Sonnet 87

Happy birthday to my fiancé, who is a sprightly 34 (thirty-four; treinta y cuatro; trentaquattro; trideset četiri; třicet-čtyři; fire og tredive; vierendertig; tiedonhaku-ja neljä; trente-quatre; vierunddreißig; tριάντα τεσσερα; trettifire; trzydzieści cztery; trinta e quarto; treizeci şi patru de; тридцать четыре; trettiofyra) today. Many happy returns from your 30-year-old fiancée, who adores the hell out of you and wishes you many more years of being four years older than I am for the rest of our lives. This is the seventh birthday I’ve shared with you and I’m just as excited to celebrate with you as I was in 2002. I still remember you lamenting the idea of turning 28 (fer crissakes, you said). Now you insist that you are a mere 29. How time changes our perspectives, eh?

In all seriousness, though, happy birthday to the man who, within the year, will be my husband. The names may change — date, boyfriend, fiancé, husband — but you’re always simply IP, the man who loves me for who I am, as I love you for who you are. We’ll celebrate with good food, good ice cream cake, a gift that I hope will help you reach your goals, and with the knowledge that we’ll have a wonderful time, at this birthday and the next and the next and the next . . .

Felíz cumpleaños, honey.

IP and I have received our first gift in the wedding sweepstakes (as it were). The gift came from a couple who is friends with IP’s parents. What was amazing to me, besides the fact that we already have a gift in hand? My name was spelled correctly! Yippee!

That aside, the gesture was very sweet but it highlights something that IP and I have discussed seriously prior to and after our engagement: we have a “no gift” rule for the wedding. We realize we can’t control the little gifts that come to us during the engagement period, but when RSVPing at our wedding website, guests will see that we are not requesting gifts, are not registered, and believe that their “presence is present” enough for us. Some people are going to be making long treks to see us getting married (and partake in the booze and food that we offer that day) – we don’t want them to make an extra expenditure because the purpose of our wedding isn’t a gift grab. It’s for us to, you know, get married.

I’ve seen pretty bad registries in my day. The Wedding of the Century (TM) featured a registry that had personal DVD players and ping pong tables – I got them towels, I think. I understand that some couples add big-ticket items to their registries so that the bridal party or family members can contribute to one huge gift, but this registry had nary the gift under the $50 mark. The weddings I’ve attended recently prominently feature Williams-Sonoma goods, and I know that neither half of the couple is into cooking. Almost every single registry I’ve had to scan has included a KitchenAid mixer – and don’t forget to get the lovely couple the extra attachments so that they can make their own wedding cake! All in all, I’ve always resented my friends for their registries because they always seem so incommesurate with who they are as individuals and as a couple. I am not getting you a KitchenAid mixer when I know I can bake circles around you with a hand beater, my dear friend.

While a wicked part of me would love to return the favor (and my mother is horrified that I won’t stick it to my friends with some Williams-Sonoma items of my own), the plain fact is that IP and I don’t need anything. We’re pretty much set. We both have good salaries (please let them change soon, though – we’ve worked out asses off), we have an overstocked kitchen thanks to moving in together, and we really want to avoid any kind of gifts that might lead people to believe that they have any say whatsoever in the wedding details. If you’re thinking parents, bingo. Any offer to contribute to the reception is always dangerous because you cede control of decisions and (possibly) the guest list, and that is what IP and I are trying to avoid. We’re in our 30s and prefer to think of ourselves as self-sufficient. The wedding is to highlight the legalization, as it were, of our companionship and love, not to start life out as adults. Adults we already are even if we sometimes act like kids while on vacation.

My philosophy in wedding planning is from Shakespeare’s Henry V (the opening line of that play, coincidentally, was also this blog’s first tagline):

O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate,
you and I cannot be confin’d within the weak list of a country’s
fashion; we are the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that
follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults . . . (V.ii)

That’s not to say that IP and I are great kings; we’re obviously not, but the quote is to say that we are the makers of manners of this shindig, and we’ll be damned if the find-faults (read: the wedding-industrial complex, not our poor guests) push us towards what we don’t want. Our no gifts request is probably going to get people buzzing, and I’ve been warned that such a policy has the potential to offend. I don’t doubt this because a lot of people like to give; I’m like this myself, but if a couple specifically asked for our presence only, I think both IP and I would be happy to acquiesce. There will be people who give us gifts, anyway (and one can only hope that we won’t be lugging an unneeded KitchenAid mixer back to DC), and we’ll send polite thank you notes and be gracious. You sometimes can’t stop a generous spirit no matter how sincere you are in explaining that all you want is for them to be there that day.

Those obligatory invites, on the other hand . . . well, that’s another post for another day.

Finally, an update to the book list. It’s been a long time in coming – nearly two months since the last book list entry. I’m unsure if I’ll even list the book I’ve read in the correct order (although, to be fair, I haven’t read that many books since then). I am, however, only two books behind where I was this time of year, and my reading has suddenly picked up considerably. I have discovered a new series that is sure to propel me into 2006-2007 book list territory.

I recently finished Daniel Gilbert’s Stumbling on Happiness, Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight, Ken Follett’s The Pillars of the Earth and Jasper Fforde’s The Eyre Affair: A Thursday Next Novel. Let’s summarize my ratings: read Gilbert, ditch Meyer, ditch Follett and snatch up Fforde as soon as possible. Read Gilbert because he doesn’t profess to tell us how to be happy but tells us why we’re never as happy as we imagined our future selves to be; it’s a good lesson in humanity and something to keep in mind as we try to predict our futures. Ditch Meyer because this hack has already made enough money (and thank god that I borrowed this book and didn’t pay for it) and shimmering vampires is a really, really stupid idea. Ditch Follett because he’s a boring writer and wouldn’t know medieval life if it bit him in the ass. Snatch up Fforde because it’s bound to be the most creative, inventive piece of fiction that you’ve read in a while.

The Eyre Affair was recommended to me by my good Dyn-o-mite! friend and now-bridesmaid L (not the same bridesmaid-saga College friend L; Dyn-o-mite! L is probably going to get scathing looks from College L at the wedding). Dyn-o-mite! L is my Harry Potter buddy outside of the family; in the last few years, she joined us for the midnight releases of the last few books. I was hesitant at first given the “Eyre” part of the equation. I do not like Victorian literature, and find the Brontë sisters and their Gothic writings to be insufferable at best. I much prefer, to my great surprise, the postmodern prequel Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys (keeping in mind that I find Victorian and postmodern literature to be a special kind of hell for a medievalist like myself).

My fears were unfounded; the novel takes place in an alternate 1985 where the Crimean War still rages, England is a police state, and Richard III is played every Friday night in Thursday’s home town of Swindon, complete with audience participation a la Rocky Horror Picture Show. It is the last fact that made me fall in love with this book: if there’s one revisionist history I like to follow, it’s Richard III’s – a fairly good king who was not the monster Shakespeare makes him to be, I have sympathy for the family misfit who was probably the only one could’ve ended the War of the Roses had he been given a legitimate chance.

The book’s 1985 is extremely contradictory to our own; had we been this advanced in 1985, who knows what we’d be up to today. I won’t spoil the book, but suffice it to say that time travel is possible, entering a book is probable, and having a dodo for a pet is commonplace. It helps, of course, if you’ve read Jane Eyre. “Was that the one with Mr. Darcy?” IP asked after confirming that he had read Jane Eyre during my recommendation of this book to him.

“Nope, that’s Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen,” I responded. “Mr. Rochester instead of Darcy.”

“Damn,” IP replied, unperturbed. “They’re all the same.”

“No kidding,” I answered. You don’t have that problem with distinguishing Shakespeare from Marlowe from Kyd.

(I realize that Austen is not Victorian literature and she is tough to classify; however, the pairings off that happen in Austen’s books and the Brontës’ books can kind of muddy the memory waters if you’re not into this type of literature.)

This book, though, is a lit geek’s dream. Police state as the obvious deal breaker, I wouldn’t mind living in a place where people were passionate enough about literature to riot for it, raise money to rescue a beloved (though not by me) literary heroine, and memorize Richard III. The prose is witty, intelligent and straightforward; the plot requires an enormous suspension of disbelief that we all do anyway when we watch a paleontologist living in Manhattan who never seems to do any fieldwork or research, yet lives like a king; the adventure is entertaining and hilarious, a nice sly wink to the literature nerds around the world. If you like wordplay, adventure, intelligence and pride yourself on your literary prowess, read it: you won’t regret it. Though you may find yourself wishing for your own Will-Speak.

Barnes and Noble will soon get an order from me for the rest of the Thursday Next series. For now, though, I’m reading Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief, which promises to be a good book if not a tad depressing.

Onto the book list:

Finished:

1) Flesh and Spirit: Private Life in Early Modern Germany by Steven E. Ozment
2) Women at the Beginning - Origin Myths from the Amazons to the Virgin Mary by Patrick J. Geary
3) Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris
4) A Man for All Seasons: A Play in Two Acts by Robert Bolt
5) Lisey’s Story by Stephen King
6) 1776 by David McCullough
7) The Savage Detectives: A Novel by Roberto Bolaño (Translation by Natasha Wimmer)
8) The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O’Farrell
9) Duma Key by Stephen King
10) The World Without Us by Alan Weisman
11) Me by Katharine Hepburn
12) The Know-It-All: One Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World by A. J. Jacobs
13) The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
14) Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert
15) Twilight by Stephenie Meyer
16) The Eyre Affair: A Thursday Next Novel by Jasper Fforde

Re-read:

Empty

Currently Reading:

1) The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
2) Saints and Sinners: A History of the Popes by Eamon Duffy
3) The Aeneid by Virgil (Translation by Robert Fagles)

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Boyfriend, or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

1) People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
2) Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn by William J. Mann
3) I Was Told There’d Be Cake by Sloane Crosley

Voldemort has somehow triggered Armaggedon, and IP and I find ourselves smack in the middle of it during a museum visit in DC. We have some family and friends with us as the sky starts to darken, the streets of DC begin to crumble and allow molten lava to pour through, and shrieks of terror and despair can be heard all around. The challenge that we need to meet and stop all this to return things to normalcy? Navigate the surrounding Smithsonian museums, where a cavalcade of monsters, demons, and madmen await us. Accompanied by the irritating John Leguizamo who for some reason wants us to call him “Chato”, we began to make our way through the hell that good old Voldie has created. “Didn’t Harry kill him?” I keep on thinking to myself. “Thanks a bunch, four-eyes.”

We triumph, though, with no loss of life to our little team. DC returns to normal, those who had been hurt or killed in the fray restored to health and life. Fast forward to what is definitely a few years later: Voldemort is pissed off that an intrepid band of Muggles, led by a researcher and policy analyst, has managed to defeat him. He decides to send one more plague, one that’s a bit harder to contain: zombies. His initial zombie created, he sends this one out to attack Chato; Chato becomes a zombie and starts spreading the zombieism, his memory of us leading his band of dead brothers to our front doorstep.

I’m panicked – I know that this is much harder to control since a) one bite and you’re a zombie, 2) head shots are really hard and ammunition is limited, and III) no one really believes you when you know this is happening. IP doesn’t believe me in this case, conducting his everyday business without batting an eyelid. It’s the weekend, and we’re home with what appears to be our toddler daughter – she’s running around in a cute yellow and white checker-patterned dress, oblivious to all of this. I’m meanwhile loading us up with guns, ammunition, food and water, boarding up the windows and preparing to make a stand. We’re living in a beautiful house that’s bright, sunny and open thanks to large windows – wonderful in one sense, horrible in that glass is easily smashed by a horde of zombies. The infection hasn’t reached us just yet but it’s making its way.

A sudden knock at the door. It sounds disjointed, frenzied and inhuman, the exact sort of knock you expect a zombie to make. The baby squeals in delight and rushes to the door, but I pull her back and hand her to IP. I refuse to open the door and IP insists, putting down the baby and heading to the door. The opening of the door prompts the person on the other side to push in, and when I see this reaction, I panic and try to push the door closed. The person pushes back, and with IP pulling me away from the door, someone who I guess is a friend of ours stumbles in, unhurt but panicked – he’s seen what’s coming and it is not good. In all this confusion, the baby slips out the door. I look out the window after looking for her and see that she’s already managed to safely cross the street, walking towards another toddler and a large group of people. I can’t tell from this distance if they’re zombies or not, but I’m not going to let my princess find out by herself.

Urging IP to help me, we run across the street, successfully getting across after a few near misses (I was nearly hit by a bright blue cab). As we approach, we see that the people are not zombies, but they’re holding another group of people hostage. My daughter is playing with the other toddler and there are negotiations going on about them. These people seem aware that we’re all in deep shit and terribly exposed at the moment, but they’re not armed and not making moves to find cover. Dodging in between people, I scoop the baby into my arms. She struggles a bit, wanting to play, but stops when she realizes that I’m scared. She whimpers a bit, buries her face into my neck, and I then realize that IP, my daughter and I are new hostages for these people. I plead with them to let us go back to our house, but they seem hell-bent on making some kind of stupid stand.

I start to shout at them, calling them crazy, when a noise distracts me. As I look over—

I wake up.

Note to people responding to emails that I have sent them, in which my first name appears unabridged and in its correct three-syllable glory: my name ends with an “a”. For example, with my pseudonym: name’s WordNerd, not WordNer. Your dumb ass mistake is why I respond to you with the last letter of my name underlined for full effect. I realize that any name longer than three syllables is hard for English speakers in general, but do not make me start capitalizing the last letter so that it may capture your attention somehow. My name is who I am — to cut it off and effectively turn me into someone else really pisses me off, big time. Also remember that misspelling someone’s name is a surefire way to get onto their shit list, especially if the name IS. RIGHT. IN. FRONT. OF. YOU. Fucking read, assholes. At the very least, copy and paste!

And there is not a “q” in my last name. A “g” is not a “q”. There is a difference.

Thank you for your attention.

♦  I have jury duty in a couple of weeks. This is all well and good because I view this as an opportunity to do some heavy-duty reading and avoid work. I realize that there is a chance I may end up selected for a trial, but as long as the trial ends the day before I’m scheduled to leave for Michigan, all will be well. I will, however, take along my flight receipt and also drag along some thick bridal magazines. I plan to intone the following if necessary:

“I’m willing to serve, but I do have a flight to Michigan next week. And it’s to see family and select my wedding venue – let me assure you that there will be another trial, probably Murder One, for my mother if I am blocked from traveling in any way, shape or form. Here, she’s on the phone threatening me right now, check it out. Do you have more donuts?”

♦  We have begun to tentatively discuss the musical selection for our wedding reception and we so far have three competing ideas: 1) play our own music (which makes me nervous because I don’t think anyone in our crowd could play DJ well), b) hire a DJ (which makes us both nervous because we don’t want any assholic behavior from said DJ to get people out onto the dance floor – we’d also like to avoid current pop and R&B music from invading our nuptials, and III) a mariachi band. The mariachi band would be a fabulous idea that can be limited by two things: noise restrictions in our space and/or cost. Doing some searching today I finally found lots of mariachi bands listed in the Detroit area and gave my father the number for a Detroit band that played with Mariachi Los Camperos de Nati Campo at the University of Michigan in 2006 – Mariachi Especial Alma de Mexico. I initially found them through a search that led me to Mojo’s Mariachi Wake-Up, done for 95.5 FM’s morning show. Ah, Mojo. I remember you well. I preferred the 89X morning show, though.

And yes, we would have the mariachi band play more than the standard “Cielito Lindo.” It’s a beautiful song, but is that the only other mariachi song gringos know besides “El Jarabe Tapatío” (Mexican hat dance to all you cretins)? Also, logistics are on my mind here: After dinner entertainment? Cocktail hour? Stick to boleros? Let them play the raucous stuff at some point? Switch to DJ or DIY music at some point? GAH! Stupid logistics. This is why I prefer research. I can find the information for you but I hate providing a time line.

♦  I have informed Friend L, gently but firmly, that she is not going to be a part of my bridal party. Her reaction so far has been the silent treatment – but I’m not even attempting to get in touch at this point. Either she will get over it or nurse it as a grudge for years to come (I vote the latter); unless I hear from her telling me that she does not want to be invited to the wedding, I’ll still send her an invitation. I know that she’s plenty angry at the moment, but it comes down to selecting people who I think have been real friends to me over the years. It’s always been difficult with her, and this year really is the straw that broke the camel’s back. I also want my bridesmaids to have fun, relax and get along (no expensive parties, no ridiculous dresses, no unreasonable demands from yours truly – the only thing I really want for them is to enjoy themselves) – Friend L is currently too self-absorbed to enjoy the moment or other people. In picking the two people that I did, I ensure that we’ll all have a great time, be laid back about everything, and not have many awkward situations.

♦  I finally got around to insuring my engagement ring this week. The cost wasn’t outrageous and I’m very happy that IP and I went ahead and did so. What prompted me was that I’ve noticed that one of the prongs on my setting is loose – the prong will have to be tightened to secure the emerald in place. Since emeralds aren’t as tough as diamonds, I didn’t want to take the ring to a jeweler uninsured only to have the jeweler destroy the stone (that would cue a very pissed off WordNerd and IP). Now that the ring is insured, I plan to take the ring to a local, small business gemologist who will presumably know how to work with emeralds. I don’t think the emerald is going to fall out of the setting anytime soon, but the sound of the stone moving on the setting is alarming. Thank jebus for our helpful and friendly insurance agent (and for the electronic form of the appraisal that IP and I have on hand).

♦  I will admit, without remorse or compunction that I have been practicing one thing that I will need to do frequently after the wedding: sign my new name. While I plan to keep my maiden name professionally, I will add IP’s last name to my already long string of names socially. I am not dropping a thing – I will have four names, and three of those names will all be last names (my mom’s maiden name is my middle name). Socially, I will introduce myself as WordNerd WordNerdia IPa – I won’t hyphenate IP’s last name, but I will make a special effort to make sure that WordNerdia is always included when people are addressing me. I also like how WordNerdia breaks up “WordNerd” and “IPa” – there’s some assonance going on there and it sounds jarring to my ears. Insert “WordNerdia” and it’s all good. However, the reason I have been practicing is because of this: the letter with which my future husband’s last name begins looks awful in my handwriting. I will even go so far to admit that I printed out a practice sheet (yep, just like the ones they use in second grade) and attempted to teach myself a nice cursive capital letter [message redacted]. Alas, it still looks awful. I guess I have about a year to practice.

Wedding update complete!

Oh, Spindly-Legged Couple. Why do you even try?

The Spindly-Legged Couple, mentioned on this blog only in comments, is an tiny yet interesting aspect in the lives of my dear fiancé and I. The SLC are what could be considered neighbors, but they do not live in our building; they live a few buildings down. They are tiny and skinny. The woman reminds me of the substitute teacher in “Die Hand Die Verletz”, an episode of the X-Files. The man reminds me of a Dilbert who is thin and dark-haired (yes, too-short pants included). They take the bus to the Metro every single day while we hoof it up a mile; that’s why we have tree trunk legs and they do not.

A little background on the SLC. One day when walking home, SLC appeared behind IP and me. Not really having anything to do with them, we just continued our chat. At the point in our walk where we have to cross the street to get to our buildings, SLC decided to attempt to bypass us by trying to cut us off diagonally from the sidewalk. IP and I easily passed them, continuing our chat, leaving them far behind. When they had disappeared into their own building, I turned to IP in disbelief: “They tried to cut us off! Why? We walk faster than they do! We’re from goddamn University of Michigan, for Pete’s sake! We learned to walk fast with the best!” (Note: this is not intellectual arrogance on display; it’s the fact that everyone I’ve ever hosted on the U-M campus who is not attending U-M always complains that U-M students walk too fast.)

IP acknowledged that a cutoff had been attempted and laughed at their puny attempts (imagine a Hanz and Franz type of laughter emanating from the two of us).

A few weeks later, still mortally offended and feeling physically superior, I spotted SLC ahead of us at a major intersection, waiting for the little white walking dude to give them the go-ahead. My eyes narrowed. “Spindly-Legged Couple. Dead ahead.”

IP’s eyes also narrowed into dangerous slits. “Let’s go.”

(Note: Do not fuck with IP.)

We easily breezed by SLC, hearing their hurried yet somewhat receding footsteps behind us as they desperately pumped their spindly legs in a vain attempt to catch us. We casually batted aside their efforts.

Subsequently, SLC has tried various times to beat us if we’re together or apart; it never works. We just hear the click-click-click of their shoes as they try to pick up the pace but fail. Moments of hilarity include one instance in which the SLC were waiting for the bus up to the Metro; I continued on my merry walking way as I had no delusions of beating mass transit, seeing the bus pass me shortly after I started my mile-long trek. Upon settling into my usual waiting spot on the platform, I turned to see the woman ascending the escalator to the platform. Her eyes met mine and a smile crept onto my lips after she mouthed a truly pissed off fuck.

Another memorable moment during a morning encounter occurred on my way to the Metro. I had just exited my building and was playing with my iPod, not even close to the SLC’s building, when they emerged with garbage and recycling in hand. I ignored them since I was far more concerned with my music, but as soon as they saw me, their pace visibly quickened. When putting down their garbage and recycling, the guy kind of fumbled and couldn’t get it to stand up, so it spilled a bit over the sidewalk – prompting to the woman to whisper “Hurry!” and cast a glance back at me. You’d think I was some awkward but advancing zombie, reading to feast on their spindly limbs if they didn’t unsnag their jackets from the willow tree in time. They finally got the stuff stable and took off, the female half’s arms pumping wildly. The bus came to the street stop and they raced on board, grateful to leave me and my so awesome legs behind. I don’t think that counts as a triumph as we didn’t start out on equal terms, nor did I make any attempt to catch them and scare the hell out of them.

Needless to say, we’re not friendly with the SLC, but I still maintain that they started it. IP once suggested that we tone down the rivalry; I disagree because they decided to use us as pacers and lost badly. I do not set the pace; I break the pace (that’s the competitive runner in me who was targeted by a high school kid’s father as the pace setter for his kid; I proceeded to beat her in every race we happened to be running; he proceeded to get angrier and angrier each time it happened). Besides, they’re keeping it up – behold the latest and greatest encounter:

Yesterday, IP and I boarded the Metro at Metro Center, finding a comfortable seat in the surprisingly air-conditioned car. As I fumbled to adjust my things, IP nudged me and nodded his head across the aisle. “Look,” he hissed.

Ah, the SLC. I have rarely seen them so close up – they were sitting in a seat diagonal to us, and I was struck at how severe they look for a young couple. They are pale, bird-like and constantly wear dark clothes; we figure they are either Men In Black or vampires. “Oh hell. I didn’t feel like a footrace today,” I said in a low tone of voice.

“You can do it,” IP encouraged, his suggestion that we tone down the rivalry long forgotten. “We must show them the awesomeness of our legs.”

Upon disembarking from the train, IP and I walked at our usual quick clip, knowing that the real test was at the 16TH and East-West Highway light; there’s always a bottleneck of walkers there. Upon reaching the light, however, IP turned and the SLC were not there. “Where the hell did they go?” he demanded.

“They took the bus and plan on beating us that way,” I answered immediately. “And that, as we all know, does not count.” IP tutted at this, clearly put off by their lack of sportsmanship, but we continued on our way.

“They’re going to pop out at the bus stop, race across the street, and beat us that way,” he lamented as we walked home. “That’ll piss me off.”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t count. Automatic disqualification for using public transportation.”

We reached our crossing and waited for the signal to cross. As the signal gave us the go-ahead, the bus pulled up to the stop. IP crowed in delight. “We’ve beat them and they used public transportation. And they won’t make the light,” he observed, turning around from our now secure perch as we marched up to our street. “Hah, they have to wait.”

I grinned and sang, “They are all just jealous because we are some awesome.” We had beaten them once again even as they tried to best us with a RideOn bus. A more pathetic display I have never seen. We triumphantly walked to our apartment, delighting in our well-developed leg muscles and healthy cardiovascular systems, but remembering to never invite the SLC into our house: we don’t want our bodies to be found one morning, exsanguinated.

Petty? Yes. Immature? A little bit. Hilarious? Yes, definitely – there’s something highly amusing about all of this. Why did they try to beat us the first time when we were all already near home and they had been unable to catch us before? Why do they attempt to use the bus to defeat us when that would clearly be a hollow victory, especially when we know that they usually walk home? Why does the woman wear her hair so short? Why doesn’t he get longer pants? Why don’t they ever walk up the hill? Now that would be training to defeat us.

The world may never know.

♦ My old employer, code name Dyn-o-mite!, recently had a national magazine do a flattering profile on them. It took all of my restraint to not post a comment on the online version of the story – corporate clients and industry personalities alike were lauding the products that my old company produces as top-notch and accurate. Nothing could be further from the truth: the products are shoddily researched, lazily produced, and never revised. The quoted vice-president hates the place and hates to innovate even more; the acquaintance also quoted would love to leave but doesn’t have the guts to; that the owner of the company was coherently quoted at all is a miracle because she’s 60 going on mummy. IP dissuaded me from posting anything remotely indicative of the true level of work done at Dyn-o-mite!, but I have to say that he’s no fun.

(I must add that I was guilty of disinterest at Dyn-o-mite!, but not at my client’s expense. My sins were more along the line of making my contempt for the place heartily known to everyone there while still managing to do the job within the crappy parameters I was given. I sometimes teeter dangerously close to that line at my new position only because I hate working with academics. Bunch of whiny non-know-it-alls!)

♦ I dragged myself out of bed this morning to go for a run and use my nifty Forerunner 405. As I said before, my training is iffy at this point, but I do want to start running again to build up my endurance. I initially climbed back into bed after the alarm went off, but convinced myself pretty quickly that I would regret this 45 minutes later when I realized I could’ve put in a nice three-miler instead of lying in bed dozing. Dozing is good but I want that endurance back. So I made myself get up, dressed, and out the door. The run felt very good – I took it easy and told myself that my old running endurance was not built in a day, just like my new-found strength was not built in a day. I need to take it easy, document my progress, and continue to chip away at the running laziness that has fermented in my soul these past two years. Documenting the progress will be easy thanks to the Forerunner and the foot pod.

As far as running races goes, I’m still thinking that New York will be a no-go this year. However, part of building up my running would be to ensure a strong performance next year. I would like to begin running local races as prep. I was thinking to myself this morning that running local races would be great, but the Metro doesn’t run early enough on weekends. Then I remembered that I am the proud co-owner of a beautiful new Mazda3! I can get my own ass to the race sites! So I’m currently on the prowl for an upcoming race that’ll let me get back into racing gently.

♦ My family is currently dropping off Mathgeek at MIT. When I last spoke to them, they were setting up his room and my mother was horrified. She is convinced, and was seconded by Mathgeek himself, that U-M rooms are much nicer. Be that as it may, it’s not the room that’s the draw, it’s the education. But MIT rooms apparently have air-conditioning, something which Michigan definitely does not. I don’t have much else to say except this: good luck, Mathgeek!

The search for the perfect wedding dress has begun, but I’m hesitant to visit an actual bridal shop until we have the date set in stone (or contracted, as it were). We should have that in place by the end of September, so I can probably begin visiting shops around the DC area sometime in October. There’s a need to coordinate, however, with my mom and my sister (maid of honor), and possibly my bridesmaid and future mother-in-law. While I do envision everyone getting together to find the attendant and “mother of” dresses, the search for my own dress may be a more personal affair. It’s important to me to have my mom and sister there not only for their excellent advice, but also because it’s something we should share. So as much as I’m tempted to make a preliminary appointment with some shops around DC, I do need to wait. That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m not on the prowl already.

I bought a couple of magazines (I hate to say it, but the absolute joy of owning them and not having to hide them or make pathetic excuses is terrific!) and buckled down to search for a gown that would be flattering and beautiful. I tend to gravitate towards empire-waist gowns and A-lines; full, princess skirts have to have a certain oomph to them for consideration, and let’s just omit trumpets and mermaids immediately thanks to my Mexican hips. I’m more and more attracted to beading and lace than I would’ve thought – plain was always the name of the game when gabbing about future wedding dresses with my friends. As I flipped through my magazines, though, I kept on flipping back to one particular page: the Pronovias page.

Good god, how I love the Pronovias styles. I have 22 of their styles in my Pronovias favorites and I drool over every single one of them. The fact that some models are featured wearing mantillas doesn’t hurt, either, as I’m most likely going to go with a mantilla veil.  Pronovias can be on the pricier side, but the styles I’m looking at are not outrageous. My father is insistent on buying my dress, and while I would not let him purchase one of these gowns for me outright (the sum isn’t terrible, but it embarrasses me to think of my dad spending that much on me when I’m in my 30s), I’d be more than happy to go halfsies or pay the greater sum on one of these gowns. I’ve located four shops in DC that sell this designer, and plan on hitting at least two of them (since I know I love this designer, I kind of feel like visiting more than two shops would be a waste of time).

IP is moderately alarmed by my wedding dress obsession. However, I have to say, this isn’t unusual when it comes to my quest for the perfect dress for any occasion. He has no idea how many hours I’ve trolled online looking for a cocktail dress for the various weddings I’ve already been to. I take a certain pride in the type of dress I ultimately end up selecting – my dresses never go unnoticed. Friends and co-workers tell me that I have a sense of style when it comes to choosing an event dress. I’m not that enthusiastic about dressing for the everyday, but give me a good party and I’ll show up in a designer dress that I got off of eBay, new, for half the price (unless it’s an afternoon, outdoor wedding in which it would be totally inappropriate to wear something like that). While I don’t plan on buying my dress of off eBay (I recognize the need for proper fittings for a gown, which is much different than a regular old dress), I do plan on putting in as much effort into finding the one that fits and flatters me best. I tell IP that I’m looking so hard because I want to look great for him on that day. This is a half-truth; the rest of the truth is that I want to look fantastic for me on that day. Not in a pretty, pretty princess kind of way – in a “WordNerd just hit the ball out of the park – again” kind of way.

My Pronovias selections are printed up and ready to go whenever it’s time to start shopping after the venue selection. Here’s an image gallery with all 22 gowns featured for the girly-girl within.

For the slideshow and a list of the pictures themselves, click here.

I once made hundreds of dollars selling of old Nintendo Entertainment System (good old NES!) games to a seventh grade peer in Mexico. I guess I should say I made thousands of pesos. I ended up spending the money on clothes to the dismay and anger of Older Brother A, who technically owned one-half of the games and therefore should’ve been given a cut of the proceeds. However, he was studying in the U.S. at the time and had bragged to me over the phone that he had purchased a Sega, which was way better than the NES (or so he said to me). I took this as permission to profit on our now outdated system. I believe the console is still in our house in Mexico, absent of any games except maybe Duck Hunt. Where did my scheming financial genius go?

Impossibly enough, though, even with all of my middle school shenanigans and goings-ons, I loved middle school in Mexico. It was a time when I was considered pretty, popular, smart and was looked up to by all of my peers. You have no idea how that affected me, the girl who had gone to school in Saline, Michigan, and was nothing compared to the Suzannes, Kellys, and Jennifers of that stark-white world. There was a time when I felt absolutely comfortable and began to see myself as I was, not as I wished I were – I stopped wishing for blond hair and blue eyes, I stopped wishing for paler skin. For once, I was perfect the way I was and I thrived in that environment. I adored my school – Escuela Secundaria Federal Rafael Ramirez Castañeda. Life outside of school was actually boring compared to school and I wished for mornings to come sooner because it was fun. It was fun to learn, fun to interact with my friends, fun to interact with the other seventh grade class, fun to impress all the teachers who put effort into teaching and trusted me to learn (unlike my experience in Mexican sixth grade, which sucked). At a time when kids’ self-esteem tends to plummet, there was newfound joy in school and in myself.

It didn’t stop with me. Most of my peers were pretty happy and well-adjusted, too, at least when it came to school. Discipline problems were scant and we actually took pride in doing our best and elevating the school’s stature. Perhaps it was partly attributable to the fact that we all had to wear uniforms – ugly uniforms, to be sure, but they did have the affect of creating a sense of equality that wasn’t there prior or immediately after my Mexican middle school days. Teasing about being fat, skinny, light, dark, just didn’t happen in my class. We all got along well and usually banded together. There were divisions between male and female when it came to what could be called executive power (I lost my bid to be eighth grade president simply because our homeroom teacher decided that having girls as presidents two years in a row simply wasn’t fair), but we mostly got along. There were family problems, of course; some peers did drop out due to family pressure or lack of resources, but they still remained friends. We were one big happy class, the kids in Primero A (middle school grades, seventh through ninth in Mexico, were subdivided into two classes, A and B – there was spirited competition among all the classes and grades, to say the least). Primero B seemed to be a bit more fractured but they were, after all, B.

(As much as I still tease B, they were generally good kids and we were friendly enough to each other – the school administration was good about fostering healthy competition between all grades and class divisions. A subdivisions generally won across the grades, so that’s where the mock high and mighty attitudes emerges.)

I had conquered my fears of Mexican school in sixth grade, so going to seventh wasn’t as big a deal academically. Socially, I was terrified and ended up sticking to my older cousin and her friends for a bit. But as she was a year older, I couldn’t keep up the Post-It Note act for long – I had to interact with my peers. I was surprised and delighted that they weren’t as assy as my sixth grade classmates (this was a school most people commuted to, myself included) and made friends rapidly. Soon I could count them all as friends. Hugo, the guy who could do back flips at will and usually did so after scoring a goal in soccer; Marta, a sweetheart of a friend who was a smart ass in disguise; Juan Carlos, who tricked into my first miserable yet memorable kiss; Gaby, a girl whose father owned a paper shop nearby and helped fight the good fight with me to get into typing class; Sandra, the girl whose father was principal but who never attempted to get by through nepotism; Enrique, the kid who beat me out as president but was pretty decent to talk to once the gender wars settled on any particular day. There were more, of course, but they’ve all faded away with time.

Middle school was a good time in general; the last half of it, done in Saline, was no treat, but I had my experience as a Mexican kid to look back on instead of Saline. I’ve often said my life kind of blanks out from the second half of eighth grade until the time I started college. Why the hell are U.S. schools so terrible on kids? Everyone’s a dictator, all the kids are mean, and you have to watch your every step so you don’t become a mockery. Be a little different (like, oh, say Mexican) and you’re toast.  Not so in Mexico – even with my accent and sometimes awkward Spanish I was considered cool.

I have to wonder what their formula was for keeping kids relatively sane at that time of life, so much so that they had time to become entrepreneurial masterminds.