Internal Interviews: Was this really a good idea?

I recently applied for an internal posting within my company and then had the chance to sit around and be paranoid for a while as they decided whether or not I was interview worthy. The whole situation is like dating gone horribly wrong – I’ve already been on this “date” for the last year and a half, I’ve asked to take the next step and the other person is standing there and thinking about it while I feel awkward.

Now that I’m trapped in the internal hiring process, it is really starting to click in my head how many problems really are in this system. I’d love to say that being promoted from within is a win-win situation for everyone but now I’m not entirely sure.

For starters, what is going to happen to your career within the company if you are not selected for the position? Will that be remembered in the future if you apply for other positions? For example, could the ABC department turn you down because if the XYZ department didn’t want you, there must be a reason? The last few days, I’ve been thinking about this like a marriage proposal – does the relationship really survive after a rejected proposal or does it just limp along until someone has the guts to call it quits?

Next problem: I would be moving out of an administrative role but it isn’t unreasonable to think that I could be perceived as the new department’s copy ‘n staple bitch. Would I forever be seen as the coffee girl or could a truly become a vital part of the new department? Would I really be able to make the impact I am capable of making?

Finally, if this new position should work out, I’d be leaving my present boss in a bit of a bind. She would have to cover the work I currently do until they find someone to replace me or I could be expected to cover both positions until someone new could be trained. I really don’t want to leave my current boss in a bad position (I have a really great working relationship with her) but at the same time, I don’t want to put myself in a bad starting position.

My big interview is scheduled for tomorrow so I’m hoping I’ll know by the end of the week how this will pan out for me. Keep your fingers crossed it works out well for me and I’ll keep you posted on the process this week.

Should we be breaking up?

There comes a time in every girl’s life where she truly has to ask herself – Am I happy with this vendor relationship? Or am I afraid that there just isn’t anything better out there? Is it time to break up?

Then she has to fire a vendor.

I spent a lot of time thinking about this for the last month or so. My favorite vendor to use sadly has my least favorite account rep. Ever. The woman is almost enough to make me drop the vendor altogether despite the fact that her organization meets my needs (and my company’s needs) best.

How do you know if it is time? Ask yourself these questions:

1. Does my account rep communicate well with me? This is usually the first sign of trouble. When your account rep stops returning your emails or phone calls, it quickly becomes obvious that the relationship isn’t working. But what about when the rep is slow to respond to questions or concerns but quick to place an order on your behalf? If your concerns are not addressed as quickly as your orders, speak up. And if you can’t reach a new agreement, request a new account rep before you become so frustrated you drop the vendor.

2. Does my account rep call me about price changes? If an item you order on a frequent basis goes up in price, your account rep should call you before the price change occurs. If this is something you discover on your own, a red flag should go up. The account rep is there to keep you, the customer, happy and informed. The time it takes to call or email you to alert you of a price change is nominal compared to the level of frustration you will experience when you discover these things on your own.

3. Does my account rep know what I look like? I have been working for my employer for a year and a half – and ordering from this vendor for just as long. I know her office is within a half hour of my office. Do I know what she looks like? No. Does she have a firm understanding of who my company is? Definitely not. Your account rep needs to know who you are in order to help your company best. A ten minute stop in to your office goes a long way. The rep doesn’t need to be my best friend but she should be comfortable leaving her office and stopping by mine with new catalogs and services at least once a year.

I didn’t spend too much time thinking about these questions until the situation had gotten out of hand. Asking for a new account rep is easier than switching vendors and most companies live by the rule that it is easier to keep a customer than find a new one. Sure, the conversation is a little awkward at best but at least you don’t have return each others stuff at the end of it.

Social Activism as an Emotion

At the wedding on Sunday, Brian and I were chatting with one of the pastors from our church, Gary. Gary is just a year or two older than me so it is really easy to forget that he is supposed to be one of our spiritual leaders. To Brian and me, Gary is just a friend. I’m certainly not in awe of his M-Div from Princeton. It may not sound like a big deal now, but I’m hoping it’s a dynamic of the relationship we can maintain as he goes further into ministry because I think it will be important in keeping him grounded.

We spent a good portion of the luncheon chatting about our friend Jeff, who unfortunately had to miss the wedding. The interesting thing about Jeff is that he is very even in temperament. Good or bad, you’ll never really see or experience a big emotional outburst from him. It is really difficult to push his buttons. He could go through a horrible break up and have his heart crushed in the process and the most emotion you’d see from him would be something along the lines of “Meh, it just wasn’t working out”.

But Jeff is extremely passionate about social activism. Social activism isn’t just something Jeff does – it is an emotion and an experience for him. It can be easy to forget that Jeff could experience emotion until you hear him speak about organizations like Invisible Children or another ministry that he is involved in. It is really inspiring and humbling to hear about what he finds his passion in.

I am not a social activist. In fact, I’m really bad at social activism because I don’t feel like I can change the world, I just feel like I can get mad at it. I’m so quick to anger because of a world wide sense of entitlement and stupidity. But Jeff has this gift where he can see the world and move toward making it better.

What would this world look like if social activism was an emotion for more people? What would it look like if more young people felt the desire and overwhelming urge to help change the world when they saw injustice? What if our minds immediately went to “how can I fix this” instead of “That’s messed up”?

Sometimes I get scared about the idea of Brian and me bringing children into the world. I love kids and I desperately want to create a family with my husband. But I’m not sure it is a mature and responsible to decision to bring small lives into the world we live in now. Somehow, friends like Jeff make me think that maybe my someday babies will be safe. Maybe someday, it’ll be my babies who can change the world.

The Secret Guests at Weddings

Brian and I wrapped up the last wedding either one of us will be in, or at least for a few years, on Sunday. Our friends Carm and Chris celebrated their new life together with 8 bridesmaids and groomsmen, 175 guests and fourteen thousand dollars that are now re-circulating in the local economy. It was a fabulous but exhausting day. Brian and I got home last night and starred blankly at the television as we rehashed the day.

We are both people watchers. Brian is a people watcher because he’s the youngest child and the only boy in his family – it was just easier for him to shut up and watch. I’m a people watcher because I’m an only child – I’m fascinated by watching sibling relationships unfold in front of me. One of my favorite things about a wedding is we can get a fix on our voyeuristic tendencies in a socially acceptable forum.

The great thing about a big wedding is there are so many opportunities to see true personality types – especially in the wedding. The following are a few of my favorites.

Matron of Honor-zilla: Bridezilla is such a popular icon in pop culture but I don’t really think it happens as frequently as it is rumored. I think it’s the Matron of Honor-zilla that bridesmaids everywhere quake at the mere thought of. This is the woman whose own wedding didn’t go quite so well – the pushy best friend of the bride. She wants everyone to know her very important role in the wedding. And she wants you to know that she is the only one who can do things for the bride. Tip: if you are a bridesmaid and you notice the Matronzilla has started to stress the bride out, cause minor disasters that only the Matron can fix. If that means ripping your dress and letting Matronzilla safety pin it to your skin, so be it. It’ll be less stress for everyone else.

The Fem Groomsman: There is always one – the not gay but not masculine friend of the Bride who just had to be in the wedding. He would probably wear a dress and get his hair done if you let him. He’s great because he dances with all the single girls. Just remember to keep laughing when he starts dancing with all the husbands.

Super Bridesmaid to the Rescue: Need her to get the wedding site at the same time as the coordinator? She’s there. Need her to help the mother of the bride get dressed? Right on top of that Rose. Need her to distract the Matronzilla? Appropriate disaster on the way! Her husband is her minion for whatever needs she can’t handle herself.

The Interrupter: She wasn’t asked to be part of the wedding. She really shouldn’t be hunting down the bride before the wedding. But she is anyway. The interrupter doesn’t know why she isn’t in the wedding, but she’s still determined to be in every photo. Tip: Get the Fem Groomsman to earn his keep by doubling as a human shield.

The Anti-Bride’s Maid: This girl does not do weddings. She won’t wear a dress, she hates make up and she has no idea why she is there. And no one else can tell her either!

Congratulations Carm & Chris! We wish you nothing but the best. Brian and I are so happy for the love you share and the joy you add to our lives!

Why my husband's low point is really a marriage high point

Over the weekend, I had the pleasure of seeing my husband in the bad-drunk category. It started off cute enough – he told me how beautiful and wonderful and smart and sexy I am and how much he loves me. Then he passed out. Then he woke up. Then he leaned over and puked all over me. Then he smashed his head on the wall and knocked himself out for about five minutes. Then he woke up, puked some more and sat in bed for a while.

In hindsight, I probably should have taken him right to the hospital to have his stomach pumped but I was concerned about the cost. At this point in our careers, we don’t have the income for hospital visits in non life or death situations. But in the five minutes where Brian was knocked out, I questioned whether or not I would be able to save his life if he began to choke on his own vomit. Thankfully, I never had to find out.

The point of this is not that my husband is a drunk – he’s not and when he tells me this was the first time he got sick from alcohol, I believe him. The point of this is that in marriage, you end up in a lot of places you never thought you would be.

I never thought I would spend twenty hours cleaning up vomit. But from two in the morning on Sunday until ten o’clock that night, cleaning it up was what I did. Brian probably never thought his wife would be coaching him through a shower and forcing him to drink water. But we did it. He also probably never thought that I would be waking him up at eight on a Sunday morning because I was mad at him for being drunk, but I did. Because if I had to suffer, he did too.

It is only during the unpleasant moments of marriage that we truly realize how much we love our mates and how much we actually are capable of doing. In college, I was notorious for what I called a “death fear of vomit”. I made girls in my sorority house who were sick (whether it be from booze or a stomach bug) go to the basement bathroom to throw up because the mere knowledge that vomit was happening near me was enough to push me over the edge. Yet somehow in the early hours on Sunday, I learned that I could survive. My urge to care for my husband was stronger than my own urge to throw up everywhere, although not by much (once a sympathy puker, always a sympathy puker).

Marriage is not always pleasant, although Disney would have you believe otherwise. Prince Charming does some dumb-ass things from time to time. The true test of the strength of a marriage is not whether or not the poor decisions happen but the way you cope with those decisions the next day.

Besides, it is only a matter of time until I do something dumb too.

PS - Taco Hell, I mean Bell and cheap Canadian whiskey are always a bad idea.

Why I Don’t Celebrate Valentine’s Day (here’s a hint: It involves a dead rat)

Last year, my husband experienced Valentine’s Day for the first time on this side of a relationship as he had always been single before then. He tried to warn me in the months before the holiday that he had never celebrated Valentine’s Day, he didn’t see the point of it and he did not want to celebrate. I thought I could utilize the skills I learned in premarital counseling and compromise by purchasing cards for each other instead of gifts. It seemed like such a good idea.

When Valentine’s Day arrived, we stayed in. It snowed so we played hooky from work. We made breakfast together. We lounged in bed. We had dinner together and shared a bottle of wine. Then it was time for the card exchange.

My dear sweet husband bought me a card with a dead rat on it. Nothing says romance like a rodent. And since I was drunk, I cried. I questioned whether or not we should get married. I got so worked up that Brian ruined an upcoming surprise to try to make me happier. I still cried about the dead rat.

We may have ended the evening by sleeping in separate rooms.

This year, I am not celebrating Valentine’s Day.

Let’s be honest for a moment: I know I am an individual with high expectations. I set these expectations for myself, for others and for inanimate objects. My husband does not have high expectations for anything. He goes with the flow and rolls with the punches. Valentine’s Day is not a declaration of our love but a clash of our differences.

I didn’t buy a card for Brian this year. Instead I found red boxers with white hearts and I left it at that. I know he bought something for me this year but that’s only because he made a mistake with the check book and I had to go back and fix the math.

But that’s okay. By not celebrating Valentine’s Day, I lowered my expectations and I can be happy with whatever he chooses to give to me.

After all, it is just another day and ten years from now, it won’t matter. One day is just a drop in the bucket when you have the rest of your lives together.

Chaos and Carpet Cleaner

My mother is a cleaner. She is a straightener, a tidier, and a mess remover. I call it more than slightly neurotic. My mother is a dull woman. I know this because she keeps an immaculate house. Our bookshelves are always dusted, the magazines on the coffee table are current and artfully arranged, and there are fresh lines on the carpet from the vacumn cleaner.

In fact, if it wasn't for the fact that I live here, there would be virtually no sign of life in my house.
Ever.

I am the exact opposite of my mother. I am chaotic. I am the mess maker. I take my shoes off at the door and I ::gasp:: leave them there. I look at it as saving the white carpet from mud and coffee.

My mother says it is actually laziness.

And after having had the battle of laziness versus efficiency (I'm just going to put the shoes on again when I leave), I realize neither of us are going to win. Besides, my mother also says my version of efficiency is actually chaos. She isn't wrong but I don't want to tell her that.

It amazes me that two people who are so fundamentally different can live under the same roof for so long without actually killing each other. Although we have tried.

I tell my mother that she has become dull in her old age, that reading a bit more wouldn't hurt her, and that the Oprah magazine does not count as a book. I tell her that she does diservices to her clients by fighting for herion addicts to keep their babies. I tell her that she's lost her personality outside of my father in the last ten years and that if she keeps alienating her friends, she'll have no one left. I tell her that she enables my grandmother to manipulate and control our family and that at this point, everyone in our household needs a psych exam.

I don't think I'm wrong in any of it.

This is not one sided. My mother tells me that I will be a horrible mother because I can't keep a clean house. My mother tells me that she doesn't think I'll find a man that loves me until much later in life. My mother tells me that I am wasting my mind by working at Starbucks. My mother tells me that my artistic endeavors are a waste of money. My mother tells me that because I don't remember to leave my work schedule on the fridge, I am inconsiderate.

We're both going for blood, but in such different ways.

The funny part of all of this is that I don't leave. I stay put. She doesn't kick me out. And I know she won't. She tells her friends how much she loves having me home. I think I keep her real and honest. She thinks I give her more gray. I told her it was the "it" color for the season. She still reached for the box of Preference.

At times it seems like the only thing we have in common are genetics. But I think maybe, just maybe, my mother sees pieces of what she wanted to be in me. Despite her conservative exterior, she tells me to dress however I want now before gravity kicks in.

I have also recently realized that my mother and I both love deeply. We love honestly but on our own terms. We are not afraid of commitment. We are liberated by it. We both hide our dumb decisions from each other. And when we inevitably discover said dumb decision, we are both harshly critical of each other. We both think my Gampy loves us more than the other one.
Mostly importantly, I loudly fear turning into my mother and she quietly fears that she is actually me. Funny how that works out.

We have these periodic moments of honesty and trust. They are few and far between but they have appear a bit more frequently during the last few months. I don't know how to keep them coming but I'm not too worried about them stopping.

Originally post on Diaryland on April 24, 2006.

I was a faker before you.

There's a line in a song that I love: "I was a faker before you". When I catch myself singing one song lyric in my head over and over, that's usually the lyric.

I kinda like the idea of being redeemed in your trust for another person. That we can let the walls we spent so much time meticulously building come tumblin' down. I like the idea of standing barefaced and beautiful in the rubble, take me as I am.

I think it also supports the rowboat/Yacht theory. The rowboat makes it so easy to pretend, you are faking in the childish ways we find safe, hiding behind the somedays and the maybes, pulling into the marshes of life and weathering the storm under ponchos with picnic lunches our mothers packed for us. The Yacht is long term and spending your storms in the cabin with your first mate leaves little room for unhealthy make believe. You must surrender the fantasy.

Originally posted on diaryland on May 5, 2006.

Peter Keating: The Tumor

I have an MRI scheduled for Thursday evening after work at the earliest possible time I could guarantee Brian could make it. I didn’t want to wait too long to have the test done but I need to know that my husband is there. I am terrified of needles and someone will have to hold me still while they inject the contrast for the scan into my vein.

I have always been a big baby about needles. The first time I remember receiving a needle was a traumatic and shocking moment and the experience has not improved from there. It does not help matters that I was sick and hallucinating at the time and I thought the old women in the hospital with blue hair were trying to eat me (in hindsight, I realize them telling me that I was “sweet enough to eat” was a lie intended to calm me down and not a promise of events to come). As an adult, I no longer blame those women but I do think that experience explains why I will never be a blood donor despite a belief in my family that blood donation is a patriotic and Christian duty. I suspect the Red Cross would rather not get my blood considering the ordeal I would likely put them through.

Brian will have to be there in order for anyone to survive.

The MRI is looking for a tumor my doctor suspects is currently growing on my pituitary gland and secreting hormones that should not be secreted. I am actually starting to hope that the tumor does exist. I’d rather know what is wrong than anything else. And I’d rather start treatment right away. In this case, ignorance is definitely not bliss.

I decided that naming the potential tumor that is lurking inside my skull would be a very good idea. I wrestled with the idea of naming it for several days as I don’t plan on keeping it inside of my head forever and perhaps I should not provide a tumor with its own identity but I ultimately decided that while the tumor is in me, it is not part of me and therefore should not share my identity with me.

I named the tumor “Peter Keating”.

My husband, who is not well read and who is not an objectivist, was very confused by this. I think he was also confused at the naming of a potential tumor but I’m fairly certain the tumor is there.

Perhaps I’m just putting the cart before the horse by treating a potential tumor as if it were here but at the same time, naming the tumor seems to make it better. As if by naming the tumor, I control the tumor. I control how long the tumor is here and I control what effects the tumor has on my life. It is almost as if I am Adam and God has given me the task of naming all creatures I am to have dominance over. I plan on dominating the tumor.

The fact is, without some sense of control, the possibilities of this tumor are terrifying. And while I know at some point I will have to be able to surrender the idea that I can have control or I will be humbled by something unexpected, but at the moment, I feel like a sense of control is a good thing. It gives me something to cling to.

The Hard Part of Marriage

The most difficult aspect of marriage is realized around the same time that you realize you want to shed some aspect of your life. You can’t. You are now unable to shed the skin you are in when it becomes itchy and uncomfortable. You can no longer escape your bad decisions when they no longer suite you. Your bad decisions now belong to someone else and in turn, their bad decisions now belong to you as well.

In my pre-marriage life, I used to take solace in the fact that I did not choose my family. The egg and sperm that I grew from did not choose each other, they just happened to both be lurking in the same uterus at the time of my conception. I did not pick my parents but they were still my family. And by not picking my family, it became so much easier to distance myself from them or discount them as people. I may be sharing genetic material with them but they chose me.

As a married woman, my family now is my husband. And I did choose him. I decided to marry Brian just as Brian decided to marry me. I decided to love him and build a life with him. I decided he would be my family. And for that reason, I am not able to discount him or distance myself from him for the simple reason that it was all my choice. I am married to both Brian and his decisions.

Sometimes this scares the crap out of me.

When we first completed our walk down the aisle, I suspected that the most difficult aspect to relate to the fact that I would be having the same sex every night with the same man for the rest of my life. And as the play-ette I was in my single days, this was a bit concerning. There would be no more bad day sex with an ex-boyfriend. No more mid-week booty calls. I would be having sex with Brian until we were either too old to have sex or until one of us died. Surprisingly though, thus far, it hasn’t been that bad. In fact, I find that I like it and the lack of a chase for sex means I have more time at night to moisturize, therefore maintaining my youthful appearance for as long as possible.

But along with the consistent sex comes the consistent marriage. When Brian does something dumb, I can’t just walk away. I can’t through the towel in because I’m pissed off that Brian didn’t get my car fixed in a timely manner. When he comes out with a statement involving a bad idea being “really great”, I will still have to deal with the aftermath of that idea in the morning. And when I do dumb things, which I do constantly, I can’t just walk away from it. Suddenly, I have discovered that I must deal with the consequences of my actions.

My life choices for the first time have truly become life choices.

Life as a single person is transitional. Your friends, your job, your hobbies – these all can be replaced and no one needs remember but yourself. After marriage, someone will remember all of these things and more. My life story has now become so entwined with Brian that now he is my life story and I am his.

It seems the binding of marriage has hit me in ways I did not know how to prepare for.

What does that ring really mean?

On Monday through Friday, my husband wakes up and takes off his wedding band. It is as much apart of our routine as making dinner or visiting my grandparents. A new work day means that for the next eight to nine hours my husband takes off the visible symbol that he is mine and I am his.

For the vast majority of my husband’s time outside of the house, in a strange way, I do not exist. Women do not notice his wedding band because he does not wear it. And in an outsider’s perception, I only exist once I am mentioned.

Of course when he returns from work, his wedding band goes right back on his finger. Or at least right after he takes a shower. I do not doubt my husband’s dedication to our promise when the ring is on or off of his finger.

I find myself asking the question though – if a wedding band was not on my finger, would a stranger realize that I am married? If I did not wear my ring at work, would I feel less married? Does the ring make the marriage?

If the ring does not make the marriage, then my husband spent quite a bit of money on an engagement ring and wedding band that he did not need to.

In a strange way, a ring is almost like a human shield – the ring should be saying “your advances are not wanted”. But why do we need a little piece of metal to say that to others? Why are we not capable of saying it ourselves? Or maybe the ring is saying it to us, as in “their advances are not wanted”.

Anniversaries

Note: While a good part of me is desperate to give a scathing review of Britney Spears and its impact on pop culture and another part of me feels obligate to write something about September 11 and what it means to remember, I have decided that I will not be touching those topics until later in the week. There is still too much hype from Britney and it is so cliché to write about September 11th. I don’t believe that I can address those topics in a meaningful way at this time so I decline to do so until I feel ready. But trust me, I will.

On Saturday afternoon, I found myself shopping in Macy’s for dress clothes for Brian with my father which was not something I had planned to do. I had planned to go to my parents’ house, have my mother iron Brian’s new dress shirt and then head home but my mother’s quick departure to a hair appointment threw a wrench in those plans. I was grateful when my father offered to show me how to iron the dress shirt but one burnt fifty-five dollar French cuff shirt later, I was wondering if I made the correct decision.

Both fortunately and unfortunately, Macy’s was having their Labor Day One Day Sale on Saturday which meant prices were great but the lines were massive. We managed to find something similar to the burnt shirt in the very last one in Brian’s size. The line seemed to go on forever and very quickly, I found myself engaged in awkward conversation with my father.

My dad is not really a much of a talker in the best of circumstances. He’s a quiet guy, insightful. He’s the type of man that you have significant conversations with at home or in a nice restaurant on a predetermined date. He is not the type of man who wants to have a great conversation in line at a Macy’s. Whereas I’m the type of girl who does want to have those conversations.

We very quickly burned through the conversation he was willing to make. So I moved on to birthdays, anniversaries, upcoming significant family events. It just so happens that my parents’ sixteenth wedding anniversary is in two weeks so I asked my dad what he and my mom would like for a gift.

I was quickly alerted that this was an inappropriate question for me to ask. My father, apparently, believes that an anniversary is a private, intimate event between two people. An anniversary has nothing to do with anyone other than the two people who were involved.

I was shocked. And mildly insulted.

In a strange way, I realized that the words coming out of my father’s mouth went against everything I was raised to believe. And somehow, I felt like I was being left out in the cold by my family.

As a child raised with just a mother, I knew any marriage she was able to make was also a marriage with me. A potential husband for her was a potential father for me. We were a package deal and there was no way to separate us. My mother’s second husband adopted me following the wedding, making him the only father I have ever known. The marriage that took place in September of 1991 marks not only the beginning of my mother’s life with my father but the beginning of stability for me as well. Their anniversary is far more than just them.

Even more importantly, I was hurt as a Christian. A wedding between a man and a woman is not a rope with two strands but a rope with three strands representing Man, Woman and God. My father seemed to be leaving God out of his marriage. I also believe that a marriage is an event with in a community and therefore, shouldn’t the anniversary of that marriage also be an event within a community? If it does not continue to have that significance, then why do we take the time and effort to engage in premarital counseling through the Church, have the wedding ceremony take place in a Church and then invite a multitude of family and friends to the event? It seems to me that in order for a marriage to be successful, a community needs to stand behind it and in it. The support of other followers of Christ is what separates Christian marriages from our contemporary counterparts.

I’m still not sure what I want to say to my dad on the matter. I did some sleuthing and discovered where they are celebrating the day with a meal. It’s my intent to do something nice to mark the day, regardless of his desire for my involvement. Maybe its stubbornness or maybe it is a desire to be more Christ like in my actions. I have yet to determine which option it is.

How Quickly Ghosts Return

I received a phone call from an ex boyfriend last night. Not that a call from an ex boyfriend is all that unusual. I've had a lot of ex boyfriends and I am still friends with the majority of them. After all, I dated them for a reason and usually the reason I wanted to date them is reason why I want to maintain a friendship after the fact.

This ex boyfriend and I have a lot of history. I truly believed until a year ago that he and I were going to get married. Now I'm married to Brian. The ex and I have had the oddest relationship since day one. The first time I met him, I fell in love with him. I came home and told my mother that I had met the man I was going to marry. Mind you, I was 16 and he was 14. He is one of the rare people in my life that I know I will love forever regardless of the ways we have hurt each other in the past and the ways we will hurt each other in the future.

His phone call terrified me. He didn't know I was married. And there was something in his voice that scared me as that revelation I was made. I know him the same way I know Brian. Which is also very scary.

Six months ago, I thought I was never going to see him again. Now he calls and says he's been thinking about me. I almost gave up everything for him and now he's thinking of me. Great. Day late and a dollar short my friend.

My marriage is my priority. I hope he understands that nothing can change now.

May 16 aka 31 days

Last night I watched my almost husband sleep on the floor in green pasley boxers that I bought for him at Christmas as I half read Anne Lamott and I half listened to a thunderstorm roll into the Levittown skies.

I call Brian my "almost husband" because any other term available to describe his roll in my life seems horribly inaccurate. "Fiance" reminds me too much of Seinfeld and "maybe the dingo ate your baby" and I really don't want to be thinking about Julia Louis Dreyfuss when I think about my mate. The term "boyfriend" seems to downplay Brian's roll in my life as if he was a leftover relic from my college days with no actual commitment on the horizon. Which he is not. Thank you very much. I cannot yet call Brian my husband because the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and my mother object on the grounds that our legally binding promise has yet to be signed. They apparently do not agree with my belief that engagement is just as binding as marriage.

Almost Husband it is.

Another accurate way to describe Brian is to refer to him as my better half. I do not say that to degrade or berate myself but as our premarital counselor so nicely put it, I have "tendencies" towards "agressive, dominant" behavior and intolerance, and Brian, well, he does not.

She also tried to tell us that the personality test which supplied the information was only a snapshot in time but I would be lying to myself if I did not admit that the statement is accurate on a daily basis.

Clearly, my almost husband is better than your almost husband. Mainly because he puts up with me.

Brian continues to amaze me each day. He has a wonderful ability to see through my, ahem, shit in a way that no one else can. And I have a lot of shit that needs to be seen through. I don't like to think of myself as someone who fronts, but I do know that I tend to only show one aspect of myself at a time to people in the outside world. All of it is accurate, but I'm still not showing everything. Okay, so maybe I front. My front is so good that even I forget that I'm fronting. At times, my front is like a creeping ivy that has overtaken a house and only a certain almost husband seems to be able to see through that ivy to the potential that lies beneath it.

Brian keeps me nice. I don't mean that in a way that implies that he pays for everything (although he does pay for quite a bit more than I do). Brian is my personal editor through life. He edits my post it note directions for our family with "please" and "thank you" and "have a nice day" and ":)". He stops me from leaving post it notes that say "take out the g-ddamn trash" for the wonderful family members who live with us. He let me buy a big soft comfortable mattress even though he would rather sleep on a plank. Why? Because it made me happy. He humors me. He willingly goes to my alma mater to visit my college friends even though he thinks the college I went to was weird and the people I knew were even weirder. He looks for ways to make my life better.

I tend to freak out on him because the dinner table isn't set, I have at least three more load of laundry to do, and he's been home for three hours longer than I have and all I wanted to do was paint my nails.

Thank god he lets me.