Where was I? Oh yeah.

So anyway, I’m walking behind said dude in the Michigan Union, my eyes narrowed and wondering. He turns the corner, I turn the corner. He leans against a wall, next to a group of girls who are talking around what looks like a registration desk; I lean against the opposite wall, next to the entrance of my now closed favorite coffee shop, Cava Java. Our eyes then meet.

“WordNerd?” the guy in the navy blue knit hat says.

“IP?” I kind of squeak back.

The girls at the registration stare at us, but IP and I just smile at each other, walking off to enjoy our first date. It was short, more of a get to know you kind of thing, but it was fun enough that I said yes when he asked me out again. He left me intrigued and wondering more about the guy in the navy blue knit hat who had a nice smile, made me laugh, and made me feel at ease (even though he says I was extremely quiet that first time, but I remember talking more than I usually do when I meet someone new—he couldn’t know that he was impressing me and bringing me out of my shell). It was such a good beginning that here we are, nine years later, married.

Happy nine years together, IP. According to some, we should’ve experienced an itch two years ago (the year we got married). According to others, itches now come during the third year, so we should be on our third itch by now. According to us, things are pretty damn good right now and we’re looking forward to more and more years of enjoying each other to the fullest, celebrating each others’ triumphs, helping each other grow, and lending the strength and support that’s needed when times are rough. I’m your bridge over troubled water, hon.

Nine years later and we’re still together. After all this time, many things have changed; even we have changed although we started to change together from that day on. There is one other thing, however, that hasn’t changed (and I don’t want it to because it reminds me of our beginnings):

He still wears that navy blue knit hat in the winter.

Note: Not IP

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Leading up to the wedding, IP and I were certain that, as our respective families came together, the likelihood of privacy and peace was going to evaporate while the potential for drama and hurt feelings would increase substantially. We tried our best to balance our time with our families—as everyone descended into southeast Michigan for that weekend, all I could think about was how much they were all going to demand of our time. We would have to tread carefully and make sure that everyone got a good amount of time but that we didn’t overextend ourselves to please families, either. We had already declared that Friday night was a night reserved for last-minute wedding details; both families pouted as both families wanted us at the dinners they were each hosting, but we were firm. The time set aside turned out to be necessary because we were still setting up centerpieces while they were all sitting down to dinner.

In the week before the wedding, my mother was calling frequently, wanting to know when to expect us and what to make for dinner. I told her we were driving in the Wednesday before the wedding, but that we were most likely not going to drop by the house before Thursday morning; don’t base dinner on us at all and don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from us. I was emphatic in trying to deliver that message and she seemed to understand. I told her that we couldn’t predict what kind of traffic we’d hit on the way to Michigan, that the weekend ahead was going to be crazy and we’d need some rest after the drive, and that everything was a toss-up at that point. Never did I say that we might be there, just that I might call if we got in early. I specifically said not to expect us at all—I would call if it was happening. Again, she seemed okay with this.

Well, we arrived early that Wednesday—3pm early. And as I received call after call on my BlackBerry from my family members, I started to feel trapped and panicky. My mother had been driving me nuts and she was not letting up; I couldn’t go over there even if I had wanted to (and I will add, without remorse or compunction, that I did not). IP eyed me and asked if I wanted to head to my parents’ house to placate them.

I thought for a minute. “No. It’s 3pm on a Wednesday, in summer, in Ann Arbor, with no students around. What would you do this instant if you didn’t have any other obligations?”

IP started to grin. “I’d go to Dominick’s.”

I grinned back. “Then we’re going to Dominick’s.”

So to our old haunt we went, where IP and I had spent many afternoons in the early days of our romance. We were good and limited ourselves to one half-pitcher of sangria, savoring the sweetness of the drink as we contemplated the summer afternoon. We watched people milling about us, enjoying their drinks and crappy Dominick’s food, laughter shouted and hugs exchanged as groups coalesced, talked, and then dissipated. We grinned at each other again, holding hands, the idea that we were having one last classic date entering both our minds.

I remember one of the first times I met all of IP’s friends, at Dominick’s, early in the season when there were still students about and there was still a spring chill in the air. I made easy conversation with everyone while he went to get more sangria, the topic of Chewbacca’s death in one of the Star Wars books coming up, my knowledge that he was crushed by a moon making everyone at the table laugh. I remember IP coming back to the table, everyone cheering more sangria, sitting next to me, his arm around me, giving me a kiss on the cheek. We left that night, tipsy and happy—as we left, we ran into an ex of mine, who usually ignored me, but whose eyes narrowed and he gave me a huge hug when he saw IP. I disentangled myself quickly, IP’s hand tugging at mine, waving good-bye forever, sorry, someone way cooler and amazing has come along, so sucks to be you—and stepping out into the night to have IP kiss me again.

I remember the week before IP left Ann Arbor to do his postdoc, and I remember a fight we had at Dominick’s. He was stressed by the move, I was stressed by his leaving, and all we could do in those final days before the distance set in was snap at each other. As we left Dominick’s that night, having fought, he stopped, pulled me close as it started to drizzle. I still remember what he said, “Hon, let’s not fight. We’re on the same side here.” I started to cry, sad that he was leaving, sad that we were wasting our time together with stupid-ass fights born from our impending separation. He hugged me, we held each other close as the people at Dominick’s continued their happy banter. I still remember the feeling of the rain, the sounds from the crowd, the tears on my cheeks, the feel of IP rocking me in his arms. It was there that I decided that what would be would be, but that if our luck held, I wanted to be with him forever.

I remember moving to D.C., getting to know IP again, and then returning with him to Michigan. I remember going to Dominick’s to hang out with the old crowd, laughing as sangria was poured, everyone anticipating the customary slice from NYPD after Dominck’s shut down at 10pm. My sister was with us, and she got appropriately tipsy, egging IP to kiss me as we headed to NYPD. IP stopped on South U, pulled me towards him and gave me a deep kiss, and this all made me laugh because we were all so giddy and happy that night. I remember thinking that IP and I were making a life together, and that returning to Dominick’s, to Ann Arbor, was a great way to celebrate it. And I remember eating too much at NYPD.

And so we grinned at each other, enjoying some quiet time before the chaos of the nuptials, before the craziness of the weekend crashed down around our heads. We grinned at each other with the knowledge that we had made it, and that the place where we were sitting was where we were supposed to be that Wednesday afternoon. We needed one last moment to ourselves before the big event, and we needed a space in which to be us. We couldn’t have chosen a more perfect place, the scene of so many of our crimes. The place where we started to realize that we were on the same side and that we wanted to remain on that side.

“This was a good idea,” IP said, sipping his sangria.

“NYPD for dinner?” I added, enjoying my drink.

“Like there’s any other option,” he said, smiling.

I took a picture of our sangria (a blurry BlackBerry photo, but it’s sangria nonetheless!), commemorating our last date as an unmarried couple. We clinked glasses, toasting our wedding, our future and our years together. Reluctantly, we finished our half-pitcher and left, having dinner and then going to bed early. The next day, my parents were furious (I think my mom told my dad I’d certainly be there which, you might remember, I never said), but I didn’t care that much: they had us for the weekend now, and I knew they and IP’s family were going to drive us insane. I don’t feel bad for stealing one moment for ourselves and celebrating the road to that weekend.

Here’s to us, babe. Love you much.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Harry Potter!!11eleventy!!11

Now that that’s been cleared up, I find myself typing away at my laptop because I had an unexpected day off; I’ve thus far spent the day getting coffee, being disappointed that they didn’t have any lemon poppy seed muffins, realizing that our co-op was closed so I couldn’t get one of their lemon poppy seed muffins, and doing laundry because our bedspread and sheets needed washing. I am sitting in workout clothes even though I don’t plan to work out–I did weights and high-intensity cardio yesterday, so I’m good for now, thanks. I do plan on heading downtown to have lunch, but other than that, my day is low-key (with the exception of some vacuuming that must be done).

One task I plan of taking care of downtown is finding my sister’s birthday card. I have been searching high and low (okay, I went to CVS and American Greetings), all for naught—why must every card for a woman fall into the following categories?

• Humor Card: contains an image of a cat or a woman holding a glass of wine and/or shopping bags; making reference to how we fear aging, how we’ll be old cat ladies, or how we love to drink wine and shop.
• Serious Card: contains overly long, flowery messages describing the power of love and sisterhood. Accented by butterflies and/or rainbows.

Why can’t I find a card that has a dog on it, makes a reference to beer, and is for a woman and not a man? These strict gender divides are so unnecessary. And why are some greeting cards so damn long? No one wants to read that many words in front of people impatiently waiting to eat cake, you know.

Was the random enough for you? No? Here are few more random thoughts to round off this post:

1. Why do people find it so hard to clean the lint traps in communal dryers? Like the magician from Bugs Bunny says, “Does it hurt very much, sonny boy?” Seriously, do your neighborly duty and clean out the trap. It takes two seconds of your time.
2. I am seriously not getting baby fever. Whenever I have brushes of it, I’ll eventually revolt and get angry because it feels like it’s being imposed on me by outside forces. It seems like every blog or message board I read is “Aww mah gawd, babies!” Are they cute? Yeah. Do I feel the undying need to hold and nurture one that so many of my peers feel? No. I kind of side-eye the traditional gender roles that are being played out: Woman crying “Baby!” while the husband says “Not now, honey.”
3. Why does my company insist on trying to get us to go out to dinner with them? The time is long past for us to want to socialize with them given how they treat us. I received an email wondering if I wanted to do an evening event and I said no. I already spend too much of my time with them, and I would prefer to keep my evenings to myself. If the office had ever cultivated a sense of unity, then maybe I would join in. But they lost me a long time ago.
4. Have you voted yet? If you’re in Montgomery County, you can do the early voting thing until 8pm tonight. Here’s a list of early voting centers if you’re so inclined: Early Voting Sites. IP and I took advantage of this on Monday to do our civic duty (and help out the Dems).

Enjoy the day today! Let’s hope it’s the last of the unnaturally warm fall days.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

At least dream me has some athletic ability and, quite possibly, the chance to make it out of Joe Louis alive.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

In order to see if you qualify to be my Facebook friend, please take the following questionnaire:

1. In high school, did we speak to each other on a friendly, regular basis?
   • Yes
   • No
2. In high school, were you kind to me for the first year, then dropped me like a hot potato for reasons unknown to me then and now?
   • Yes
   • No
3. In high school, did you ignore me on most days?
   • Yes
   • No
4. In high school, did you speak to me only when you needed help with your Spanish homework?
   • Yes
   • No
5. In high school, did you make fun of me about my weight, my ethnicity, or my clothes? Or any combination of the three, really?
   • Yes
   • No
6. Did we keep in touch after high school and continue to be friendly to each other?
   • Yes
   • No

If you have answered “Yes” to Questions 1 or 6, then yes! We can be Facebook friends! If you have answered “Yes” to Questions 2, 3, 4 or 5, then no, we most certainly cannot be Facebook friends. Why? Because I do not care about you, and you do not care about me. What’s the point of adding me? Why do you want me on your list? Do you really care about my measly updates that mercilessly mock the Metro? No, probably not, just like I won’t care about your updates about your kids. So why try to add me, even when I’ve purposely left out my high school info so it’s hard for you to find me? I’m baffled.

Saline High School, Class of XX? Please stop already. They say that living well is the best revenge, and living well I am. But I have no desire to share that with you, even if it’s just through inconsequential status updates. Yes, I could show off how awesome I am to all of you and you’d totally be experiencing severe jealousE, but . . . you know, that’s just too much effort. And I’d have to deal with your feeds. So . . . no. Just, no.

Ignore.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

As a kid growing up in Michigan, if you wanted good ginger ale, you went to get Vernors.  Want a Boston cooler?  Use Vernors because the dry ginger ales pale in comparison (geddit?).

IP seems to have an aversion to Vernors, though.  His nose wrinkled as I gleefully pulled the six-pack from the shelf and placed it in our cart, remarking (and here I’m paraphrasing, but I think I’m close), “If I ate asparagus, drank two gallons of water, and didn’t piss until three days later, the end product would be Vernors.”

What!?

I protested this heartily as Vernors, while darker in color than a typical ginger ale, is a sweet and tasty drink—comparisons to urine are uncalled for!  Since then, IP has been making similar remarks and continuing to wrinkle his nose each time I pour myself a can of this delicious soda.  A stronger ginger flavor with a hint of vanilla—yum!  There’s nothing to be offended by here; even the color is something akin to a darker beer (and not urine).  I finally ask IP what his major malfunction is: did he taste it and the flavor was just so revolting he wanted to hurl?

Nope.  IP’s never, ever tasted it.

What!?

His aversion to and fierce invectives against it stem solely from the color of the drink.  I told him that the most comparable flavor I could think of was a lighter cream soda, but he doesn’t believe me (for the record, I’m not a cream soda fan, but the vanilla in the Vernors hints at cream soda; not exactly, obviously, since I love Vernors, but that’s the best comparison I can think of [and again, urine is not a fair comparison here]).  He refuses to try the drink, simply wrinkling his nose and making snarky comments about the best ginger ale evah.

What gets me is this: IP is forever encouraging me to try new foods and drinks.  It’s fine if I don’t end up liking it, he tells me, but I’ve got to give something a try before dismissing it outright.  And I have tried many things in our 7+ yea—uh, months together, so I have no idea why he won’t reciprocate.  Methinks I smell a food and drink hypocrite!  ;)

So I challenge IP: try a sip of Vernors next time it’s in the house (as I’ve now sadly drained it).  You  might be surprised and wondering when we can try out the drink with some vanilla ice cream.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Because of you, dear Washtenaw County, and your antiquated ways of processing paper, I now have to do a layover in Detroit for approximately one business day on my way back from the South Pacific. Why? Because you, unlike your sister counties in Southeast Michigan, do not offer any convenient options with which to file for a marriage license. Other counties offer a $5, one day expedited service; an online application system; or the option to fax in documents. You? No, of course not! One of us has to show up, hand over all of our identifying files, and then wait three days before we can pick up the license.

The fact that we’re dropping thousands and thousands of dollars into your economy, Washtenaw, should be incentive enough for you to give us out-of-staters a break. Give us the option to file electronically—if we need to get stuff notarized in D.C., whatever, but at least give us that choice. Instead, we either have to a) waste vacation days or 2) do a stopover that will jar my already jet-lagged body even more. I’ll do it because I have to, but I just wanted to say it publicly: You really do suck big time. This is the 21st century, you realize? Computers work wonders. I’ve booked most of the wedding from the comfort of a computer or my phone. Why must you make it so difficult for those who are willingly coming to the state and giving cash-strapped Michigan some business? I mean, the hell?

You’d better damn well hold onto my license until IP and I return in the following month (since I can’t waste three days in Michigan waiting for you to process the license).  But then again, you never know with bureauracracy, right?

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Ben Carson’s better than you.

That is all.

(Yeah, about 50 people would get this.  More if the subsequent classes had to read Gifted Hands like we did.)

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

1. Your first very best friend in the whole world?
2. First crush? Do you remember what you even liked about that person?
3. Grade school bully?

I answered them in order: my best friend was M, my first crush was C, and I couldn’t remember the grade school bullies’ names from Saline—but I did remember that they teased me for being fat and Mexican, and not necessarily in that order, too.

As other women from the Detroit area answered the questions, laughing at their grade school antics and relating to one another’s experiences, I realized something: if not for the redemptive power of the University of Michigan, I would not be marrying in Michigan; I would not be speaking with these women; I would not be realizing that in the deepest part of me was hidden a fear and hatred of Michigan prior to 1996.

Because really, I’ve said it often enough—grade school was rough and I tend to mentally block everything from 1992 to spring 1996. There was not one thing redeeming about living in Saline, Michigan (home of the Hornets, who did swarm over you angrily if you were different): the people were mean and parents cautioned their kids that I was a bad influence (actually, ma’am, it was your kid who was the bad influence, not me); the teachers didn’t believe in my capacity to do any type of work and were nonplussed when I succeeded (and they weren’t subtle when showing their surprise); the kids were straight up evil, repeating the terrible things that their parents said, making me feel two inches tall simply because my skin color was darker than theirs (and yet these were the same airheads who tanned in booths and ruined their skin to achieve my hue—go figure).

If not for the University of Michigan, I wouldn’t be returning to get married in Ann Arbor next summer. When posing this to IP, he agreed with the same basic assessment in his case; he had no desire to be married in his hometown, shuddering at the mere thought. That I got to attend a magnificent university nearby where I grew up, being exposed to a multitude of people and attitudes that were vastly kinder and open-minded, drives me back to Ann Arbor specifically for my wedding. One of the influencing factors for me when selecting our venue was its proximity to the university; while IP and I are not getting married on campus next summer, we will be mere steps away from my old dorm, practically down the street from all our old haunts; a mere stroll to the edges of campus. When we take our pictures prior to the ceremony, there are several repeating images that I want to capture:

• A shot of IP walking to me as I wait on the steps of Angell Hall for him (as I used to when we first started dating)
• A detail shot of my shoes, me lifting the hem of my dress to reveal not only some banging orange satin heels, but the Class of 1953 “M” on the Diag
• If possible, a shot of IP and me speaking to each other in front of the Fishbowl’s glass (if it still exists—someone tell me it still exists!)
• A shot of IP and me next to the Exhibit Museum of Natural History’s pumas
• A shot of IP and me kissing under Engin Arch (we will kiss and the legend will be true—we’ll marry the person we’ve kissed under the arch)

There’s a reason why I picture these shots and more—Michigan means something to me. Michigan meant learning my strengths and weaknesses; it meant liberation from the racism and ignorance that Saline holds dear to this day; it meant learning more than just the bare facts to get by, it meant that the days of keeping a low profile so that you wouldn’t be teased for being ethnic were over, it meant that my words and ideas were listened to and respected. I was valued as an intelligent person contributing to the development of a place, not someone viewed as a detriment simply because of the first language she spoke nor her skin color.

Michigan was the home that Saline never was; my alien status in Saline probably precluded me, in the first instance I stepped foot in a classroom at Jensen Elementary, from ever considering a return there for anything but a drive-through or a quick visit to friends. That so many of my high school classmates continue to live there isn’t surprising—after all, it is their home—but it’s true that I fled it as soon as humanly possible. To have remained there, to have started a home there, is an impossible idea; Saline chased me out as soon as I arrived. I would not have been wanted, and I’m pretty sure any potential neighbors would have done their best to make sure I didn’t stay long. Call it a hunch: they wouldn’t have stood for it.

To give you an idea of the type of area I grew up in, here’s a snapshot of the election results from my former precinct, which includes parts of Saline. That John Dingell, whose seniority in the House and firm representation of auto interests is a benefit to Michigan, can lose in an area where many auto workers reside, speaks to the area’s conservative nature. That so many people vote blindly down party lines, and that a Democrat can win in this precinct only if theirs is the only name that appears on the ballot, lets you know that this is not an area with an open mind. Believe you me, voting in my former precinct was no fun—it’s a hunting lodge—and the talk you hear about Dems and the use of the lodge’s guns is pretty nasty while you wait in line. Who knows what horrible stuff they said about Barack Obama? I remember what was said to me and I cringe.

So there will be no photos in Saline, there will be no celebrations in the area. Two of my friends had receptions in the Saline’s UAW hall; my mom used to fondly tell me that my father’s connection to Ford would guarantee us a good rental rate. I used to laugh; no way, no how would I celebrate my marriage a stone’s throw away from my old middle and high schools, where people judged me for my appearance well before I spoke word one.

A stone’s throw away from my university alma mater, which bestowed so much knowledge and opened so many doors and was the backdrop for the beginnings of my relationship with my future husband? Of course. Because the university was so good to me, because the university was good to IP, because the university was good to and for us, we’ll return and say “I do” in the town where it all began. For me, finding my smart, charming and wonderful partner at Michigan was the icing on the intellectual cake—Michigan helped to neutralize if not eradicate the idiocies of Saline and ensured that I’d want to be married near campus. The pull of having family there is strong, of course, but Michigan’s presence sealed the deal. If it were just Saline? We’d be plotting a wedding elsewhere, no doubt.

So thanks to the maize and blue, my wedding’s in Michigan. Hail to good memories, a great education, inclusiveness and acceptance—that is what makes Wolverines victors in my mind.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Kidding aside, the visit was fruitful in that a) we’re on the verge of deciding on a venue (with our least likely going in now our strongest candidate), 2) I got to taste the best cake in the world and think I’m going to go with this baker (I’ve had other area cakes and nothing’s as memorable as the one I had on Saturday), and iii) I was able to narrow down my dress selection from 22 to a mere seven thanks to help from my mom and sister.

The wedding venue choices are now narrowed down to two.  In terms of price they are identical thanks to an extra rental fee from the hotel we’re considering.  Of the two, I believe the non-hotel option is best; the rental fee is hefty but we get a lot in return, including a room for me in which to get ready.  It has more of a “WordNerd-IP” feel to it — a space for an outdoor wedding, a space for a reception that benefits from great natural lighting, more of a “home” than a reception hall.  My sister wasn’t thrilled about it, but I’m wondering if there’s a bit of a disconnect between the two of us thanks to being an event planner myself — I see a hotel and all I see is a place of work (wait, that sounds bad, doesn’t it?).  My friends, who visited the site with me a day after my initial site visit, were a more enthusiastic about the place; because they’ve also worked in events, perhaps they’ve also had their fill of hotels.  While my sister and I didn’t agree on the space, I have this to say: the woman is invaluable when it comes to bouncing off fashion, color and thematic ideas.  She is one creative lady.

The low-lights of this weekend were the following: 1) not being able to find a mariachi band to listen to; we’re still not set on having a mariachi play our wedding, but exploring some options would’ve been nice b) the little atheist-Catholic exchange, which also provoked an online response at FriendlyAtheist.com — while I’m all about defending my beliefs to my mother, I wasn’t that amused at people calling her a control freak; and iii) running into my least favorite people in the world (besides John McCain and Sarah Palin, that is) while seeking out the above-mentioned mariachi band.  I asked my mother to please not mention the wedding at that point, and it wasn’t mentioned.  But what horrible luck.  I’m just glad they were with a group of people and I actually didn’t have to interact with them other than a nod of the head.

The goals for this week are to decide on a venue and to head to the local printer to take a look at their Pantone book — I need to match up the swatch colors that my bridesmaids and I have unanimously decided on over the weekend.  Once the venue and date are decided on, I’ll open up the wedding website.  I won’t send out any save-the-dates at this point, but I will let people who are definitely invited in on the website address. After these minor tasks, there’s the issue of finally setting up dates in which to go and try on wedding dresses.  I have to be an ultimate girly-girl and admit — I am absolutely dying to do this.  I had originally planned to ask to see Pronovias gowns only, but I’m now open to other types of dresses.  Depending on our wedding venue, certain styles would lends themselves better to the overall ambience.

There will be goals for next week once the date and location are set, including: contacting photographers, celebrants, musicians and/or DJs, and of course, not going absolutely insane at the thought of all the planning that’s yet to be done.  But hey, I’m a professional.  A professional who will leave the day-of worries in the hands of another professional come August 2009!

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.