was typically hanging out at the bar, chatting up the ladies. We called him Turkish Scott Baio, as he looked and acted like Mr. 45 and Single.


On this particular night, we sat at a small table outside, talking with Ahmet and Mehmet. An Australian jewelry and bag designer named Julie soon came into our circle, as did English couple Nick and Amanda. Amanda was a school teacher; Nick wrote books about mountain biking.


So we ate and we drank. For hours and hours. At one point, Mehmet and I ran to his shop to prepare a hookah, which we filled with apple "tobacco" and brought back to the rest of our group.


Man, did I have a love affair with that hookah. If you are ever in Istanbul (Or even Le Souk, in Manhattan) , please, please sample the apple tobacco.

Mehmet and me, and my beloved hookah.

The night wore on, and soon it was time to retreat back to Hotel Mina. Julie was staying on the same street, so we walked her back to her place and crept back to our room, turning on the television to take advantage of the late-night English programming.

It wasn't until the next morning, while I was in our miniature shower, that J noticed something was missing.


The Bag.



The Bag is where we keep our Valuable Stuff. It is a virtual man purse that never leaves J's side when we are out of the country. He protects the bag like a child. And as if we had lost our first-born, J was nearly hyperventilating.



"Stay calm," I tell him, as I dress quickly. "It's got to be at Cozy, and they are good people. They'll have it for us."


I suppose I only half believe this myself, but I am intent on keeping J calm. We dart out of the hotel and run to Cozy, a two-minute jog.


The bar is empty, but Amir, last night's waiter, is straightening up.


"Amir!" I shout. "Please: where is our Bag?"


I describe the bag to Amir, but he only stares at me blankly. I run to our outside table, desperate for The Bag to be there.



It is not.



"You must have it, Amir," I say. I describe the bag in detail and tell him it is full of Valuable Stuff.

Another staffer overhears this conversation, and opens a safe behind the bar.

"Is this it?" He asks, holding The Bag.


"Yes!" J and I cry. I hug Amir. J checks The Bag. Not a single item is out of place.



"Thank you thank you thank you," we repeat, as we skip outside. We both exhale.



"Turks," I say. "I knew they'd come through. They're good people."

Indeed.

This Blog Will Make You Skinny.

So, er, did anyone else DVR I Can Make You Thin on TLC?

I'm the only one then?

Obviously, my obsession with my physique intensifies, but honestly; I only aspire to be in the greatest shape of my life by July. Really, what's the harm?

So the other night when the show debuted, I hit the record button, figuring: Meh. This guy claims he can make me thin. Prove it.

(A brief disclaimer: I am not obese, nor even really particularly overweight. Things have just shifted, is all. I have put on about 10 pounds since I graduated college, and I am not particularly attached to those pounds, so they are free to leave. Also, I need to tone up. I am a bit, shall we say, squishy? I also need to eat healthier, because I love my heart, y'all. The end.)

So Paul McKenna is an English bloke who claims he can make us all tiny little things. It all comes down to 4 simple "golden" rules:

1. When you feel hungry, eat.
2. Eat what you want, not what you think you should eat.
3. Eat consciously.
4. When you are full, STOP.

The cynic in me wants to repudiate these commandments; but the truth is, I am liking that this chap told me to eat a burrito. (Because I desperately, desperately want one.)

McKenna is really about changing your attitude about food; i.e., don't deprive yourself, ever. Don't feel guilty, EVER. BUT, do stop when you are full. Also, make eating meditation. Don't watch TV or read during a meal. Chew each bite 20 times. Put down your fork and knife between each bite.

(Man, if you guys could only see J and I attack giant bowls of pasta loaded with parmesan with The Simpsons on Sunday nights. It's often a race to the finish line. For shame.)

So you know what? I am trying it. I am going to try to eat what I want when I want it, but savor every morsel and eat more slowly, paying careful attention to my belly, who hates me when I stuff her needlessly. I will report back.

In other news, I informed J yesterday over a bloody mary that I was definitely NOT drinking during the week anymore. He laughed - loudly - and then bet me that I couldn't do it. It's on.

Still Hemmi From The Block

Friends!

I am still alive, and am really just writing to say that I will actually be writing actual prose next week, when things have calmed down considerably for me. Lots of stuff going on, but I think - though not completely sure just yet - that J and I now know where we will be living in a month (spoiler alert: right here), and what jobs we will have, and what graduate schools we will attend. For a hot second there, everything was a mess (in a delightful way) and we were writing out budgets and pros and cons lists and fixing closets and throwing out lots of junk and freaking out because we just got the most glorious granite counter tops. Were we ready to part from the granite so soon?

(And in the midst of all this, whilst still traveling and getting stuck in Syracuse last Friday night, I picked up a copy of Jodi Picoult's latest novel, Nineteen Minutes. And then I could. Not. Put. It. Down. Please someone: tell me you have read this book so we can all nerd up in this very forum and get down to the virtual book club I have secretly longed for! Pretty please?)

(And I also learned that Rent is closing on Broadway. As a former Renthead, this news did not sit well, and I have been hatching plans to get back to the Nederlander ever since.)

In closing: I'm back, baby. With lots of stories to tell and a renewed commitment to you, gentle readers.

Until Monday.