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And I Traveled Just A Few Steps, At Most, To See The World.

It’s funny.

I spend all of this time daydreaming about travel.  About where I would be if I could be anywhere other than here.

And then, out of nowhere, I discover this whole universe that’s been sitting outside my back door for the past 5 1/2 years, and I never even saw it.

Like literally.  It’s the Universe.

All it took was a couple of solo glasses of wine, a little bit feeling sorry for myself, a broken electric dog fence, and a chance look up.

The metaphor, this whole time, was in my own back yard.

Look up, my friends, instead of down.  Look up, or you might miss it.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Deprecating. Which is a Good Thing. I Think.

Justin has been in Afghanistan for over 3 months now, and I’m ready to admit something.

Here goes.

Ready?

Okay.

There have been times in our marriage when I’ve looked at him and thought, I can’t believe I’m actually married to you.

Like the time he realized he didn’t brew enough coffee after he poured his cup but before he poured mine, so instead of making more coffee to fill my cup, he just ran new water back through the soggy, used coffee grounds and hoped I wouldn’t notice that my cup was filled with light brown water as opposed to actual coffee.

Times like that, my friends, when I thought, I can’t believe I’m actually married to you and not in a totally smitten, pre-honeymoon, post-vows kind of way with a mental tone of adoring and grateful affection, but in a we’ve-been-living-together-for-over-8-years-now-and-you-think-I-won’t-notice-weak-coffee? kind of way with pure, unadulterated, incredulity.

And.

I know it sounds terrible, but there it is.

The “good” thing is, I know I’m just as bad.

(What can I say?  I’m a Libra.)

Like the time he came home after 3 months in Africa to find I’d bought dog beds so our little monsters could sleep with us in our bedroom to keep us safe from intruders and bogeymen and fill the space with protective methane fart gas throughout the night.

Because I always think these things through, you know?

So.

Even though I do these things too, I still usually feel that I’m in the right.  That I know best.  That really, if we would just do everything my way, the world would spin smoothly and double rainbows will fill our home and the sex will always be fantastic and no one will ever — ever — have to sleep in the wet spot.

(Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.)

But now he’s been gone for 3 months.

Three months, apparently, is enough time for me to stop blaming him for every cluttered mess that collects on counters, for almost-empty orange juice bottles in the fridge, for laundry that sits in the dryer for days, and the pulpy, globulated mess that coats my clothes when an errant pocket receipt goes through the wash.

It’s enough time, apparently, to realize that I’m actually fallible.

I mean, I’ve always known I’m capable of making mistakes.  In fact, maybe my blunt, drunken wrist tattoo should read erroneous, because I’ve certainly made more than my fair share.  And I’d be the first to admit it.

But it was always these little things.  These little house things that would get on my nerves make me mutter under my breath as I’d fritter around the house collecting crumpled papers that someone — and certainly not me — was too lazy to throw away, are not always entirely his fault.

And that’s the gift of distance.

They say, you know, that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I know a secret.

The real benefit of absence is clarity.

The way it gives you a chance to look at yourself.

The chance to experience the discomfort that comes with the dawning realization that wait — I’m not perfect?

It’s not a good feeling.

But it’s a helpful feeling.  And a relief, too, to know that he’s not the only one to blame for the messes and the occasional late charge and sometimes erratic online shopping binges.

Wait.  Maybe that last one has always been me.

But my point is that true perspective — not just about a partner but about yourself — is something that most people who’ve been living together for a long time never have the space — or the distance — to experience.

And that’s unfortunate.

Because while I would never recommend that you ship your significant other off to Afghanistan for a quarter of a year or more, a little space can sometimes help.

Not to get away from your partner.  But to get back to yourself.

So now, at least I know.  I remember.  I can overlook the little things when he gets home because while cohabitation definitely creates more messes and chaos, it also provides an extra set of hands to help.

Except the coffee thing.  I can’t overlook that.

But I’m working on it.

 

Inappropriate.

On Saturday night I went to a surprise party.

Surprise parties are the best, as long as everyone is awesome and no one ruins it.

There’s just something about making someone feel so unexpectedly loved.

But first, (and if we’re going to be honest, then this is the best part), you have to make the guest of honor — the “surprisee,” if you will — feel like total crap.

“Oh, it’s your birthday this week?  Huh.  I think I already have plans on Saturday, but maybe we can get together Sunday?  Hmm… but I have to get up really early on Monday, so let’s get lunch instead of dinner.  I have to pick up my dry cleaning by 1:00, so can we go at like 11:00?  That cute little cafe downtown is a little far for me to drive, but they have a Chili’s near the mall.  Hey, I’ll buy you a birthday margarita!  It will be great!  As long as I can get to the dry cleaner’s by 1:00.”

And the fantastic part is you don’t really care that your friend looks like she wants to punch you in the face because you know, deep down, that she will feel terrible for thinking these unsavory thoughts about you when she sees you at her surprise party.

And that’s why surprise parties are the best — because they make your friends feel terrible for doubting your commitment to the friendship.  Which makes you feel great, because you can be like, “See?  I really do love you!  I love you so much that I will lie to your face and make you feel unloved, just so I can make you feel terrible later.  Which, in the end, will really make you — and especially me — feel awesome.”

See how that works?

We surprised my friend Danielle for her birthday, after each of us in turn told her — subtly — that we had more important things to do.  (By the way, of course I forgot my nice camera, so all you get is fuzzy, semi-inebriated photos of the evening’s festivities.)

It was just a small group of friends — that’s me in the gray dress in the middle, Danielle in the gray dress crouched down on the right, and the looker standing on the far right is her boyfriend Matt.

Matt planned the surprise (because he’s not just a looker — he’s a thinker, too).

(And sorry, ladies — he’s very much taken.)

It was probably the most fantastic food at any surprise party in the history of ever because Danielle’s friend Morgan (far left in the top photo) works as a catering manager for a really fantastic restaurant called Elliott’s on Linden in Pinehurst.

We may have taken advantage of this fact.

Lamb skewers with a spicy remoulade dipping sauce, seafood risotto, cheesy grits with sausage, mini grilled cheese triangles with tiny cups of tomato basil bisque, dim sum, and various dips, local cheeses, breads, and crackers.  (That’s the lamb with remoulade in the above photo.  Not, uh… whatever else it may look like.)

And let’s not forget the desserts.

So basically, I was stuffing my face, and then I noticed this.

Morgan’s tattoo.

Look close.

No, it’s not a Celtic knot symbolizing her spiritual faith for all eternity.  No, it’s not some inspirational word written in French or Latin or any language other than the one in which she’s fluent.  And no, it’s not the birth date of a child or the death date of a grandparent or the date she went to her first Creed concert and decided that she would, in fact, embrace the world with arms wide open by getting a wrist tattoo.

Nope.

It’s just a word, and it’s written in english, and it says…

 

Inappropriate.

 

That’s it.

Inappropriate.

Of course it was the result of an evening’s drunken escapade — the kind where permanent ink always seems like a great idea to commemorate something you’re sure was quite hilarious at the time.  And then you wake up in that fuzzy, semi-delirious state-of-mind — that place where you can’t quite remember which of your brain’s crazy recollections are real, and which are just dreams, and then you feel it.  You feel it before you see it.  That bee sting burn that indicates you may have done something really, incredibly, stupid.

It’s something characters do, not real people, like the face tattoo in The Hangover II or the butterfly tramp stamp in Californication.

Except in this case it is very real, very permanent, and very… inappropriate.

Or is it?

I mean, maybe it would actually be kind of nice if we could all get branded with a blunt word that describes our prominent personalities.  I know many people who would stamp me with “inappropriate” or “loud” or “incredisexylicious.”

Okay.  Maybe not that last one.

But if I had a tattoo that said “inappropriate,” people would no longer be shocked when I say something, well —  inappropriate.  They couldn’t get offended because I’d be all, “Hey.  Can’t you see the tattoo?  It’s not like I didn’t warn you.”

It would give people a heads-up.  You’d go to shake a hand, check out the wrist, and immediately have an idea of who you’re dealing with:  Funny?  Great!  Bigot?  No thanks.  Easy?  Let me buy you another drink.

I might need to buy a tattoo machine for the sole purpose of branding people while they sleep.

Labels are bad, you say?  People are more complex than a single word?  Yes, we are.  But think about it.  Deep down, in our heart of hearts, we all have something very definable.  Something very us.  Something not likely to change anytime soon.  It might be good, it might be bad, but whatever it is, it just is.

If you had a word, what would it be?

13 Reasons Why I’m A Crappy Military Spouse.

When I was working my well-paying cubicle gig for the Environmental Management Branch on Fort Bragg, I sometimes had to drive to other areas of the installation to meet with various mapping, forestry, endangered species, cultural resources, and compliance subject matter experts.

SMEs, for short.

Because everything in the military is an acronym.

BEMA, for short.

I strongly dislike acronyms. (REASON #1)

ISDA, for short.

FS, for short.

You dig?

Anyway.

Since the installation is only like the biggest in the country, I’d get to take a government vehicle whenever I was driving for work-related reasons.  I’d sign out a nondescript white or silver sedan, bring the seat forward about 20 inches, reset all of the preset radio stations to something other than godawful, and be on my merry way.

For a year and a half, this was routine.  Like hopping a morning commuter train from a local Park-‘n-ride, I’d put ‘er on autopilot, crank some tunes, and somehow magically arrive at my destination.

Then, one day, on some rudimentary stretch of curvy road where soldiers deemed it necessary to cross as pedestrians because they thought they owned the place or something (wait, what? REASON #2), they reduced the speed limit by 10 miles per hour.

Just.

Like.

That.

And I, being the super observant, astute, law-abiding citizen that I apparently am — not — saw the flashing lights in the ill-adjusted rearview mirror before it even registered in my cubicle-muddled brain that I was driving not 5, not 10, not 15, but twenty-two miles over the newly posted speed limit.

It was a trap, I tell you.

Before I could even think to adjust my cleavage or touch up my lip gloss, the uniformed military police officer was at my window with the ticket.

“We’re giving tickets to everyone,” he said, before I could open my mouth.

“Ok.”  Hell.  I deserved one.

“No exceptions.”  The guy was ready for an argument.

“Ok.”  I gave him a sheepish smile.

“Really — the guy in front of you is getting one, too.”

“Ok.”  Is “ok” code for I-think-you’re-full-of-crap-and-I’ll-see-you-in-court?

“Fine.  I’ll write it up for 19 over the limit.  That should save you some hassle.”

“Wow, thanks!  Um… what kind of hassle will I have to deal with?” I handed him my contractor I.D.

“You’re not a spouse?  You work here?” He asked, surprise registering on his face.  “If you were a spouse, then I’d write you the ticket, you’d pay it, and your husband’s commander would hear about it.  But since you’re a contractor, you’ll have to pay the fine and attend a driver safety course.  At 8:00 a.m.  On Saturday.”

I thought about snatching back my contractor I.D. and handing him my dependent I.D.  (REASON #3)

“Well… this is a government vehicle I’m driving… so yes.”  I sighed.  “I’m a contractor.”

He ripped the ticket from the stack, a bemused grin curling the corners of his mouth, and handed it to me.  “The class is 8 a.m.  Saturday.”

So here’s the thing:  I wouldn’t have had to take the class if I’d simply shown him my dependent I.D. as opposed to my contractor I.D.?*  Being a “dependent” — and we all know how I feel about that — would’ve exempted me from paying my dues?  From learning how to be a safer driver?  From watching videos of high school prom dates impaled on fences and toddlers struck by drunk drivers and other nightmarish vehicular accidents?

(*I honestly don’t know, legally speaking, what difference which I.D. I showed would’ve made.  But the officer implied that the repercussions would have been less — for me — had I claimed dependency with a blush and a smile.)

The tradeoff, it seems, is that Justin would have gotten the lecture.  Justin would have paid the price for my recklessness.  And it’s that antiquated way of operating — the very idea that my actions could affect his career — makes me far too nervous to be an effectively “good” spouse.  In fact, it sometimes makes me want to test the limits.  (REASON #4)

Also, I’m not a mom. (REASON #5)

And sometimes I forget my husband’s rank. (REASON #6)

And I hate being called “ma’am.” (REASON #7)

And I sometimes get jealous of Justin’s travel.  (REASON #8)

And I think sometimes that it’s harder to be married to military than it is to be military.  (REASON #9)

And I disagree with the concept of respecting someone solely for his or her rank.  Especially if he or she is an asshole. (REASON #10)

And I can’t keep my delinquent thoughts to myself. (REASON #11)

And sometimes — sometimes — I actually revel in my alone time.  In watching whatever movie I want on the big television.  In eating cheese, crackers, and olives for dinner.  In putting a container of leftover pasta carbonara in the fridge and never having to suffer that suffocating disappointment when I decide to have some for lunch and discover that only 2 teasing bites remain — not enough to sate me, but just enough to justify not having to wash the container.  That really bugs me.  (REASON #12)

But then… I still miss him.  And his uniform.  And honestly, in the end, I wouldn’t want to do anything that would hurt his career.

I mean, who wants that on her conscience?

So I took the stupid driving course.  And Justin didn’t get a lecture from his commander about reigning in his spouse’s reckless driving habits.  And actually, the class may have been somewhat beneficial in teaching me ways to deal with my road rage.  In fact, I should probably look into taking a refresher.  And, at the end of class when I stood in the required line to show the instructor my passing exam score and the written offense for which I’d been committed, he gasped and said, “That was you?”

I nodded.

He looked at me, incredulous.

“Why don’t you slow it down, Katie.”  He smiled.

Slow it down?  Me?  Not likely, my friend.

Inside, I smiled too.

So.  Maybe I can do this.  Maybe I can play the military’s game.  And maybe — just maybe — I can still work my own little acts of rebellion into the mix, because hey.

I can be supportive.  I can smile and schmooze.  I can even learn the damn acronyms.

But in the end, I can’t lose sight of me.

You know?

P.S. Poll results are still coming in. If you haven’t voted, please do. And the thoughtful comments some of you have added are just… awesome.  If you’re in the U.S., you know your vote might not count in November’s election (REASON #13), but here, it most certainly does.

Decisions Make Me Sweaty & Uncomfortable, So Here. You Decide.

So.

After my lovely little woe-is-me rant last week, I came to a couple of conclusions:

1) I have some re-vamping to do on this site; and

2) I may not have many readers, but I have the best readers.  And since I’ve always been a quality over quantity kind of gal anyway, this suits me well.

While #2 can’t stand on its own, #1 may need some further explanation.

I’ve been struggling for a long time to define what I want to do with this site — which “direction” it should go, what topics I should write about, and why I should even call it “Domestiphobia” (aside from the fact that I like the word).  And since any type of planning or goal setting tends to make me want to crawl into the smallest, safest closet of my house with a bottle of tequila, a pair of sunglasses, and N-Sync’s debut album circa 1997 and pretend that I’m 15 again (with an apparent alcohol abuse problem), I’ve so far managed to successfully treat it as no more than an online journal to archive the often insane and aimless way I’ve thus far stumbled through adulthood.

Retirement plan?  Real job?  Sense of achievement and self-satisfaction?  That stuff’s for the Type As, I say, and let ’em keep it.

Except… it’s not.

I may be Domestiphobic, but I want these things:  Love.  Security.  A safe place to lay my head.

I want them.

I do.

I just don’t want to achieve them in the conventional sense.

In fact.

Every node on every nerve ending of every sensory receptacle of my body is repulsed by the idea of a “normal” life.

There.

I said it.

The very idea of working a regular 9-5 to support someone else’s dream seems ludicrous.  The thought that my basic needs can be met with a cable box and the latest Pottery Barn it’s-new-but-made-to-look-old overpriced dust collector is depressing.  The notion that life, as I know it, can be washed down in a blink with a single dose of monotonous routine just so I can earn enough money to wake up at 60 (should I be so lucky) with the means and motivation to actually start enjoying it seems like a waste.

I want to enjoy it now.

And I think each of us has this dream, maybe deep down, that life can somehow be more.

And for me, it’s going to start with this blog.

It will take some time to reorganize, especially knowing me, but that’s okay.

In the meantime, I need to know about you.  I tend to write a little about everything here — from travel experiences to home projects to dinner recipes and the deluded workings of my inner mind.  I’m all over the place.  And let’s be honest — that’s not likely to change.  But I would like to get an idea of what you, my regular readers, enjoy the most.  And maybe that will give me a sense of focus.

A bit of direction.

A safe place to lay my head.

Take the poll — it’s free and anonymous and will count for your good deed for the day.  Also, it could make you intelligent and rich and sexy beyond your wildest dreams.

Probably not, but I’m sayin’ there’s a chance.

(You can choose more than one answer.  Please be honest.  This is only my life we’re talking about.)

What? Like Parenting Is Hard?

Sometimes I cook dinner for my neighbor and her kid.

They come over because I crave the company and she doesn’t like to cook.

Whenever someone brings a child to my house, I realize just how not kid friendly it is.  I mean, it’s not like I have sharp metal furniture and crystal vases and nude portraits of Ron Jeremy hanging around, but I don’t have any designated “kid” stuff, either.  The closest I come is maybe a Pixar DVD or two, a copy of The Goonies (which really isn’t all that kid friendly at all when you think about it — but then, nothing involving Corey Feldman ever is), and… um… that’s about it.  Even my dogs aren’t really kid-friendly, since every time they see one they feel the need to knock it to the ground, immobilize it, then sterilize it via intense licking before letting it roam freely around their abode.

This usually doesn’t go over well.

When it comes to snacks, unless kids like goat cheese or prosciutto or Castelvetrano olives or a dry cabernet, they’re pretty much SOL.

Most of my friends are already aware of the situation at my house, so they come well prepared with toys and snacks and binkies and bibs.  But even the most prepared parents usually don’t think of the things most of us take for granted, like glasses.  All of my glasses are — you guessed it — glass.  So the last time I watched my neighbor’s daughter, I gave her milk shooters from a plastic JELL-O shot cup.

Hey.  Aside from those and the oversized red and blue party flip cups, I got nothin’.

I’m pretty sure that at 2 years of age, they’re not dexterous enough to handle my stemware.  And even I have a hard time lifting my chunky “Wal-Mart special” juice glasses.

This doesn’t happen at MY house. (source)

And I think, as I watch the little girl shoot her 4th milk, straight up, like a champ, that part of the reason I don’t really want one is because they need so much stuff.

As a self-professed minimalist with neurotic hoarding urges to constantly overcome, the very idea that I would need to purchase special glassless glasses and sippy cup lids and find somewhere to keep them and that’s just the tip of the iceberg, my friends, because did you know that kids need clothing and diapers and cribs and car seats and even special little spoons and plastic plates and omg you can’t put that tupperware in the microwave because the toxins will KILL your baby and I realize that in the end, I know I would require a JELL-O shot glass of my very own just to deal with it all.

I would be that parent who barely buys anything.  Who says, You know what?  Junior only really needs 3 toys at this age because he has the attention span of a gnat, and if I only give him one at a time and rotate them every half hour or so, it will be like he’s getting a brand new toy every time.  And that’s when the other parents would look at me with judgement and my child with pity and I’d go to jail for boob-punching the first woman who tells me I’m cheap.

Because I am cheap, but that’s not the point.

The point is that I just don’t want all that crap.

It stresses me out.

And if crap stresses me out, then that’s just one more check in the ever-growing column of reasons I shouldn’t be a parent.

Because, from what I hear, parents deal with a lot of crap — both figuratively, and literally.

And to be honest, I’d rather just have fun with their kids while they’re here, and simply throw the JELL-O shot cups away when they leave.

Vicarious parenting is so easy.

And That’s Why You Should Invest in a Fuzzy Bath Mat.

Last night I had a mini breakdown.

All of the big things and all of the little things culminated in my mind at approximately 7:36 p.m. and I was, to put it mildly, inconsolable for the next 7 minutes.  I cried.  I wrote an angry email to my boss.  I cried some more.  I panicked and tried to see if I could “un-send” the email to my boss.  I was relieved when I saw that I couldn’t.  I curled up on my super plush and comforting bathroom rug in a face-down fetal position and watched, fascinated, as black spots of watery mascara marred its fuzzy white fibers.  I stayed there until I couldn’t breathe, as my sinuses filled with all of the stuff that comes to the surface when we cry hard.

Then I cried some more, because I couldn’t even cry right without having to stop for lack of proper breathing technique.  I mean, everyone can breathe.  But me?  No.  Ask me to do one thing, and I’m pretty sure I’ll find a way to screw it up.

And so it goes.

The thought process of the minorly depressed.

Then I vented on Facebook, for crying out loud:

Drained. Physically, emotionally. Tired of feeling worthless at work. Angry at myself for not — STILL — being gainfully self-employed. Exhausted from loneliness. Pissed that I’m pissed about turning 30. I thought I’d be above that. But when you realize you’ve not only NOT reached your goals by a certain age but have managed to take a healthy flying leap backwards, it’s like… indescribably demoralizing. And now I’m complaining about it on Facebook, which we all know is like tapping the keg at my own effin’ pity party.

Then again, maybe it’s just my period.

And that made me laugh, a little, and so did some of the responses.

I feel better today.

Sometimes, I think, we just need to vent.

All over email, Facebook, and a soft, soft rug.

P.S. Check back later if you’re interested in learning how to build a closet organizer out of plumbing pipes.  Because… you know… isn’t everyone?

 

But Isn’t That Always The Question?

Earlier this week a friend of my friend’s husband died.  (Not the husband.  His friend.)

It’s so physically disconnected from my own bubble of existence that I never would have known — never would have cared — if it weren’t for the voyeuristic world of Facebook.  This slight tremor of the earth would have remained undetected by the radars whose boundaries define my reality, but instead, I could feel it.

And I think it might have tipped my axis.

Just a little.

See, my friend’s husband and his buddies are what you would call “adrenaline junkies” — men and women whose very core of emotional sustenance relies heavily — almost solely — on experiencing the rush that comes with dangerous physical activities.  Defying death, it seems, is the best way they know how to sustain life.

His drug of choice is BASE jumping, the acronym standing for the various fixed objects from which one could… well… jump:  Buildings, Antennas, Spans (bridges), and Earth (cliffs).  Sometimes they sneak off to places in the middle of the night when the wind is right — places most “normal” people drive past or over without a second thought.  Sometimes they travel to exotic locales where the scenery alone with its wild canyons and verdant jungles and sapphire waters and dissipating clouds and the climb itself would be enough.

Enough for most people.

But they’re not most people.  For them, it’s only about the fall.

I’ve always known my friend’s husband was like this, and of course I’ve always been worried for her.  What if something happened to him?  What if he was seriously injured?  What if… what if… what if… well.  We won’t go there.

And every time I express this to her — every time I ask if it drives her mad — she just looks at me.  Cooly, calmly, and smiles.  Because it’s him.  She could no more change this about him than the way he laughs when she says something funny or the number of girlfriends he’s had in the past.

And really, honestly, she wouldn’t want to.

So his friend just died.  His BASE jumping buddy.  He was found, it would seem, at the bottom of a mountain in some foreign range of which I’ve never heard.  From what I understand, he was experienced.  Knowledgeable.  Loved what he did.  Lived for it — and yes, died for it.  On his Facebook page, while the messages to him — messages I can only hope he already felt while he was alive — have the undertone of confusion and grief, there’s something more.  Obviously more.

They resonate joy.

Joy to have known him.  Joy to have learned from him.  Joy from those who knew that he loved what he did and he did it selfishly — without apology or regret.  Something that, when it all comes down to it, garners nothing but respect.

I didn’t know him.

And yet, I feel like I missed out.

That’s the thing about that kind of person.  About that kind of death.

It causes a confusing juxtaposition of emotion.  He was lucky enough to know and live his passion, but his passion is what ended his life.  Happy, sad.  It makes us wonder.  It makes me ask:  Is it worth it?  Would it be worth it?

Most of us will never know.

He died too soon, only 30.

Only 30.

But I’m willing to bet, based solely on the sentiments from those who knew him, that he lived more fully in those 30 years than most of us experience in a lifetime.

And probably yes, I think.

For that, it would be worth it.

When You Think About It, It’s Really Just My Age. Times Two.

Birthdays are strange in the sense that as we get older, is seems like we have so many so often that they start to lose their luster.

No longer do they represent a special day where people lavish us with gifts for something over which we never had any control — being born.  Instead, they represent aging.  Deterioration.  They turn from something to celebrate into something to dread.

It’s the birthday curdle.

And it’s a terrible thing.

Or at least, it is if you let it.

Read the rest of this gem…

So We’ll See If Husbands Can Be Replaced by Ladders and Sheer Will.

1.  Do not worry.  I haven’t decided to quit my day job to write erotic literature, nor will I start charging blog readers by the minute.  (Unless, of course, you’re in.  In which case, I’m in.  Just… you know… let me know.)

2.  My friend Stefanie had her baby.  Five pounds, 12 ounces, and I hear she is beautiful and will be able to go home soon, where I will visit and tell her harrowing tales about how her mother, while 7 1/2 months pregnant, moved across the country and survived apartment fires and dealt with dying vehicles and leaked amniotic fluid on my office chair all in an effort to find her a safe place to live.  Stefanie’s husband, by the way, made it home safe from Afghanistan in time to greet his daughter.

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