Stream of Jessica

Mommy Blog

2009-03-11T00:13:00.000-07:00

Due to the major, life-altering milestone of mommy-hood, a new blog is in order. Visit me at: sweetbabyjack.wordpress.com.

7 Weeks

2009-03-04T16:32:00.000-08:00

For seven weeks I have been intending to say something, anything, about the miracle of a mini-me who entered my life on January 14th. The hard part is not finding the time (I have been blessed with a baby who likes his sleep), it's finding the desire. Every spare moment I'm given I'd rather be gazing at my sleeping angel; walking through the neighbourhood with my little man in tow; kissing my husband for giving him to me; or curling up on the couch with my son snuggled deep into my chest. He will only be this tiny for a short time and I don't want to waste a second. So instead, I give you a montage of my last two months of bliss.

Sweet, the day after he was born.

What I do instead of blogging - watch my son sleep.

Sweet, snuggling with Mommy.

Family time.

And Now...I Wait

2009-01-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

I have officially surpassed my due date, which coincidentally fell on my husband’s birthday. He crossed his fingers for our child to be born yesterday (as of 1 minute ago - happy birthday sweetheart) so he would no longer have to celebrate the slow progression of wrinkles and silvering hair. However, it appears that Sweet has taken on the ‘fashionable lateness’ qualities of his/her Mommy. I don’t blame my child; it’s much warmer in my voluptuous, insulated belly than it is in the chilled desert air. My 40-week ultrasound revealed that, despite my best doughnut-laden effort, Sweet does not exceed 8 pounds, so there is no urgency (yet) to induce.

And so…I wait. For an overcommitted work-a-holic, it is a rare occurrence to wake up with little more to do than anticipate my first contraction. Over a candlelit birthday dinner my husband and I smiled at each other adoringly and breathed in our last savory moments of silence.

Party with my Belly

2008-12-29T12:53:00.000-08:00

My Finnish DJ friend hosted a show at the Vegas version of Privé the evening following Christmas. I hadn't seen him or his wife since the music conference in Miami two years earlier, so I had no intention of missing his performance in my backyard. Sweet has patiently endured the trashy pop and trance tunes that so frequently blast from my car stereo that I figured s/he would either sleep soundly or decide to make a slightly early appearance as Mommy shook her tooshie on the dance floor.

In a room full of slender, pompous 20-somethings, I can only imagine the sneers my buxom, 9-months-pregnant belly must have garnered. In fact, as I pushed Sweet awkwardly through crowds of drunken, dancing suits, the bouncer not-so-kindly denied my request to leave through a roped-off exit (I feigned discomfort in an attempt to break the rules) saying "maybe you shouldn't be here." He was right - not because my unborn child and I couldn't handle the multitude of people or the body-vibrating bass, but because one should never have to stomach such a pretentious scene on orange juice and water alone.

Regardless, it will make a good story to tell the little one when I'm in dire need of "rock star" points, because Lord knows I tossed my cool out the window somewhere along Route 40.

Wonderland

2008-12-17T17:37:00.001-08:00

Just when I began to accept my distance from the East Coast, the East Coast came to me...

And just as I ascend to the pinnacle of turmoil in advance of our baby's birth (transitioning work; year-end deliverables; prenatal classes; gift-buying; and preparation for all our relatives arriving for the holidays on the doorstep of our tornado of a half-painted and woefully disarranged house), our ages old backyard tree collapsed into our pool under the weight of the powdery goodness that Las Vegas is not particularly well-designed to handle.

Regardless, I say God bless the snow. In all it's infinite chaos, it will still never fail to calm me. I think I'll make some hot chocolate for Sweet.

Rainbow Pack

2008-12-08T22:52:00.001-08:00

Mothers-to-be, carrying carbonated orange juice and a bandeau-covered, oversized belly through a casino are quite the attention grabber. It’s as unlikely an image as Grandma Hazel clinging to a walker and an IV pole, rolling dice at a craps table full of cowboys. I will not lie and say I don’t enjoy the attention, particularly the googly-eyed, approving smiles of gambling fathers. In my state of natural obesity, it’s nice to be appreciated.

Las Vegas residents do not typically rush to the Strip for entertainment; there is plenty to be found elsewhere without the insufferable crowds (or obnoxious drink prices, if you’re able). But local-discount (or free – courtesy of generous concierge-friends with strings) shows are still a draw, as is the intensity of a solid power-hour of…bingo. If you enjoy a $15 diversion, but still want to socialize with your companions, don’t purchase the “rainbow pack”. My teal-hued dauber saw more action in sixty minutes than a low-rent call girl does in a week. Empty-handed, save some aquamarine ink stains on my hand, I still left the casino bingo hall feeling a satisfaction that no money-sucking blackjack table can bestow. Gambling without breaking the bank and a free hot chocolate in the belly I share with my Sweet. This may become a Thursday evening habit.

Sweet

2008-11-25T10:46:00.001-08:00

Meet Sweet, the pig-nosed, meatball-cheeked, apple of my focus for the last 34 weeks. I love this little worm nestled contentedly on the right side of my belly, poking at my bladder and jabbing at my ribcage.

With only 6 more weeks to go, I find myself reminiscing fondly about these last 7 ½ months and thanking the wrinkly little alien for being so kind to his/her work-a-holic of a mother. Save a 24 hour cold, I never got sick (I’m thankful for good vitamins, strong genes, or perhaps both). Save the pre-programmed exhaustion of my first trimester, I managed to survive my work weeks often on limited amounts of red-eye-induced sleep and forever changing time zones. Save an instant thickening of my once curvaceous waist, to the untrained eye my pregnancy was well concealed until my 5th month and my ankles have yet to swell (I still sport 4 inch heels to social events). Save a vivid dream or two that were the likely result of internal activity, I have never been awakened by the baby’s movements; never felt pain, discomfort or nausea; rarely had to get up in the middle of the night for a desperate pee; and never been want for assistance. Sweet has breezed past velvet ropes and slumbered while I shook my expanding hips on more than one hot night club dance floor; trucked along quietly on hikes through Red Rock Canyon (the last of which, although brief, was three days ago); listened patiently and attentively to my never-ending conference calls; and darted agreeably by my side through airport after airport; rental car after rental car; city after city. For the last 7 ½ months it has been tranquil baby, me and a suitcase against the world. I am a very, very lucky woman.

And now, here I am; home at last, nesting - washing gender-neutral jumpers, hooded towels, bibs, wash cloths and booties no bigger than my finger; preparing my home for the entry of a child who is already, quite possibly, an angel.

Grounded

2008-11-23T23:59:00.002-08:00

I read about the latest blogger happy hour in my former city and my appetite was whet again. I didn’t mean to stop writing. I can’t say it was an accident, really. By “not actively preventing”, my husband and I conceived within 5 days of my last post (educated guess and women’s intuition being the pinpoints). Since then, I have carried my developing baby genius 120,000 miles around the country in 7 months for work and the sheer exhaustion has limited my creative juices. In fact, my imagination is still barricaded by the perpetual distraction of consulting and the little one doing somersaults in my now enormous tummy. I did, however, finally fly my last flight before the birth of my first bundle of joy. I have not entered an airport in 10 days; a bittersweet reminder that life as I once knew it is on the brink of phenomenal overhaul. There was precious little that I had to give up to move to Las Vegas, but without doctor-permitted access to the friendly skies and weekly visits east I am now obligated to forge my desert living and reminisce about what I have really left behind.

Guardian Angel

2008-04-08T21:51:00.002-07:00

I’ve often thought of myself as extraordinarily blessed; so much so that I can’t help but wonder from time to time whether there is purposeful, divine intervention sheltering me. My yet discovered celestial reason for being. Take my accident last weekend. I was forced by another vehicle into a concrete wall at sixty miles an hour and walked away without a scratch.

I often deliberate my guardian angel with a Private Ryan-like torment. What have I done to deserve this charmed, unblemished life? For all intents and purposes, I’m a Plain Jane corporate lemming who is too risk averse to change her hairstyle, let alone change the world and thus, my boundless comfort is also my subconscious burden. My uncanny lack of scar tissue (both emotionally and physically) is not just a statistical outlier, but an outright improbability. I say my prayerful thanks with a gnawing guilt that I am misusing my godsent time.

And then I received some appeasing clarity. I was discussing the miraculous outcome of my accident with my preacher’s wife of a sweet, elderly grandmother when she said, “You know, Jessica, you just make so many people happy.” And maybe my purpose is as simple as that…

Welcome to Nevada

2008-03-30T19:48:00.003-07:00

It’s amazing what kind of impact a 45 second change in direction can make. My choice of words is what some might deem ironic (although technically ‘non-impact’ and ‘on-course’ would be the ironic words) given their literal intent. The opening scene: 10am; pure, desert sunshine; crisp, dry, morning air; fresh squeezed orange/carrot juice; convertible top down; CD player set to a crooning Aussie rock band; open highway. A sip of juice and five minutes later another driver forgets to check his blind spot. The closing scene: squealing, fishtailing wheels; burnt rubber; blackened concrete wall; a skid mark spanning four highway lanes and a mangled, leaking, smoking car coming to rest on a bed of jagged rocks.

Aside: Does it seem strange to anyone that there are no airbags deployed in this picture? I will be having a long conversation with Ford on Monday.

That mental video clip has played over and over in my head at least 200 times today and I’m doing my best to avoid contemplating what ‘could’ have happened. I walked away unscathed as did each of my passengers. After the dust settled on my slightly bruised forehead, the tears commenced. I was unharmed and I could not have cared less about my mutilated vehicle. I was crying to drain the emotional panic that had erupted within me because I couldn’t see my husband for the entire 45 second duration of our accident. He had opted to spread out, unprotected across the back seat (giving his best buddy shot gun for our road trip). Until I heard my sweetheart’s voice from behind my headrest, after slamming head-on into a wall of concrete and spinning in a 360 across four lanes of oncoming highway traffic, I had no knowledge of his outcome. The idea of losing my universe of happiness was too much for my psyche to hold inside for long. Traumatic events are a frightening reminder to prioritize.

Hooah

2008-03-09T19:28:00.001-07:00

I am in the midst of boxing up my belongings (and thus, procrastinating) and I came across some items in our closet that inspired me to write a brief post: my husband’s old army ranger uniforms in crisp mint and olive. I couldn’t help but run my fingers across the finely pressed collars, yarn-sewn name tags and metallic decor. He served in his youth, long before we met; crawling through swampy murk, defusing land mines, diving through clouds, starvation, push-ups, chin-ups, blisters, frost bite. The words to describe my pride escape me. I married a hero.

On the Road Again

2008-03-06T20:31:00.002-08:00

My husband and I are ‘do-it-yourself’ kind of people. Scour your own tiles, spice your own beef, move your own house 2,500 miles across the country… My parents call daily to inquire optimistically about the changing of my mind. But what better way to keep the marital adventure sparks flying than to tow my sweet scarlet muscle car behind a 17’ truck filled sparsely with the trinket-like beginning of our life together? [Rhetorical – I can think of many]. Regardless, this was a long drawn out decision that we made together and I’m looking forward to the endless hours of alone time on the back-country highways.

Alma Mater

2008-02-21T22:14:00.001-08:00

Tonight I stood at the front of a room full of ravenously inquiring brilliant minds; young, hopeful, yearning. I began [paraphrase], “Interesting that our firm is presenting to you this evening in this location; I have quite the fond memory of this room because it was within the very same chairs almost 10 years ago that I sat where you are today…” RRRRRiiiiii!!?? [That, if not plainly evident, is my alphabetical representation of a record scratching violently to a halt]. 10 years? Has it really been that long?

What I recall from that fateful 1998 fall evening in the warm confines of the student union building, where I drank hungrily the words of my future colleagues, was pure, intimidation-brimmed excitement. The hymen-tearing “I want to do that” experience; raw, unjaded desire. These consultants represented the brass ring; the fruit of my academic labours. Their delivery was effortless, their passion unparalleled, their culture so obviously unprecedented.

And now I am the embodiment of everything for which I vocationally ached. At least, that’s what I’d like to imagine I exude as I speak with as much confident energy as I can muster to an audience full of Me Juniors; the only thing separating me from them being the words “10 years”. Their drive, their naiveté, it’s so sweetly enviable. The soul of my younger self perches playfully on my right shoulder and mocks, “Oh, for these students to be flies on the wall of your subconscious right about now...”

Control

2008-02-12T21:58:00.003-08:00

There are so many tidbits of information orbiting the hemispheres of my cerebral cortex at the moment that I doubt my present ability to write with any clarity. My mind is peppered with the uncertainty of momentous change and the pong-ball mayhem of my endless to dos. Most days I surface only seconds long enough to gasp hungrily for air before sinking again below the weight of my tiring schedule.

Interestingly enough, in the midst of my deep, sparkling chaos my husband and I have begun to consider our family plan. Unbeknownst to him, many a solitary tear has strolled across my cheeks in the last few weeks as a result. If you’ve read my blog for any short period of time, you know how vividly I dream of children. At the same time, a child means absolute upheaval. What I desire most frightens this control freak in much the same way that a dog trembles under the refuge of a dining table in a thunderstorm. The boom of black clouds rioting is enough to send rational consideration out the window. I married my soul mate who promised me partnership for better or worse; regardless, I cannot seem to squelch this innate fear I have of surrendering dictatorial governance over my own well-being. I rule me. I take care of me. I prosper, because of me. This regime, this formula, this methodology - it has worked for decades. Jessica is because Jessica does all and [please pre-excuse my French] I am scared absolutely shitless to let someone else take over. How can a caregiver accept the role of care given? The answer: with a vehement amount of resistance, procrastination and relative anxiety that materializes in the form of needless overexertion. Hence, the periodic tear or two. How else is a wound up girl like me to release those built up bubbles of hesitation?

Today's Carat Word = Patronymic

2008-02-05T22:00:00.000-08:00

It’s a curious feeling this “in limbo” thing. I’ve been making slow but sure progress on the legal documentation of my new surname, but I still flinch every time somebody refers to me politely as “Mrs. Clark”. It’s been more than four months (not including the few months prior to my wedding where I whispered my future name to my atmospheric audience and practiced my future signature on newspaper scraps) and the adjustment has not sunk in. What's odd is, the sound of my maiden name in conversation is equally as bizarre. My name no longer rolls off my tongue without conscious deliberation; when somebody asks who I am, I hesitate.

In my honest opinion (because what other opinion would I offer?), the only deplorable thing about marriage is the name update process. Though by law I can call myself whatever I please, by convention I’m a traditionalist who loves the idea of sharing my sweetheart’s patronymic; in symbolic gesture of my gratitude and respect. The administrative hours spent in line at the county clerk, DMV, immigration, Social Security, bank and HR (not to mention countless internet upgrades)…have, although fleetingly, made me consider the sanity of my choice.

Now that I’m nearing the end of the paperwork, I wonder how long it will take for the change to feel natural. New clothes – a few days; new address – a few weeks; new car - a month; new name – to be determined…

Fragrance

2008-01-30T20:59:00.000-08:00

“Ooh, but I still smell her. [Inhales deeply through nose] Women! What can you say? Who made 'em? God must have been a fuckin' genius. The hair... They say the hair is everything, you know. Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls... just wanted to go to sleep forever?” - Scent of a Woman

I know each aroma that emanates from my husband and believe it or not, I love every one of them – particularly the scent of his shoulders as my eyes flutter and I curl up against him in those waking moments before the dawn. I love the softness of his breath; the mild sour of his sweat; the apple of his pomade; the sand of his soles; the subtle, entrancing spice of his neck. Whether freshly groomed or leisurely shaggy, he always radiates a hypnotic wonder that paralyzes me. We make for interesting cavies in the study of romantic chemistry.

As I lie next to my husband ingesting his sweetness, or inhale what lingers on his pillow when he is gone, I sometimes find myself considering the importance of aromatic compounds to the success of a relationship. We have been known to writhe in laughter at each other’s unpleasant stories of the fetid clam hatchery and the dime-store musk of former flames. What exactly is it about one person’s hygienic habits that are so repulsive to the first lover, but so palatable to the next? After all that contemplation, all I am left to comprehend is that, whatever olfactory god blessed my husband's glands, he has ruined me for other men.

January's Book of Jessica

2008-01-28T21:44:00.001-08:00

Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult

I have opted out of the book clubs to which I used to belong because I no longer have the leisure of finishing books on a dictated schedule. However, I absolutely love to read (a curse of my premature literacy at age four) and do so as often as my life-balance permits. I envy with virtual seething drool the number of hardbacks Namaste plows through and thus, I have made a new resolution to read, in one year, at least one sixth of what I presume Namaste consumes [excluding her students’ writing and her requisite PhD literature]. In other words, I am attempting to savour one novel per month. I intend to use my blog as a forum to discuss briefly the impressions I develop from my periodic verbal ingestion. My independent book club, if you will.

This month’s fare: a fast-paced, pop fiction best seller from an author known for her deeply emotional exploration of difficult issues. She is the sole writer to have evoked in me a weep-out-loud-for-five-minutes sentiment when I read her acclaimed “My Sister’s Keeper”. Unfortunately with this novel, she failed to reach the heights I have grown to expect. The characters were genuine and unguarded; impossible not to pity. Her descriptions, as always, were magnificent and robust. The problem with this novel was in the storyline; a plot that was both tired and exaggerated, just like a Matthew McConaughey film [A Time To Kill, anyone?]. Despite its hurried gait, the plot twists were strangely roll-your-eyes unbelievable. Halfway through the book I considered shelving it entirely. I was disappointed that she revisited the concept of infidelity with the enduring, lovelorn BFF – a theme that consistently bores me. If not for the vacillatingly virtuous husband and the angelic, victimized son I might have considered the novel a valuable time despoiler. The read was simply bourgeois and my expectations far exceeded the vanilla I was fed.

Vail

2008-01-22T22:21:00.000-08:00

Everyone has a vice; something on which too large a reasonable percentage of one’s income is spent. My vice is travel (and expensive wine; but for the sake of this post we will assume my zest for pricy blends is commensurate with my penchant for world exploration). This is the reason I do not own designer handbags, nor are my appendages adorned with a multitude of Tiffany’s baubles. I’d rather spend my hard-earned salary on airfare. That’s why I keep my Myspace calendar updated, so my friends don’t have to play the “Where’s Jessica” game. I’m hardly ever home.

This week, it’s Vail, Colorado; where I spent the day bulleting through knee deep powder moguls on the back bowls of the mountain. On the last quad-lift of the day preceding my last run, as the wind bit at the air pocket beneath my goggles and the sun illuminated the bleach of the snow-capped trees, I seriously said a prayer of thanks. I realize this manic voyaging is not sustainable; but for now, I give in unreservedly to my vice because…I can.

Are You There God? It's Me, Jessica.

2008-01-17T21:45:00.000-08:00

Interesting that when I’m the most tired, I can’t fall asleep. My thoughts are as flippant and circular as the dryer currently spinning the last of my [formerly moth ball smelling] ski clothes. As the dust of my excitement settles and the certainty of my lease termination taunts me, I battle my nagging doubts solo, in what feels like a hotel bed. This is something I will have to get used to – spending multiple evenings separated from my husband’s thermal affection. I have a million fateful reasons to relocate, but the advocate devil perched atop my ear is fighting logic with claws bared. And, in the midst of this life-altering decision crux, I am headed to Colorado to escape. There is a message here somewhere: a sign, an admonition, a reassurance? Alas, a cryptologist I am not. Instead, I await the 4:30am alarm and wonder (with that same angst-y paranoia I have unwilling inherited from my superstitious grandmother) what is going to become of me when I leap deliberately from the security of my nest…

It's Time

2008-01-13T20:04:00.000-08:00

It appears that I am on the verge of embarking upon [at least what I consider to be] ground-breaking adaptation and there is a huge piece of my psyche that is petrified. One might find it surprising that fierce, confident, fearless Jessica has a hesitancy about change running deep enough that I won’t even upgrade my eons-old (as far as technology is concerned) 4GB iPod. I had no qualms about jumping out of a plane from 14,000 feet or swimming to the floor of the ocean; these exhilarating adventures simply salt and cayenne pepper the average day. But my spirit is bound on a rack of diametrical opposition. On one extreme I am dauntless; on the other extreme I am as bashful as a deer. In 8-plus years I have lived in the same city and worked for the same company. Of course, I have met extraordinary success in doing so; but now, when change is looming, I realize my stability is also the manifestation of my aversion to risk.

The change to which I’m referring is a relocation to Las Vegas. Oddly enough, my husband just left that city a year ago to immerse himself in the fast-track corporate Bunsen burner that is the East Coast [and, of course, me]. So, why go back? Why now? Both questions have been the source of some lengthy, personal, contemplative heart-to-hearts, of which I will spare you all the details. Just know that this is not a whimsical choice.

I’m deliriously excited but timorous; enthusiastic but cautious; intrepid but apprehensive; a vertical, ambulatory paradox. Our decision will be finalized within a week...

Married Fat

2008-01-09T20:17:00.000-08:00

I have gone and done the one thing I warn all women not to do when they snuggle into the comfort of monogamous love: I became momentarily complacent with my weight. Granted, I am not the only participant in my twosome who has packed on a [few] extra pounds of body fat. We are both a mere Chipotle burrito away from hitting what we jokingly agreed would be our respective ‘divorce-appropriate’ mass. This is not a laughing matter. I am a healthy, sexy, energetic and athletic woman who has never known a muffin top. So, in lieu of discussing my gluttony any further, I am heading to the gym. This is not a New Year's Resolution. This is a lifestyle...

Banging My Head Against Your Grammar

2008-01-07T19:58:00.000-08:00

Even the best of us have off days. I’m in the midst of writing six MBA application recommendations for one of my former super star consultants who is applying to the top MBA programs in the nation. As such, I am mortified to admit that I used the non-word “impactful” in his Harvard recommendation. Although not nearly as egregious as the pitiful business grammar I witness on a daily basis, I sincerely hope he is not given demerits for having a slang-infested review attached to his application.

That being said, I have to vent. The following bullet points list some of the grammatical errors I've spotted this week that have driven me to brink of bonker-dom (yes, I realize that is not a word). If I can rescue even one person from grammatical ghetto-fabulosity (yes, I realize that too is not a word) with this blog post I’ll be content.

If you post a picture of yourself, what should the caption read? The answer is “me” or some variation thereof (e.g. “this is me” or “picture of me doing X”). So why then, when people post pictures of themselves with friends or significant others, do they caption the photo “Boyfriend and I”? Does the addition of another entity in a picture warrant a change in the subject? Would you ever say “I and boyfriend”? Exactly. You cannot use "I" without a corresponding verb. Captions like those make me want to poke knives into my eyeballs.
I absolutely loathe the incorrect matching of pronoun to subject. I have already commented on Fergie’s blatant misuse. A singular subject requires a singular pronoun, period. When referring to a distinct person, you must use “his or her” not “their”. A doctor does not treat “their” patient; a doctor treats his patient. A child does not miss “their” blanket; a child misses her blanket.
On a similar note, I groan audibly when I notice writers slaughtering the pronouns “who” (referring to people) and “that” (referring to groups or things). You cannot say “people that” it’s just plain wrong. You would never say something as silly as “baseball tickets who”, so why would you use the word “that” when referring to your brethren? It’s “people who”, thank you very much.
In addition, for the love of God, when will people stop referring to a company as “they” or “their”? McDonald’s does not sell a lot of “their” Big Macs. McDonald’s sells a lot of "its" Big Macs. Seriously people, did we grow up in a jungle? If you insist upon using “their” when referring to the achievements of a corporation then please insert a human entity into the sentence. “McDonald’s managers sell a lot of their Big Macs” would be correct.
Keep your punctuation inside your "quotes," unless otherwise directed by Arjewtino. Thanks.

I do not have perfect grammar (please comment on any flaws you might spot in my posts), but it’s pretty damn solid compared to the atrocities I read in the average correspondence (whether blog or business deliverable, 90% of you are killing me with your grade school errors!). My advice: read a few more books or newspapers instead of browsing the internet so much. At least then you’ll realize that “impactful” is not a legitimate word…

Winds of Change

2008-01-03T22:30:00.000-08:00

For what I will euphemistically coin ‘logistical error,’ I was not able to welcome the New Year with a midnight kiss until 5 minutes after the hour. That moment when you just want to melt into your lover’s arms and drown out the horns and blinking lights in a beautiful, lip-locked pause was train-wrecked by commotion, Grey Goose and the Backstreet Boys (literally). It took multiple minutes for my husband to find me from across the balcony and summon my hormonal self into his arms. The sluice gates of my tear ducts trembled as he gripped my shoulder and reminded me, through tender speech, that I am the most important thing in his universe. His words were as sincere and fervent as he’s ever uttered. The rest of the evening was a chaotic mess of broken Patron glasses; obnoxiously flirtatious old men; smeared mascara; sloppy PDA; misplaced keys; dueling black jack losses; bitter, windy cab lines; and charred snacks – like the din of a B-horror flick on fast forward. 2008 was thrust upon me in the most tumultuous of unscripted impromptu [aside: I am going to leave that tautology in the text simply because I like how it sounds]. For most, such a night would be discarded as unromantic; perhaps even disastrous. However, despite my enduring guilt for having been situated across the bar from my husband at the most fundamental of social-norm ‘together’ times, the genuine love that radiated from his 12:05am words and consoling bear hugs will remain imprinted on my soul in a way no other midnight peck on the lips ever would.

I do not believe in karma so much as coincidence. Regardless, assuming there is meaning behind the happenstance of our ridiculous New Year's outing, 2008 is going to bring spontaneous movement away from the comfort of my status quo, but be overflowing with the most intense, bona fide love I have ever known.* In doing everything traditionally wrong, my sweetheart and I found our own perfect way to say hello to the winds of wonder that breezed so wildly through our New Year’s door.

*Reference cliché: "I love you more today than I did yesterday, but not as much as I will tomorrow."

Light My Fire

2007-12-28T00:55:00.000-08:00

I am sure that if 30 year old me could have had a word with (i.e. influence upon) 20-something me, my life might not have been nearly as exciting as a Twixter. Let’s compare site statistics alone. DC Cookie, my long-[permanently]-hibernating site of singledom, gets twice as many daily hits as my current project. Because let’s be honest, despite the melody of my voice, who [besides best friends and cyber-stalking exes] really wants to hear the droning hum of an old woman’s romantic drivel? I have such vast, worldly wisdom to extend upon the lovelorn masses, but nary an interested, needy listener.

As such, I challenge those who stumble across my SAT-vocab-infused mumblings to suggest a topic of interest (within PG-13 boundaries, of course). In my infatuated state of matrimonial exhilaration, without assistance I simply cannot conjure a "Stream of Jessica" that is not directly related to my emotional jubilation – which, lovely in small doses, can also act as a ferocious audience-repellant. I welcome any and all commentary, anonymous or otherwise, to ignite my creative spark plugs. I am aching for new fodder...

Holiday Family

2007-12-26T10:41:00.000-08:00

I have never spent a Christmas Eve or Christmas Day without my family. Whether Canadian blizzard or temperate West Coast aurora, my sister, my parents and I have always unwrapped our multitude of blessings together following the yuletide dawn; our day awash with giggles, hikes, family games and gluttonous turkey giblets. There is enough laughter in our Christmas celebration to fill a lifetime.

This diaphragm-tightening chortling got me thinking last night about those who are not lucky enough to have family, friends and in-laws vying for their companionship in the holiday season, and those who are unable to escape the claws of their employment to relax for a few weeks as the New Year approaches. The Christmas season is my absolute favourite time of year; a time when stress disintegrates from the merriment of loved ones around a warm fire. And the concept of somebody unable to experience that same warmth with his or her own congregation of relatives minces my heart to shreds...

Viva

2007-12-18T21:52:00.000-08:00

I don’t know what it is about the city of sin, but I absolutely cannot get enough of it. Las Vegas is a desert mirage of grandiose proportions. The clocks stop [or rather, cease to be] and the multitude of toothless gamblers and Amazonian women propel forward as if with slow, chaotic purpose. I am infatuated with the din of clanking slots and techno, the barren breeze and the perpetual neon. I’ve seen the city from every angle; stripper pole to artisan bar; thousand dollar bottle service to e-infested late night rave; family musical to sensuous revue; cool, mountainous hike to sweltering poolside; strip to suburban home. The gaudiness is magical and the local inhabitants are simple in their wants but complex in their open-mindedness.

I have been to Las Vegas more times than I can count (I flew there four times last year alone), but I have never celebrated the beginning of a New Year in this necromantic cesspool of wonder. It is perplexing how uncontained my excitement is for my upcoming Sin City holiday…

Yin and Yang

2007-12-14T17:08:00.000-08:00

After landing on the runway at National Airport a few weeks ago following a trip to Mexico, my cell phone vibrated repeatedly with news from my best girl. She is in love. As I patiently awaited the reappearance of my overstuffed bag at the luggage carousel, I called to listen to her amour-intoxicated voice describe her knight in all his untarnished valiance; she sounded as relaxed and jovial as I’d ever heard her. I beamed. I adore hearing tales of love-revelation, particularly when it’s my best girl who has unearthed her long-merited, romantic compliment. I absolutely cannot wait to meet this fresh, deep-water catch.

Our conversation later reminded me of some unsolicited advice I gave last year, when my sweetheart was being slandered by a woman scorned. Though horribly misconstrued, the intent of my pointed blog post was to remind the Infuriated that love can never be forced, nor should we permit ourselves to erupt green with jealous vitriol when the path we have taken to find it dead ends. We stumble unknowingly through a series of unfit lovers until the yin to our yang comes along and when he does, it’s glorious. I wonder now, when an irrefutable love has been deservedly delivered to her doorstep, if she’ll understand that the blunt vocalization of my counsel was never uncongenial. I hate to see a woman suffer, whether a best friend or a complete stranger. In fact, despite that we have never met, I feel oddly delighted by her new found happiness.

I cannot stress enough the validity of the most common of clichés; “when you know, you know” and nothing else is worth the draining effects of wrathful, heartbroken spite. If rapture, trust and devotion do not instantly envelop both parties in a milkshake of sanguine euphoria, then the recipe needs an ingredient overhaul. And tender patience is the only means to reach that perfect state of satisfaction with the partner for whom we are intended.

It's a Wonder I Don't Starve

2007-11-25T22:44:00.000-08:00

It is with unfortunate biological chance that I did not inherit the gifted cooking genes from my mother’s side of the family. Thankfully my husband is a genius at the stove; even his drunken snacks at 3am involve the sautéing of exotic mushrooms with avocado oil and finely diced shallots.

But when my sweetheart travels, I am left to my own devices. Knowing that there is an elevated likelihood of all the Frosted Mini-Wheats in our house disappearing this week in his absence (for lack of other pre-made ‘instant gratification’ options), he set it up that I would have a series of delicious, reheatable portions of homemade turkey soup available for the duration of my brief solitude. Before packing for a trip to Puerto Vallarta (where I will be joining him shortly), he meticulously cut the last of the turkey from the bones and boiled the carcass into a flavourful stock. The only thing I had to do after dropping him at the airport was add the contents; an easy task, for someone who isn’t a bumbling idiot with a hot pot. How could chopping carrots and scooping grains of rice possibly go wrong?

Humbly, I am the living proof that it can.

First, I determined that celery, onions and carrots were not enough legumes for me. Why not broccoli, or better yet, cabbage? The pretty purple variety…that just happens to turn turkey broth into a veritable borscht (oops number one). And exactly how much dry rice should be added to a 10-quart pot? My un-cuisine-educated guesstimate was 3 overflowing cups, which unfortunately was at least double what was necessary (oops number two). So instead of turkey soup, I’m left to consume an indigo-hued rice casserole for the next three days.

I’m praying that my fatuous housewifery is recessive…

Namaste

2007-11-20T20:16:00.000-08:00

I know for a fact that the lore of the creative muse is not mythical. I happen to have one myself in the fetching form of an olive-skinned femme fatale. She has pillow-y lips, zooma-zoom-zoom rump cheeks and a rhythmical hip thrust that could break a man mid-mambo. Her acorn-sized, cocoa eyes are as arousing and welcoming as a sun-kissed, temperate ocean. When she graces you with a smile, your world becomes so much more than a simple oyster. She neutralizes fear; she discourages boundaries; she cleanses, sanitizes, blesses. She is heaven’s gatekeeper and the caregiver of the universe. For a reason understood only by the cosmic powers that be, she has chosen me as the apprentice friend to whom she reveals [almost, some things are sacred] all. I know both the character she has developed (what Hollywood coins ‘based on a true story’) and the resilient, but oft vulnerable, maiden beneath the cloak; the innocent, untamable, commanding, genius of an edifying wellspring.

She is my muse for many reasons, at the forefront of which is her mastery of expression. She breathes inspiration into a vacant keyboard. If she ever discontinued my complimentary access to the verbal manifestation of her emotional impulses, I fear my writing would evaporate. My ability to place two unlikely words in the same sentence would be lost to apprehension. My blog is the mosquito to her elephant; her posts are the necessary red river of platelets from which this Stream subsists.

This, my dearest Namaste, is my significantly more befitting commentary.

Tears of Sweat

2007-11-19T21:58:00.001-08:00

A word of advice: don’t read Tuesdays with Morrie at the gym. I was out of trashy, starlet-glossed magazines and the book was compact enough to fit on the reading ledger of the cross ramp. The read was quick, common and predictable. Regardless, the final chapter brought a few embarrassing tears to my already pink, puffy, salt-encrusted cheeks. Might have been an ugly scene for a crowded cardio floor if I hadn't been able to pass them off nonchalantly as sweat beads. Thus, can anyone recommend a Plan C to this hour-a-day gym rat who yearns to avoid the quick-sand monotony of her exercise routine? I can only read so much about Brangelina before I want to beat my head with my ipod and the dense content of my latest Erica Jong read is far too thick to rest motionless in front of my bouncing eyes.

31 Flavours

2007-11-13T14:26:00.000-08:00

I have made the bold statement numerous times that every year of my life has been better than the last. It’s easy for an active, healthy, rich (according to world standards) and deeply loved woman to speak so blithely.

And then yesterday, I turned 31. This year’s birthday, falling humbly on a Monday and overshadowed by the tornado of bliss [aside, has anyone else noticed my perpetual use of this particular word?] that was my recent nuptials, provoked a moment of sober reflection. My 30th year was so bounteously saturated with blessings and joyous, epochal events that how am I to top it? In no particular order I fell in love; got engaged; got married; watched my sister cross the portable, sunlit stage as the proud new recipient of a Harvard MBA; drank a Boston lager and ate sweet potato fries with my Dad on his 60th birthday; danced a Floridian jive with my grandfather on his 80th birthday; house-warmed my punk-rocking cousin’s new fixer-upper chateau; toasted my parents in their 35th year of matrimony; earned another six figures with the sweat of my intellect; gave my aspiring-actor cousin a standing whoot following his jaw-dropping stage performance as the lead in Ionesco’s Rhinoceros; high-fived my little-miss-athlete cousin after her team won the Ontario soccer championships; dove, swam, sunbathed and hiked through a paradise half way around the world; spoke French with Parisians in Paris; met the most famous man in rugby in box seats at the World Cup; ran a half-marathon; celebrated Canada Day in Canada’s capital; and started my sparsely-visited [for now] but motivational Stream of Jessica...

With a renewed urgency to make my 31st year of life equally as immaculate, I have hit the gym daily and pondered my course of action. I am the only one in control of the ante. Do I increase my mileage from 13 to 26? Do I learn a new language? Do I pursue an extracurricular degree? Do I outline the fiction novel I so abstractly claim I want to write? Or maybe, do I follow the lead of the tortoise rather than the hare and allow 30 it’s appropriate reign supreme?

All thoughts I let slide into syncopic slumber yesterday night during a romantic, crystal candlelit, pomegranate-themed, White Star infused, home-cooked birthday dinner. There are worse things than plateau-ing at the height of euphoria…

In Flanders Fields

2007-11-12T15:19:00.000-08:00

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
— John McCrae

This past Sunday, after sneaking in behind the choir, I grabbed my old, familiar seat in a middle pew at the church of my childhood (because no Presbyterian chooses the front pews unless amicably forced). The sermon centered on Remembrance Day and when the congregation struck up a proud, vociferous ‘Oh Canada,’ I started to cry. It has been 13 years since I’ve been in a room full of Canadian patriots singing the anthem of my homeland and the angst with which I suddenly longed for maple leaves and frosty air hit me like a GO train.

Hence, why I will absolutely, decidedly, indubitably, positively, unquestionably, determinedly, unequivocally…be attending this event on Saturday. Group of Seven paintings and Canadian ice wine are just the extinguisher I need for my conflagrant homesickness.

Home Base

2007-11-07T16:33:00.000-08:00

I’ve always likened myself an adventurer. I have the luxury of a job that affords me bi-weekly travel to any continental destination of my whimsical desire. This month: Toronto and Puerto Vallarta. I hop onto planes happily and frequently. Meeting new people, drinking exotic cocktails, becoming momentarily immersed into the language, cuisine and dance of foreign cities – I crave these things with constant pangs. Home for me is a comfortable resting place between voyages; a base for take off and landing.

Despite my ping-pong travel schedule, I can count on just one hand the number of times I’ve altered the latitudinal coordinates of my home base; each time never more than a long car ride away from a loved one. Yesterday, however, my sweetheart and I discussed the remote possibility of being whisked away to the land of the kiwis for the job of a lifetime. Still a direct plane flight to my parents’ peaceful California abode, but far, far away from the status quo I have built on the Atlantic Coast. With jittery nerves and a brave face I tell my love that I will follow him to the moon, because I will.

I wonder then what happens to the pangs of cultural curiosity when the adventure becomes the reality?

Art of War

2007-11-04T22:31:00.000-08:00

My mother’s most earnest gift of wisdom she bestowed on me the eve before my wedding as we snuggled, gossiped and relieved the pent up stress of entertaining familial masses was “learn how to fight well.” This was interesting because my sweetheart and I had not yet battled over anything more intense than how many place settings are reasonable to request on our registry (what weighs stronger: the capacity of existing cabinets or a lifetime of slippery-fingered offspring?).

Her point was reiterated this evening during a lively seafood supper with my mother-in-law. She imparted the wisdom her own mother had given to her about the subtle art of cacophonous dispute and was shocked to learn that, even during our extensive travels half-way around the world, my husband and I had not argued.

This is not to say I hibernate naively behind those rosy-hued glasses through which I prefer to view my blessed life. An environment awash with hormones, differing opinions and extenuating circumstances will at some point spark the heated quarrel that we have, up to this point, so blissfully eclipsed thanks to that potent extinguisher called compromise. No matter how inconsequential the debate we listen actively, we persuade patiently, we speak at room temperature, we back-down graciously, and we always, always touch – during and after.

Thankfully, for my mother’s peace of mind, I’ve always been an exemplary student.

Gifts That Keep On Giving

2007-11-01T22:09:00.000-07:00

There is an aura of permanence surrounding a bridal registry; gifts that are meant to survive the tides of a couple’s life together. 12 sets of dinner plates to accommodate for clumsy, unborn toddlers; 12 sets of linen placemats and pewter napkin rings to serve a slew of in-laws a gluttonous Thanksgiving dinner at the couple’s yet-constructed, yet-purchased residence; 6 sets of pillow protectors for the pillows that will send a gaggle of future house guests into restful slumber... The bride is carried across the threshold of her blissful, marital abode and is followed with such an abundance of lasting tokens of the generosity of friends and family that no closet, pantry, desk or cabinet drawer will click completely shut.

The comedy, of course, arises when the bride discovers each memento spurs within her a deep thoughtfulness for the person who sent the gift. She pours a cup of oolong and thinks of her mother’s adoring smile. She dishes a serving of Indonesian beef stew from her slow cooker [aside: she did not prepare this beef stew she is serving and thanks the stars her husband actually enjoys the art of food preparation] and applauds her grandparents for blessing her with a savour for the exotic. She sips Bordeaux from an ornate wine glass and toasts Webcowgirl. She cuddles into her cocoa/vanilla-coloured, thousand thread-count bed sheets, against warm skin, and winks virtually to her California girlfriends. She perches on the ceramic throne in preparation for a 'dainty tinkle' and laughs audibly when the baroque toilet plunger conjures images of her high school BFF...

As such, with unavoidable cliché, the bride humbly concurs with the simplicity and truth of the phrase “it is not the gift but the thought that counts."

Something Borrowed

2007-10-29T20:50:00.000-07:00

Nobody in the world can prepare you for what happens to your insides when your childhood minister holds his hand firmly over the fingers you have entwined between the fingers of your sweetheart and states with a smile “by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” I shivered like an electrified caramel flan, sniffed back a blundering leak from my right nostril, squeaked out an involuntary laugh of elation and smiled so wide that my eyes disappeared. I blinked back the salty mist forming behind my eyelids and basked in the warm breeze that was the love emanating from my husband’s gentle kiss, until my breath returned.

It has been exactly one month since that perfect moment and I have yet to return from the ambrosial cloud on which I landed. I can’t think straight. I have been blessed beyond repair. I have been given Eden.

A dear friend inquired the other day as to what I could possibly write about now that I’m sporting two sparkling bands on my left hand and have vowed my forever to a single man. “You’re married and kind of done; it's the whole happy ever after thing.” Exactly. My life as it is worth documenting has only just begun…

Blogs and Distance Running

2007-09-10T05:36:00.000-07:00

Question: What do blog happy hours in DC and Half-Marathon events in Chicago have in common? Exactly. Nothing. So ask me again why I decided it was rational to attempt to do both in the same weekend? I have never felt more physically miserable than I did coming around the bend of the 13th mile, hamstrings buckling, awash with self-generated brine, than I did yesterday on the heated pavement of those glorious Hyde Park streets.

Rather than blaming my own lack of preparation (the truth is less comical), I have decided to blame my new friend INPY. Four shots into the night he cackled mischievously, "You aren't getting on that plane to Chicago tomorrow...mwaa haa haaaaaaaa."

That being said, in my effort to remain more elusive and poetic than my DC Cookie alter ego, my recap is simply this: Thank you. I was surprised how absolutely decadent it was to see everybody again, and to be flirted with so egregiously before my impending marriage. You all made me feel like the Queen I most certainly am not. My gratitude is immeasurable and my spirit humbled.

And I'm sorry to have missed Barbara, the most gracious and inspiring blogger in our community of verbal artists - thank you again for your thoughtfulness - I adorned my hair with the ribbon from your gift for the remainder of the evening.

I would say "see you next month" but in lieu of attending an October happy hour, I will instead be lying on a chaise lounge on a powdery Indian Ocean beach, beside my new husband, with a dexterous Seychellois resort employee kneading out the tension from my still-aching hamstrings...

Kickin' It Old School - Happy Hour

2007-09-04T07:35:00.001-07:00

I hear the one on the bottom left enjoys a nice vodka tonic, or 8. Last chance to flirt with her before she's a married woman...

Brought to you by: The artist formerly known as Cookie, Arjewtino, I Now Pronounce You, KassyK, Virgle Kent and Just Going With It.

Es Muss Sein - The Karma of September 29th

2007-08-08T21:47:00.000-07:00

After painstaking review of my schedule over the next year, I chose my fast approaching wedding date for the simple fact that it wasn’t near any birthdays, holidays or notorious months of bad weather. It was either this fall or next summer and given the speed at which my sweetheart and I have fused into a single entity, it didn’t make much sense to prolong the legal record of our happiness. The availability of a breathtaking reception venue in the canyons of Southern California, and my childhood minister (willing and able to travel 3,000 miles to marry me) sealed my choice. September 29th, 2007. Something about that date felt auspicious.

Months following the booking did I realize the karma behind my anniversary. On the evening of my wedding it will have been exactly one year to the day that I spent 12 charmed “es wird sein” hours falling in love with the man I’m marrying. September 29th of last year I was in Las Vegas for a business trip. I had decided to spend an extra night in Sin City to be entertained, as was tradition between us, by an old friend. He met me at the Venetian casino while I whittled away a few fifties drinking Grey Goose at a black jack table and then whisked me through lesser known local watering holes and tapas bars off the strip. His smile made me weak. A few hours before my morning flight, he slipped his arm under the curve of my neck, curled up not-so-platonically against my lower back, and massaged my shoulders with his fingertips until I fell asleep. We didn’t kiss that night, but we had before and I knew it was only a matter of days before we would again; he had been offered a job in DC. That chemical connection we’d always downplayed to our friends was no longer constrained by coastal distance or significant others. This was it…

So not only will our wedding date memorialize our vows, it will also be a celebration of the exact hour of our unity as soul mates, one year earlier. I liken the rarity of that coincidence to the purity of our affection, and I look forward to embodying the proof that marital odds can be beaten.

75 Cents

2007-07-30T21:23:00.000-07:00

Today I reached deep into my left pocket to pull out the only 75 cents I had to my name at the time and dropped it into the one free palm belonging to a man holding the hand of a silent, angelic four year old boy in an orange t-shirt. His request "Can you help me and my son get back to Rockville, I forgot my wallet?" The number of times I've heard that excuse could fill a naughty homeless man's detention chalkboard.

I will not lie and pretend I'm seeking bus fare
I will not lie and pretend I'm seeking bus fare
I will not lie and pretend I'm seeking bus fare

I smiled and asked Little Man in his oversized, pumpkin-shaded scrubs how he was doing. His mouth remained firmly sealed; his gaze elsewhere. Little man had clearly been his panhandler father's monkey lure for too many hours that day and it broke my heart. But in the humidity of the day, I couldn't get fired up at the father’s cunning use of innocent bait-age. In a world of have and have-nots, the dividing line between me and this man/son partnership was indisputable. Regardless of the blatant manipulation, the have-not patriarch provided my ‘have’ self with a 75 cent ticket to a clear conscience for the day. I helped a poor man and his son get back to Rockville (eat a sandwich, or smoke a pack of cloves). Anything to get precious Little Man out of the clammy, Northeast sun-haze and back under the comfort of a moral roof.

Please Don't Drink and Blog

2007-07-29T22:48:00.000-07:00

…Or you could end up sending driveling text messages to your newly published author/friend about how proud you are of his accomplishments. For shame.

The Novel

There were several moments this weekend when I felt an unusual sense of joyful melancholy kick into gear. A bliss that provokes somber reflection. Little snippets of wonderful that make me contemplate how much has changed.

In the plush booth of a local lounge where my old blogging friends had gathered to get silly on screwdrivers and whiskey, I perused the introduction to an acquaintance’s debut novel and lamented not knowing better the man behind the verbal philosophies. I was touched when one of my favourite humour columnists praised my rhetoric so vehemently, but distressed that I cannot contribute daily. And again I slouched contritely when I discovered I had not attended such an event, at which I used to be a fixture, since November.

In the dressing room of the bridal shop as I zipped two of my bridesmaids and best friends into their simple, navy blue, chiffon dresses and admired their classic beauty, my smile felt unnaturally forced. It was a blithesome moment, but I felt a distance I wasn’t used to. I no longer know what is happening to them via the real-time play-by-play we used to have as roommates. Though I am the happiest I have ever been, supported unconditionally by my fairytale Prince Charming, I still need the women in my life. My work schedule is such that I am barely able to scrape together quality time with my fiancé; and as a result my girlfriends feel the greatest brunt of my absence. The growing pains that come with life’s milestones are to be expected and even though I struggle to find that one-on-one time that flowed so freely in our youth, I hope they know I love them just as deeply as I always have.

Interesting that every disappointment breezing across my thoughts this weekend centered on a single theme; time…and the regret for the way in which I prioritize it. I suppose that even as we go along our divergent paths, we always have our memories to ground us.

Citizen Canadia

2007-07-17T22:15:00.000-07:00

My heart has been burdened since I discovered the one thing I swore up and down I would NEVER do is going to be a requisite sacrifice of my marriage. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in common citizenship…I will be taking a vow of loyalty, duty and support of the man I love. And as a result, for reasons irrelevant to my point, it appears I may be obliged to renounce my homeland; that extraordinary tundra of a moose-pasture that shaped my inner being.

I sport a maple leaf tattoo on my backside. I eat poutine and drink 2-4s of Rickards Red. Gord Downie’s voice makes me jizz. I cheer for the Olympic athletes in red and white spandex and I care which province wins the briar. I love the word eh? The joyful tears that sweat from my lashes each and every time I see my ‘welcome home’ sign are just one of the multitudinous proofs that I am the spitting resemblance of Stompin’ Tom Connors’ Real Canadian Girl.

So why, if I have lived and loved in the United States for almost half my life, does the thought of being anything more than a green card-bearing, permanent resident give me such fits of heart burn? But for my sweetheart...I'll do what I need to.

In Flight

2007-07-11T21:24:00.000-07:00

I never had a fear of wedging my hips securely in place by the seatbelt of a hurtling human sardine can; it’s something I do every other week. In fact, whenever possible, I tuck into the window seat so I can survey God’s wonder passing below the cumulonimbus puffs of air on which I ride towards my destination of the moment. I swore for the longest time that my dream career was not consultant or writer, but rather, commercial airline pilot. Neither turbulence nor icy wings could dissuade my opinion that airplanes are the most miraculous of vehicles. I have picnicked at Gravelly Point for hours just to hear the deafening roar of engines pushing tin.

Why then, do I suddenly find my heart in my throat with each spontaneous ding of the fasten seatbelt sign or decrease in the decibels emitted by the motors? Because at 30, my iceberg of invincibility is just beginning to melt. In all my infinite happiness it is only now that I am able to conceive of what I would be leaving behind, God forbid something were to happen to me. And in an environment where I have absolutely no control over my own safety, regardless of the odds, my mind starts to wander.

The fears however, will never stop me from continuing to duck into those speeding metal cabins of fascination. Like I said, it's just...what I do.

Baby Elizabeth

2007-07-07T09:36:00.000-07:00

For the most part I wake up from a dream feeling either momentary confusion as I acclimate to the light, or relief that I was only envisioning the ridiculous tableau of jealous former flames or dangerous alien menace that had displayed so vividly across my subconscious only minutes before. As I regain my bearings, I curl up into the curve of my sweetheart’s arm and he squeezes the hand that I slip gently under his fingers to reassure me that his presence is every bit as real as it feels.

The other morning, however, in a shocking moment of biological clock tickage, I woke up after a graphic dream feeling…disappointed. I had been lying on the tissue-coated plastic of a doctor’s examination table, gelatinous fluid on my exposed belly, staring at my tiny likeness on an ultrasound screen; a smiling head of curls. But when I opened my eyes it was only my sweetheart who lay beside me, no little one in brew.

With less than three months to go until I marry my perfect match, I’m not surprised that my subliminal imagination is running rampant. In the 30 years since I emerged from my mother’s womb I have always known what I’ve wanted. The overwhelming thing is, those feeble figments of desire are now my life.

For a brief moment, I experienced the same elation that I’m going to feel when I enter the gates of motherhood. I’m not racing to that finish line, I’ve spent 30 years weed whacking my way through to the ideal paternal candidate and I am savouring every breath-taking minute of our courtship. The disappointment I incurred in the sunrise following my dream was simply a side effect of detoxification. When I do reach that milestone, motherhood is going to be the high I will never come down from.

**May I also extend heartfelt congratulations to my dear friend Ted whose beautiful baby girl was born the very hour of said reverie.

Grammar Police

2007-07-05T18:02:00.001-07:00

“I’m gonna miss you, like a child misses their blanket...” So, not only is my boy Josh Duhamel dating a troll, he’s also dating a grammatical misfit. How are the young millennials supposed to learn how to speak their own language correctly when the songs that infiltrate their middle school radios match singular nouns with plural possessive pronouns?

Trying to Decide...

2007-06-27T21:02:00.000-07:00

...if I should worm my way back into the blog spotlight or not. Back in my heyday, people I'd never met used to approach me in bars because they knew my face from my blog. I was quoted, I was chastised, I was linked, I was adored. Whether the adulation was sincere or not, I was always flattered. But I haven't been to a blogger happy hour since November and the vacillation of the scene is such that, at this point, a scant few would even know who I was. Four months off is career suicide in the blog world.

My intentions vary now from my original dessert-nicknamed goals. And I wonder if I have the courage or desire to withstand the public scrutiny I so welcomed with my last endeavour. I welcome commentary, but at what expense? I temporarily exited the blog world to avoid the inevitable vitriol of personal dramatics; my words are always laced with the pure kindness of my soul and I wanted nothing to do with spiteful battle. This is simply an after-hours extracurricular, not my life (of which I'm only willing to reveal innocuous, pedestrian tidbits) Thus, my hesitation to announce my return with floodlights.

I am here again, sans alias, writing to placate the explosive needs of my imprisoned, creative demon. And the question remains, what kind of visibility do I truly desire and how much would I be willing to sacrifice to achieve it?

Bertha

2007-06-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

Despite the few extra curves I’ve carried around with me since early adulthood, I’ve never felt burdened by my weight. I’ve never been controlled, nor limited, by the three digits on the scale that vary by a pound or two depending on the time of month.

Which is why, instead of feeling disgust or objection at the sight of a 400-pound woman gimping out of Fuddrucker’s the other evening, I experienced heartache. Each cane-assisted footstep was painfully effortful because her jello-loaf calves were the size of a toddler. There was no evidence of ankles. If curled into a fetal position, I could have fit my entire body into the cavern of her belly. The folds of skin under her chin pulled her face into a permanent frown (or perhaps that was the result of the additional weight of people’s ridicule). Each breath was an ordeal. I couldn’t imagine what sort of damage would occur to a spirit to be caged in such an enormous, downtrodden physical space; unable to take a natural stride at will.

The extra five pounds of ‘relationship complacency’ that has deposited around my hipbones does not restrict my ability to run half marathons, ascend a flight of stairs two-at-a-time, lift heavy furniture, or even walk to my car from the entrance of a restaurant. It was the pitiable woman I observed struggling to function at the most basic of levels who served to remind me what the burden of obesity can do to one’s soul.

May I never let those five pounds turn into fifty. I just signed up for the Chicago half-marathon.

I Am Not Bridezilla

2007-06-21T22:38:00.000-07:00

No more than a year ago you may have spotted me in the middle of (or on the stage above) any local scene-ster dance floor, sharing many a Grey Goose and tonic with the shirt of my hunky male dance partner of the moment. I lived in the nightlife, faithfully, for the better part of my 20s, stretching my body to the legal limits of indulgence. You may have even been blessed to have met my counterpart; that wear-a-wig-for-no-reason, shot-pounding, bar-dancing, boisterous tornado of a socialite whose mastery of flirtation has saturated male egos across the globe.

I can’t imagine that anyone who played with me in my moonstruck glory would have pegged me to be the settled, stay-at-home mom type. But I met my match in a gifted man who could both keep up with me and calm me; follow me on every one of my whimsical paths and revel in my glow. There was not a doubt in my mind from the moment he first grasped my hand and smiled at me that I would love this man until I die.

And so, here I am, just a few short months away from proclaiming my vows of unconditional surrender in front of an intimate audience of family and close friends. The planning has been as effortless as the engagement. Despite the numerous hours of detailed research performed so generously by my mother, the decisions have all been simple and unanimous. At the end of the day, it’s not about the complexity of the invitation, the flare of the décor on the head table, the number of roses in my bouquet or the VW in the label of the dress. Our wedding is simply meant to be a celebration that happiness, the way Hollywood tells it, really does exist. Anyone who frets about the thread-count of the reception table napkins should really reexamine her reasons for saying 'I Do.'

Diner Food

2007-06-19T19:24:00.000-07:00

It was a good buddy who forewarned me never to voyage past the central landmark. Never go east of Comfort St. It’s run-down; saturated with the dregs of the impoverished; dangerous and tattered. “I wouldn’t go there, it isn’t safe.” I heeded his advice until this evening when, after an excruciating day, I found myself famished enough to throw caution out the roof of my convertible.

I suppose then that my shock was understandable as every driver used his signal and waved a ‘thank you’ as he passed; every tired blue collar worker walking the mile-plus journey home at dusk, sans automobile, carried a smile on his face; every patron in front of me at the local diner stuffed an unnecessary dollar in the tip jar at the take-out counter. This may not be Park Avenue, but the inhabitants welcomed me in their streets with such reassuring integrity that my conscience couldn’t help but pang from the guilt of having fallen victim to the rumours of second-hand judgment with obvious naiveté.

Poor does not equate to criminal. Shame on me for not doing my homework before avoiding a venue so enriched with joviality...and divine roast chicken.

A Friend Reminded Me

2007-06-18T20:51:00.000-07:00

Can a woman proclaim to have an amigo she has never met? A warm, moustached man with a likely southern drawl who sends her Christmas DVDs every year despite her absence?

I went for a long run Sunday afternoon to clear my mind. I have been heavily burdened in the last few months by the weight of my inability to say 'no.' I work too hard. I determined a 5 month engagement was a reasonable amount of time to plan a cross-coastal wedding. I travel virtually every weekend to see friends and family dispersed across the Americas, leaving scarcely enough time to nurture the friendships in my own backyard. I rest my weary head on my pillow each evening waiting for the fast-forwarding of my life to wane.

The path I chose that particular afternoon took me through a Spanish neighbourhood of such amicable proportions that the gregariousness made me whimper with regret. Extended families lingered peacefully on every stoop, basking in the calm of the perfect sunshine. The children smiled coyly and the women waved their jovial 'holas' as I skittered past. That was what a Sunday evening should be; an icy lemonade at dusk in the company of mi familia. Somehow I have lost sight of that in the whirlwind of filler that is my current state of being.

I wondered then if I shouldn't consider writing again. Whether talented or not, it's the hobby I adore more than any other. And it was a masked amigo, one who has supported my creativity since the dawn, who coincidentally reminded me it was time for my return... So yes, though I have not [yet] shaken his hand in person, I will call this gentleman my friend simply because I am grateful for his support.