There but for the grace of God...

Sorry, but if you are looking for the funny, you won't find it here today. It's been a long week, y'all.

Each day, I remind myself that every moment is a gift. I am quelling my urge to procrastinate, and I am trying to celebrate life every second I am breathing. J and I had a wonderful date on Tuesday night, making homemade burritos, drinking wine, watching our shows, and laughing a lot. But when we crawled into bed that evening, I burst into tears. Grief washes over me like a wave some days, and I am prone to fits of crying.

Now, I am not grieving because I lost Donna, though I will miss her dearly. I am grieving for all that was lost to her friends and family. Everything they must continue without: a sister, a daughter, a friend. Her "life celebration" was heartbreaking and beautiful. The funeral home was filled with all things that were Donna: her Morrisey memorabilia; her pin collection; her stuffed animals; her roller skates; the books she loved. There were pictures and slide shows and, most poignantly, silent video of her living, moving, breathing, laughing. Her loved ones presented a gorgeous portrait of a life - of her life - that ended so abruptly. I was overwhelmed by the injustice of it all. As the minister eulogized: "I think we can all agree, folks, that 31 years? It's just not enough. Thirty-one years is NOT enough."

Amen to that, brother.

At the service, I spoke with another coworker.

"I was the last person to see her alive," he said, his eyes filling. "I drove her to get her car, which she was having cleaned. She was chatty on the ride there - same old Donna. I stayed to make sure everything was okay. When she got in the car, she rolled down her window and smiled at me. 'Smells much better in here!' she said. Then she drove off. You know, they found a Wawa receipt in the car. She must have stopped there, and then the accident happened. I dropped her off at 5:15, and they called the accident at 5:33."

I can't stop thinking about that fucking Wawa receipt, either. One minute you stop for a coffee, or a snack. The next - nothingness.

When I got home, I looked up her myspace page, presumably to further torture myself. Her last login was the day she died.

And these, Internet, are the thoughts that keep me awake at night now. The idea that you can be going along in your regular routine - checking myspace, picking up your car, stopping for a coffee... And then, that's it.

And I sit here, in the coffee house, staring at my monitor, and the post-it I've attached to it, per Allie's suggestion: Life. I think, this time, I will hold onto this resoluteness: to remember that each moment is a precious, precious gift. That no matter how bad it gets, we are all so lucky to be here still.

I hope you will too.

And tomorrow, by God, I will lighten this place up a bit. Talk about the New Kids concert, or something. That ought to get us smiling again, no?

Haunted

A coworker was killed in a car accident last night.

She was young and vibrant, not unlike myself.

We were not particularly close, but we were very friendly. She worked in our local office, so I saw her more frequently than most. A few months ago, we had a long conversation. I was in the office, showing her my wedding photos. She was complimentary ("You are still glowing!"), as she always was, and inquired coyly if my brother was single. That day, she peppered me with questions about my relationship with J.

"I hope you don't mind me asking you so much," she said, smiling. "Someday, we'll have drinks and I will tell you my story."

She was ebullient outwardly, but I always sensed there were dark issues she dealt with privately. It always seemed as if it were a struggle to be happy, and she put on a brilliant show. I wish I had known her better. I wish we had gone out for those drinks.

In times like these, when someone so young dies so suddenly, I am haunted by thoughts of their last days, weeks, months. I wonder, what would she have done differently, knowing she had mere months, weeks, days to live? I shudder at the thought of my own life being snatched away in an instant. So I drive slowly and carefully. Recommit myself to a life with purpose. Reach out to friends. Vow to be a better wife and daughter and sister. Stop screening calls.

Like life, these resolutions are fleeting. Next week, I'll be late for an appointment, speeding again. I won't answer my grandmother's call because I will be too busy. I'll snap at my husband. I wonder why it seems impossible to hold on to this feeling, this combination of sorrow mixed with grief, and also pure joy, because we are alive and we can hug our loved ones, and have another girls' dinner, take another vacation, watch another Adam Sandler movie.

Rest in peace, Donna. I hope, wherever you are, you are happy.

Melissa P. HomeValley, Reporter-At-Large

So, what exactly did my Facebook hiatus spawn?

Well, I did go to the gym on Friday. I did apply for several different jobs, now that my corporate fate is in peril. I did talk to my old colleague about that production job in New York, and you know what? She thinks I am actually qualified and says I will get an interview in the next two weeks. And, my friends, I did submit some writing samples to a local newspaper, and this week I have my very first assignment.

Apparently, life is what happens when you close your Internet browser and walk away from the Facebook.

Who knew?

I had the opportunity to travel to DC yesterday for a brief meeting, and afterwards, with an hour to kill, I meandered around the Northwest quadrant, marveling at the Capitol building. Staring at it, my heart swelled once again with hope for our country, for the world, and for myself.

It's been a very good week.

A Life With Purpose

This morning, as is typical when I work from my home office, I stumbled down the stairs incoherently and immediately turned on the television. I scrolled the DVR menu until I found what I was looking for: yesterday's Oprah.

Ah, O. Just what I need to start my day, to live my best life.

Yesterday's guest was one Mr. Will Smith, who is so lovable I just want to squeeze him. He spoke about how he had just turned 40, and that now, he does not want to do anything in his life without purpose.

Right! I said aloud to my television screen. I want to live my life that way too, Mr. Smith! I thought. And then I made a mental list of all the things I wanted to accomplish today, including: mailing our marriage license to the translator (ah, destination weddings), going to the gym, eating perfectly healthy, applying for a new job, writing a blog post, sending my resume to an old colleague who has a TV producer position available for me in New York (it's such a stretch, I just can't not send my CV on a wing and a prayer), etc.

I came upstairs shortly thereafter for a conference call. I booted up my computer and clicked on Internet Explorer.

When suddenly, I realized it.

Facebook.

Facebook is the enemy of all productivity. It is the devil's minion. It must be stopped!

I had been fervently rooting through Facebook pages for 30 minutes, when I froze with this devastating realization.

Holy crap on a cracker - I am addicted to Facebook. I have a problem.

And now I need to make it right. But how? How does one restrict utilization? How do I go about my daily life not knowing what you all are doing at this precise moment? Without seeing your pictures from the weddings and Halloween parties you have recently attended? Without your clever wall posts? How?!?

*Deep breath*

So, I am officially exiting Facebook for the remainder of this Friday. Baby steps. I don't want to overwhelm myself, or my constant craving for information about all of my FB friends.

Melissa P. HomeValley... what are you doing right now?

Over and out.

Letter to My Future Babies

Dear Beautiful, Kind, Open-Minded Babies: C, V, and A,

I hope this is not premature, but: you're welcome.

Love,

Mom

The Jerkstore Rang

Yesterday, I swore I wouldn't be dragged into it. But it happened. Again.

A business associate pulls out her cell phone at a luncheon in central Jersey, smirking. "Check this out," she says conspiratorially to me. She shows me her phone and I begin reading an email as she scrolls.

The email details a "plan" for Americans: from now on, all wages will be pooled together and split equally. This will allow for workers who are too lazy to work overtime to still be paid equally as well. The supervisor will give eloquent speeches in the breakroom, etc.

And suddenly my blood is boiling. I push the phone away, smile, and say merely: "Please."

She giggles. "[Our multi-millionaire business associate] sent that to me today. Hilarious, right?"

This woman sits next to me adorned in fur. She places her phone into a large leather Coach bag. She calls her assistant and asks, "Which car did my husband drive to work today? Was it the burgundy car?" When asked how many cars she actually has, she smugly replys, "Five." She's taking the family on a cruise to the Cayman Islands next month. I'd estimate her annual income is between 400,000 and 500,000. She must be worth millions.

"I already get taxed too much," she assures me.

Well fuck, for your sake, I hope that radical socialist doesn't get elected today. Spread the wealth? Is he insane?

The Curious Incident of the Squirrel in the Night

It started around 3 AM. A slight thumping noise coming from the roof, followed by falling debris, just outside our second floor bedroom window. I woke with a start.

J, who is known to bolt upright in bed when I wiggle my pinky finger in the night (huh? wha? what are you doing?) remained sound asleep beside me, snoring softly. My heart pounding, I tried to gently coax him awake. When that failed, I nudged him sharply.

"Did you hear that?" I ask. Of course he didn't. We listen together.

Suddenly - Thump. Thud.

"Probably a bird," he says sleepily. But I won't be appeased.

"Can you just check?"

J begrudgingly gets out of bed and stands by the window. He is very still for many minutes. "Did you fall asleep?" I whisper.

"Probably an animal burrowing into our neighbor's roof," he says disdainfully. He scurries up to the third floor to investigate further, and, seeing nothing, he gets dressed to head outside.

With a flashlight. At 3:15 AM. On Mischief Night, no less!

Thoroughly freaked, I head downstairs with him. He stands in the middle of the road with his flashlight for many minutes. When he finally comes back inside, he tells me he can't see anything.

We get back into bed.

"Maybe it was the wind," I suggest.

"No... There is no wind."

DUN DUN DUN!

We lay awake for a moment, when we hear the thudding again. Scratching. Rocks falling onto the second floor landing from the roof.

J jumps out of bed, fumbling in the dark for his jeans once again. "I'm going out there," he says courageously.

"Be careful!" I warn. And then my gallant husband steps out of our bedroom window, into the abyss, armed only with a flashlight. At 3:25 AM. On Mischief Night!

I struggle to keep the heavy window open, as J starts swatting at the roof. A downpour of leaves and rocks fall from above. "Looks like we got ourselves a squirrel's nest," he says, thankful to have solved the mystery. I shut the window so the debris doesn't come into the bedroom.

A moment later, J knocks urgently on the second bedroom window, away from the nest.

"We've got a raccoon," he whispers. "And he's right here!"

"J, get in, you'll get rabies!" I cry. He retreats back into the bedroom.

"Do we call the police?" I ask. Hello, 911, we've got a situation with a raccoon burrowing into our roof. Send back-up.

"No, but we'll need someone to come and fix the siding up there." J is a bit exasperated at this prospect.

"Well, at least now we know," I tell him, and then we booth marvel at that quiet little fucker - henceforth known as Eugene - who apparently has been subletting our roof for quite a while, given his elaborate bachelor nest.

We attempt to sleep, as I comment: "You are very brave, J."

Then, a few moments later, "J, we are those white trash neighbors."

"I was just thinking that," he mumbles.

Sorry, Eugene. You've been evicted.

Eugene.

Bad-ass raccoon killer.

Lordy Lordy

It's been a hectic couple of weeks for your pal HomeValley. I have been to San Francisco and Baltimore and Connecticut and Columbia, SC since we last met. I have vehemently defended Obama; I have listened to lots of satellite radio; I have edited my darling baby brother's college application essay (!); I have learned that my job is being eliminated. You know, just your run-of-the-mill couple of weeks, really.

OK, so let's not all freak about that last point. Yes, my current job is being eliminated, but there is another job on the horizon for me with my current company. Yes, I am eligible for severance; yes, I must interview for the new job. But come on! I've got the only two things I have ever needed in this life: charm and charisma. (Tell 'em, Allie.) I reside in a beautiful and peculiar glass half-full world most of the time, and all is well.

Also, please see August Rush. Guaranteed to lift your spirits, and make you as giddy as me.

More to come.

I'm Melissa P. HomeValley Ft. Lauderdale, and I Approve This Message.

Well, I am finally able to come back to the blogosphere: my friends, I have finished Breaking Dawn. And though I am crestfallen that I can no longer escape into a world of passion and intrigue and vampire covens, I must perservere. It's the final stretch of the 2008 presidential campaign, and Internet, I am completely busy running my mouth in mixed company about my support and admiration and respect for one Senator Barack Obama. Which any etiquette book will warn you is taboo. Still.

I can't be on the campaign trail for Senator Obama because I work too damn much. I've missed rallies and countless volunteer opportunities. I figure, the only thing I can do is publicly endorse Barack, everywhere I go. I wear pins; I download applications to my Facebook page; and I talk. With Republican coworkers. I am not winning many friends in my ultra-conservative workplace, I assure you.

I try to be fair; I attempt to listen to everyone's opinion. The other night, knee-deep in political conversation at a dive bar in Columbus, I asked Conservative Curt* what the crux of the matter is for Republicans?

He thought for a moment.

"Trust," he said firmly. "We need to trust the experience of our candidate."

"I respect that," I told CC. "But I think it is actually fear." And then I quickly shut my mouth by sipping my Miller Lite, and I pretended to become preoccupied with the dude performing a Pink Floyd cover on an acoustic guitar.

Later in the week, when I wasn't campaigning, I discovered that I am The Person That People Like to Tell Things To. (Official title.) Here are some things I learned from virtual strangers this week:

• Stan's** wife cheated on him last year with a friend. She wanted a quickie divorce, he granted it, and now she wants him back. She is also involving the children, and that ain't right.
• Chuck** just ended a 13-year relationship. He's lonely.
• Randy** was on his way to a family reunion in New Hampshire. He's retired now, though he rarely leaves his home state of Missouri. He dropped out of high school when he was 15 to join the army. He fought proudly in World War II and has done quite well for himself. All of his children went to college.
• HomeValley** is exhausted from frequent travel, graduate school, and general domesticity. She is currently in Philadelphia, though she traveled to and from Jamaica, Queens, this morning. Tomorrow she heads to Baltimore with a familiar-looking fellow she thinks she may have married recently; Thursday San Francisco by way of Denver; Sunday evening Philadelphia by way of Los Angeles; Tuesday Columbia by way of Charlotte, North Carolina. She is also at work on her autobiography The Person That People Like to Tell Things To.

* Name has been changed to protect the Republican.

** Names have been changed to protect the chatty.

How Lucky We Are

Ugh, I am so boring these days.

All I do is work, and travel for work, and study for my Managerial Economics class, and sing Meiko songs in my head perpetually (see: entry title), and read Stephenie Meyer books. Good Lord, they are so addictive and delicious and brilliant; I can't stop obsessing over the characters, and that makes for really boring entries. (Because do y'all really want to hear me wax poetic about Edward Cullen for pages and pages?) (Um, if you do, just say the word. We'll go to town.)

Hey! I took my darling sisters to Manhattan to see Wicked a few weeks ago. That was fun! I would describe it here but I have lost the ability to be descriptive, apparently. I will say that the more time I spend with Cat and Meg, the more time I want to spend with them. I actually miss them terribly most of the time. Cat is fourteen now and is brooding and angsty; she is blissfully sarcastic and lovely and intelligent and enigmatic. Meg is ten and adorable, with green-framed glasses that adorn her tiny freckled face. She loves monkeys and playing school in equal measure, and has reached a difficult crossroads: should she decorate her bedroom as a jungle, or as a classroom? She also has a "bacon dance" which she performs when a certain Wendy's commercial plays. When she tells stories, she painstakingly recounts every detail of her tale. She has a remarkably dry sense of humor, and smiles incessantly.

I really love those kids.

And now I must run to a business dinner, one that will be no different than a host of other business dinners, as I miss key moments and memories with my husband, siblings, and dearest friends.

But I've got Meiko on my iPod, and Breaking Dawn.

Grateful.

An RA friend sent this to our group this morning. We're still connected, and always will be, palpably on this day. Wishing them, and all of you, much love this morning.

Life has left her footprints on my forehead.
But I have become a child again this morning.
The smile, seen through leaves and flowers,
is back to smooth away the wrinkles,
as the rains wipe away footprints on the beach.
Again a cycle of birth and death begins.

I walk on thorns, but firmly, as among flowers.
I keep my head high.
Rhymes bloom among the sounds of bombs and mortars.
The tears I shed yesterday have become rain.
I feel calm hearing its sound on the thatched roof.
Childhood, my birth land, is calling me,
and the rains melt my despair.

I am still here alive, able to smile quietly.
O sweet fruit brought forth by the tree of suffering!
Carrying the dead body of my brother,
I go across the rice field in the darkness.
Earth will keep you tight within her arms, my dear,
so that tomorrow you will be reborn as flowers,
those flowers smiling quietly in the morning field.
This moment you weep no more, my dear.
We have gone through too deep a night.

This morning,
I kneel down on the grass,
when I notice your presence.
Flowers that carry the marvelous smile of ineffability
speak to me in silence.

The message,
the message of love
and understanding,
has indeed come to us.

by Thich Nhat Hanh, 1964

One Last Refrain

I tried to craft an eloquent post about what Rent has meant to me over the last 11 years; unfortunately J is watching Resident Evil 3 in the darkened living room at top volume and shouting at me to return, completely breaking my concentration.

Sigh.

To sum up: I'll miss you, Rent. I'll miss escaping to the Nederlander on a weekday and scoring rush tickets. I'll miss sitting in the front row of the theater - watching the familiar characters fumble through life and love and relationships and AIDS and budding careers - and reflecting on my own life, my own shortcomings, my failures... and still feeling so damn hopeful about it all.

And for that, my heartfelt thanks.

TGIF

From: J
Sent: Friday, September 05, 2008 3:54 PM
To: HomeValley
Subject:


Dear Wife,

I love you. I am going to come home to see you soon.

Regards,

Husband.


From: HomeValley
Sent: Friday, September 05, 2008 3:57 PM
To: J
Subject: RE:

Dear Husband,

I love you too. Also, I am hungry. Can we get Panera?

Fondly,

Wife.


From: J
Sent: Friday, September 05, 2008 3:59 PM
To: HomeValley
Subject: RE:

Dear Wife,

I am also hungry! See how much we have in common!

Love always,

Husband.

Pitbulls Wearing Lipstick

So... much... to... write... Head... close... to... exploding...



Lord, where are we this week, Internet? Governor Sarah Palin has become an overnight media sensation, despite negative press surrounding her seventeen year-old daughter's pregnancy! (I saw today that Palin supports abstinence-only education in schools, and my head actually exploded just now with the irony.)



Obama has taken the high road regarding the young Palin girl, claiming that children are "off-limits", further endearing me to him and his progressive, change-bringing ways.



But political discussions must be put on hold until another day - friends, we have a 90210-remake to dissect.



I had completely lost track of time on Tuesday evening, having fallen head over heels in love with Edward Cullen in New Moon. (Mrs. Meyer, please accept my heartfelt apologize for this post. These books are ridiculous, in a completely incredible, wish-I-was-seventeen-again-and- dating-a-vampire way. You are my hero.)



Anyway, my phone began buzzing at 8:10 and Allie promptly brought me back to reality. Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez?!? My heart swelled. And then I turned on the CW to meet "Silver" and my heart exploded with joy. (I am very explosive this week apparently.)



And then... well, meh.



Silver is of course my favorite. She's adorable, she's related to David, and instead of trying to be an R&B star crooning "You are so precious to me," she is a bad ass blogger with actual video feed! She makes HV look downright pedestrian, y'all.



And then there was everyone else. Black Brandon (or "Dixon") is a far cry from our beloved Walsh, the one who acted as moral compass for the West Beverly group, sans that one time he had too much to drink and crashed Mondale. But he totally learned his lesson.



Not Brenda (or "Annie") is quite adorable and giggly, and all the boys love her Midwestern ways. The richest kid in school is not quite Poor Man's Dylan, as he has a private jet and sings in the plays. A far cry from our dark knight of the 90s who lived in a penthouse and had that pesky drinking problem.

The Hot Walshes were, er, hot. And that's about all they've got going for them at this point. I miss Cindy, who missed Minnesota and almost had an affair that one time but stopped herself because she was of the highest moral caliber. Sigh.

And so they gave us illicit blow jobs before school, child actresses with drug problems, and super sweet sixteen galas. And through it all, HV said: yawn.

I perked up whenever the lovely Jennie Garth was onscreen, which was not quite often enough. And who is the father of her child? It must be Dylan, no?

Then suddenly: enter Brenda.

What was with Brenda? Did she look a bit odd to you all? The entire time she was on screen I kept recalling that episode in which Dylan was forced to choose between her and Kelly, and we got a glimpse into his future with each woman... He eventually chose Kelly. Smart man.

So, the jury is out. I'm not sure if I can stomach much more of the show without Tori Spelling. And who has ever written that sentence before?

American Idle: The Sunscreen Corollary

American Idol; American Idle. See what I did there?

I should start from the beginning.

Do you remember that Baz Lurhmann song from the late 90s? It was a commencement speech he put to music, and it opened with the line: "Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of '99: wear sunscreen." He went on to espouse all the things you "need" to do in life, like live in New York once (check), live in California once (someday), and most importantly: do one thing every day that scares you.

If I may nerd out for just a brief interlude, that last line resounds in my head at least once per day, typically when I am doing something frightening, like flying US Air, or reaching under the sink for dishwasher detergent. (There was once a mouse under there, y'all. I was traumatized.)

Most days I ponder that sage advice, and admittedly I feel a small sense of accomplishment when I face down my fears, however inconsequential, and come out unscathed, primed to fight another day. It follows then, that when presented with seemingly insurmountable tasks, I head towards the challenge, steeling myself for whatever I might face. I give you: The Suncreen Corollary. The single driving force in your blog-mistress's world, as, well - many things scare me on a daily basis. Yet, thanks to my quaint theory, I always force myself to move. To get on with it. To give my fear the stink-eye and be done with it. Because I believe, thanks to The Suncreen Corollary, that somehow, facing down fear is making me stronger. More formidable.

To sum up: fear is my bitch, really.

You can be absolutely certain then, that I wouldn't have bothered to waste 14 hours of my precious life on an American Idol longshot, if the very idea of it didn't scare the bejesus out of me.

And so, Tina and I went, guns blazing, into the infinite abyss that is the American Idol audition process.

Internet, I beg you, if you ever deign to try-out, please, PRAY GOD, do not sing any of the following:

1. I Have Nothing by Whitney Houston. If I heard one more diva warble "Dooonnnn'tttt. Maaakkkkeee. Meeeeee. CLOOOOOOOOSSSEEEEE ONE MORE DOOR!" I would have kidnapped dainty little Seacrest and held him for ransom. My ears are still bleeding, for the love of Pete.
2. Anything by Alicia Keys, but particularly No One. Dudes, I can't even stand to hear Alicia shreik "NO ONE NO ONE NO ONNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEE".
3. The Dreamgirls soundtrack. You can't imagine how many chicks were alone at a crossroads or telling me they weren't going.

The deal is, producers line up at 12 tables across the floor of the arena, and they see people in sections. If you are auditioning, you wait until your section is called (everyone was assigned a seat at registration). This gives you ample time (oh, 12 hours) to check out your competition. It's terribly interesting, and also incredibly boring, if this is possible. Auditioners approach the tables in groups of four, and each sing a cappella for 30 - 60 seconds.

The truth is, the producers know what they want. If you're crazy (hello puppet lady), well, we'll see you in the next round. If you are insanely talented, you are by no means guaranteed a spot. It depends on your look, your vibe, your charisma. Many times during the day the crowd angrily booed producers for cutting legitimate singers. But what can you do? It's a television show. It's a casting call, so you better be damn irresitible, lest you be cut.

Which brings me to my audition, at 5 PM. As I stood on the floor, my heart thudded loudly in my chest, and my palms started to sweat. Breathe, I told myself. Steel yourself.

And that's precisely what I did. I smiled at the young blonde producer and I began to sing. I chose "Take Me Or Leave Me" from Rent, because I work it out in the shower. My voice sounded strong and clear in my ears, and when I was done, I was proud of the performance I'd given.

Once our foursome finished, the kind-looking talent scout motioned for us to approach the table.

"You all look beautiful, and you all have great voices," she began in a clipped English accent. "You and you (HV and Tina) have great voices, but I think your performances were a bit too theatrical, and that's really not what we're looking for this season on the show."

Too theatrical?!? Moi? Old HV? That's shocking.

And with that, she cut us loose, and we went off with the rest of the "non-winners".

I mainly felt relieved to be heading home, and pleased that I'd conquered another one of my fears. And the feedback wasn't bad; I could live with "too theatrical".

The next morning, though, I awoke feeling vaguely disappointed. It was my last shot at AI, and it didn't work out. It's not that I thought I was going to be the next Fantasia Barrino. It's just... well, sometimes it's disheartening when you have to let a dream (however improbable) die. But isn't that what it's all about? Letting go of some of the old fantasies, and making room for some of the newer, more updated ones? I am sure there is totally a reality television show out there for me, like one about an adorable blonde girl who loves Queens and waxes poetic about life and 90s music and American Idol auditions?

On to the next thing.

Oh, and...

I don't get Twilight. There, I put it out there. Why all the fuss?

Exhaustified.

Your blog-mistress is utterly drained. It seems that perhaps I do have a problem, in that I cannot stop making plans, or generating ideas, or undertaking ambitious recycling campaigns, or auditioning for American Idol , or traveling, or being generally awesome all day long. It takes its toll on a gal. Honestly.

So I will tell you now that after this week, I am going to start taking naps, perhaps.

What's that? You would like to hear about American Idol? Lo, I believe contractually I cannot yet spill the beans that I am the next American Idol, a bewitching hybrid of Kelly Clarkson and Daughtry and Fantasia, all rolled into a big bundle of mind-blowing talent, dawg. At least that is what Paula told me. What's that? You are not buying my story? Meh. You will see it when it airs, and be dazzled.

Or, actually, registration was yesterday, and the audition is tomorrow. I am really just accompanying the uber-talented Tiny Tina (who is my cousin, in case you wanted to know, because I just spent 13 hours trying to link to the post about her, and I couldn't find it and holy shit I am too tired for this enough), singing a little ditty myself, then stalking Seacrest to lift him off the ground in a giant bear hug. And then I will go home, and 15 years from now I will still be telling my kids that I auditioned for the show once, before I was too old, and that I was robbed! Robbed! And then they will roll their eyes and sigh and tell me for the love of God to get over it already.

Survivor Woman

This week in things HomeValley has survived:

• Turbulence on a flight to South Carolina. Likely the worst I have experienced in terms of longevity. My stomach ached from fear, so I put my head in my hands and breathed. Luckily, my seatmate, a kindly older man, took pity on me, assuring me that it was only rough air and that of course we'd be fine. He was a pilot, he said, and the plane was designed to withstand a lot more. Words I tell myself all the time whilst flying, but nice to hear from an expert nonetheless.
• Career soul-searching. A good opportunity came up for a tiny bit more money, but I ultimately decided I am very happy where I am, and that J and I will stick to "the plan", thankyouverymuch. I made the right decision; just waiting for the fallout. I suppose I'll survive that too.
• Running into J's "ex-girlfriend" (term used loosely) on our street on Friday night. I had just gotten out of the shower, pulled my hair back, and thrown on sweats. Completely au naturel, J's ex, "Shelly", casually mentioned that she had just moved in to that house, three doors down from ours. I am not sure who should feel more awkward, the newlyweds, or the ex that just moved next to the newlyweds? Regardless, after the initial meeting, I ran into Shelly three additional times. Only one of those times was I wearing workout clothes, sweating profusely from my bike ride. Oh, also, I was sporting those ginormous black sunglasses that blind senior citizens wear (what? they protect my baby blues!). So, obviously, point HomeValley.

Must start my day of meetings. Also, I hate the Today Show.

The Night Before: A Glass Case of Emotion

I keep trying to write an eloquent post about the night before our wedding, but I am incapable. I start prattling on about nothing and fumbling with metaphors, and then I get annoyed with myself and shut Blogger in a huff, resigned to come back later.

But it never works. I am now resigned to put it out there, rambling and all, for public consumption. Because I just can't keep it to myself anymore.

So, what did it feel like the night before? Well, it was as if a massive tsunami of emotion struck us down, only more intense. I can't describe it. One moment we were having a perfectly normal rehearsal dinner; the next, we were puddles.

Turns out? Getting married is a big fucking deal.

J tried to toast our closest friends and family, but couldn't finish. I tried to rescue him, but failed miserably as the lump in my throat nearly choked me. I am never so emotional in public. It startled me. It also frightened my mother, who thankfully rescued us both by saying a few eloquent words about families being united. J and I drank our margaritas, clutching each other tightly.

Thwarted by rehearsal dinner toasts, the happy couple poses for a quick post-tears pic.

Much later, I made it back to the honeymoon suite, alone. J had left a small journal (made in Indonesia) on our bed, as well as a small gift box. In the journal, he wrote a long letter about our lives together, stressing that the best was yet to come. In the box, he placed a lovely necklace that was made in South Africa. Both presents were meant to symbolize the places we will visit together. It was perfect.

I washed my face and got ready for bed. I lay there, alone, unbelieving. It is so strange when something you have envisioned all your life comes to fruition. It is so odd to join your life with another person's. It is wonderful and exhilirating and frightening and bizarre. I held onto the journal, and drifted off to sleep.

I woke the next morning at 5. I watched a spectacularly bad movie on Showtime starring Ryan Reynolds. I felt vaguely nauseated. The lump in my throat hadn't dissipated at all throughout the night. I felt out of control. I wondered how I would get through the day without sobbing.

Grace and I had a massage scheduled at 10; my mother and Koos joined us as well. The four of us were led to our separate rooms throughout a serene, quiet garden, and soon, my troubles began melting away. My tension evaporated, and by the time we met up again in the locker room over paper cups of champagne, I felt like me again. I felt excited, back in control.

I was ready to marry J.

Scenes from a Marriage

"You know what I'm gonna do when we get home," J says excitedly as we're heading west on 76 . We've just come from the King of Prussia mall, where we "completed our registry". We are now the proud parents of one monstrous Dyson vacuum, affectionately christened, R2-D2.

"What are you gonna do, babe?" I ask slowly, still groggy from my trek throughout Brooklyn, Manhattan, and White Plains today.

"Vacuum!" J grins.

"Tonight?"

"I've got to test it out!"

"Yeah," I begin seriously. "I think I'm more excited about the attachments. I don't think our old attachments worked that well at all."

I pause.

"Holy shit - do you hear us? Did you just hear this conversation?" I sputter, alarmed.

J laughs and shakes his head. "This is what happens when you get old..."

"I mean, can you imagine if someone had heard us?" I giggle. "We're talking vacuums, for Christ's sake!"

And so it begins.