Smells Like Happy

One Year

And a very good one at that.

A Little Therapy

Whenever you need to feel better about the pathetic state of the world -- impending nuclear war, erosion of freedoms, death of all that's good and decent, et cetera, ad infinitum -- here's what you do: You invite a toddler to spend the weekend, squeeze her fleshy little upper arm every hour (give or take ten minutes), and color. With crayons.

 

This is Alise. If you don't know Alise, please read this. It's the best way to quickly acquaint yourself.

But if you can't be bothered to read her fascinating ideas on children's privacy rights with respect to popular blogging practices, I'll tell you this: She's the daughter of my friends Mindy and John. She's also a double PhD who wrote two dissertations: "Mass Media and the Rise of the Infant World View," followed by "The Secret Lives of Puppets: Social Darwinism At Play." Both successfully defended.

Of course, that's a lot of work to do before turning 2, so she had never visited Washington, D.C. We took her around the city and showed her a monument or two. We also took her to the Cherry Blossom Festival parade, where Abby Cadabby was scheduled to appear. Abby is apparently a member of the cast of Sesame Street and a fairy godmother in training. Alise very much respects Abby's theories on the function of folk magic belief among human children, and I think she was hoping for a minute alone with Abby to discuss those theories. So she was really disappointed when Abby and all the other Sesame Street people just walked by and waved like we were all drooling, empty-headed babies. How insulting! "I'd expect that from Elmo and Cookie Monster," Alise said, shaking her head, "but not Abby."

But we approached the situation philosophically; Abby Cadabby has to make a paycheck like everybody else. Alise said she'll try to engage Abby in written correspondence, which might enable Abby to respond on her own time when The Man isn't forcing her to pander to babies with hypnotic, doe-eyed expressions.

We tried to show Alise the cherry blossoms but, alas, they bloomed a little early this year. We settled for tulips at something called the Tulip Library, which was FULL of hundreds of brilliantly colored tulips -- and did not at all amount to settling, in my opinion.

Alise said she'd never seen such springtime magnificence as we saw in the Tulip Library, and that this was unlike any library she'd ever closed down at 1 a.m. after a long night of studying.

Then we went back home and cleared our heads with a power nap followed by some intense coloring.

Dude, coloring is therapeutic. For people like me, anyway -- I just stay inside the lines that are already drawn and I pick whatever color I feel like. Purple eyes! Green noses! I don't think, I just do, and I feel like a carefree kid again. But Alise is a passionate colorer. She disregards useless conventions such as lines. "How can you create art within the confines of someone else's framework?" she asked. And I had to admit that she might be right.

Then I asked for a red crayon, and do you know what she did? She handed me a green. Point taken, young master. Point taken.

But Alise wasn't all seriousness. We found a bit of Curious George programming on TV and she was so happy about it that she was reduced to baby talk ("Jooj!") just like she reduces me to baby talk ("Aliiiiiiiiisey!"). We all have our buttons.

Then she grabbed a phone charger, ran up and down the hall a few times, and showed that she can be a wild child with the best of 'em.

RAWWWR. It's like that scene in "School of Rock" when the Jack Black character takes the Joan Cusack character -- the principal -- to a bar. He gets her good 'n' drunk so she forgets her primness and starts babbling about Stevie Nicks and belting out "Edge of Seventeen." If only Alise's academic advisors could have seen this!

We had a toddler in our house for only two days, but those were some nice days, let me tell you. She was a breath of fresh air and totally made me forget that poor children go hungry and doggies get hit by cars. Her upper arm? Sweet Jesus. Just try to give it a squeeze while maintaining coherent thought. I challenge you.

When Mindy and John weren't within earshot, I offered Alise a deal: Stay here. Stay here and we will let you play in the office with which you are so fascinated. It's yours! You can go out on the patio whenever you want, as long as you wear some kind of safety harness, and we'll dance to Vampire Weekend every day until you get sick of it.

"Oatmeal every morning?"

"Yes! Yes, and those cheesy goldfish crackers too. For lunch."

"I prefer the Dole fruit bars. And I get to climb on the coffee table whenever I want?"

"Of course! We'll put rubber bumpers on the corners."

"Don't insult me."

"Sorry, it's just... your muscle tone and coordination. They're still developing. But whatever, no bumpers. Do we have a deal?"

She thought for a moment. "Look, it sounds nice -- and I totally appreciate the coffee table thing -- but I'm afraid it's just not possible."

I sighed. "Nana?"

"Yep," she nodded. "You're nice, but you're no Nana."

So Alise, Mindy and John returned to their home and their Nana and GrandBob. And I sit here with nothing but memories and her leftover YoBaby (vanilla and banana) to comfort me as I wonder what else I could have done to sweeten the deal.

Sigh. I guess we'll always have D.C.

iLove My Husband

Here's some typical holiday conversation in our house:

"[Our birthday/Christmas/Elephant Appreciation Day/National Hairball Awareness Day] is next week. Are we doing presents?"

"I don't know... We DID just [go on that trip/buy that couch/cash out our 401(k)s to support our Velvet Elvis-collecting habit]. Maybe that should count as our gifts?"

"Agreed."

Valentine's Day usually fits into that scenario. But this year, I suggested that we use it as an excuse to buy each other gifts, because I love buying people gifts and I also don't entirely mind being on the receiving end. So we set a price ceiling and then went about our secret planning, which basically amounted to me scouring the web and wishing that The Mouse actually wanted something -- ANYTHING IN THE WORLD -- that fits within the set price range. The only things he wants are a Vespa, a Kindle, a MacBook Air, his own luxury hotel, an African safari and a supermodel.

I got the closest things I could find: two books showcasing luxury hotels, which was meant to be a cool gift but could actually come off as meaning here are two beautifully bound keepsakes of stunning photographs of the things you will never be able to afford. XOXOXO.

But at least I followed the rules. He did not. And for that, I am eternally grateful:

It's so much better than I could have imagined. I wish I could tell you that it's not great, because that's what I wanted to hear. Every time my friend Sharon pulled out her iPhone and offered to let me take it for a spin, I could only stick my fingers in my ears, squeeze my eyes shut and repeat, "PUT IT AWAY, PUT IT AWAY, NO NO NO I CAN'T LOOK." Because I knew I was dangerously close to the edge, and even a taste would send me careening over the cliff into the Cult of iPhone.

I wish I could tell you that it's OK, it's just a phone, and does it really need all of those goddamned buttons? But I can't lie to you. The truth is that it's a phenomenal feat of computer engineering, it's thirteen thousand times more than just a phone, and all of those goddamned buttons are TOUCHSCREEN GATEWAYS TO HEAVEN that make me repent sins I haven't even committed just so I can be bathed in their beautiful LCD light.

Don't hate me. I've already spent the afternoon begging my beloved WG to come back to me because iPhone envy, no matter how understandable, should never destroy friendships. Save that kind of friendship-destroying envy for when I purchase my third luxury hotel.

But keep in mind, that's exactly the time I will need you most. Because by then, my husband will be able to afford his own supermodel.

Pretty Little Things

In addition to writing three articles, revising three datasheets and pitching three article ideas to a new editor, my list of tasks to finish before we leave town includes this very nagging item: "FINISH THANK YOUS." The difference is that on my private list it's followed by five exclamation points, but I'd like to maintain some modicum of punctuational decency in this public blog.

I know. Our wedding reception was at the end of October, which means I am approaching the three-months-later mark and still haven't finished thanking everyone who so graciously attended and gave us gifts. The etiquette guides are unclear on whether this is a gross injustice and abuse of people's generosity, but if Emily Post comes a'knocking on my door with a stern look, I will go a'knocking out her teeth. Because in all, we have to write nearly five hundred of these things. Of course, it doesn't help that I also insisted on making every one of them by hand, including lining my own envelopes.

What's that you say? Emily Post has been dead these forty-some years? Now I'm really feeling a surge of bravado.

My love affair with paper began when I was able to grasp and manipulate a pencil, leaving scribbly thoughts in its wake. After that came all the other tools -- the scissors and glue and crayons and paint -- that could turn plain paper into pretty vessels of personal expression, so tactilely satisfying. Not that I amounted to anything in Friday art class; I have absolutely no talent when it comes to drawing, and art class always seemed to be about who could most accurately draw someone's or something's likeness. Even when I draw my best stick girl, she still doesn't look anything like Kate Moss.

My love affair with paper intensified this summer when I decided to make our wedding reception invitations. I can't show those to you because they have all kinds of personally identifiable information, but I can tell you that they were brown and golden yellow and lovely. I also can show you one of the envelopes, which featured the story of our relationship, told in the third person, in a very faint, pretty script on a shimmery golden-yellow liner.

The story continued all the way to the bottom of the envelope, where anyone curious enough to tear it apart would find a secret message. (I was surprised at how many people did go exploring.)

When I realized that I could customize envelope liners with pretty much anything I could imagine, I really started having fun. Geeky fun. On Saturday nights.

This is a liner with an image of my brother, age 7, holding me, age 6 months, holding a little bear that I still have. I used it to send him a thank you for standing up in our wedding.

Then I started making cards for just about any reason. Here's a "congratulations" card to my youngest niece when she decided to go to cosmetology school.

So now I'm down to the last 45 thank yous, wondering what the hell I was thinking (which is the same question The Mouse has been asking me for months), because the volume, my god, the volume. But there will be no excuses for not getting every last one out the door by Saturday morning. I'm hoping that coming in just under the three-month mark is somehow acceptable. For what it's worth, I immediately sent thank yous to anyone who sent gifts in advance -- usually the next day -- and all of the closer family and friends received their thank yous quite promptly.

I've attended weddings with 700-plus guests, and some of those brides and grooms sent pre-printed, generic "dear friend" thank yous. Surely it's nicer to get a personal note, even if you have to wait a little longer?

You can tell me what I want to hear. Really, you can.

The Honeymooners

We made a decision last Monday: to go on a vacation. By Tuesday we had chosen the Sundance Film Festival, found two sets of friends who could offer us lodging to cover our dates, and scoped out airfare. By Thursday we had begun to second-guess our destination. Movies? Love! Celebrities and celebrity-seeking crowds? Booo. Cold? Had enough, thanks. Skiing? Don't know how, somewhat averse to idea of death by high-impact collision with tree.

By Friday evening, we had found the World's Cheapest Tickets to Costa Rica, booked flights and lodging, and begun looking up terms like "two-toed sloth" and "Dengue fever" in the index of our Lonely Planet guidebook.

We went to Costa Rica in 2003, and on first consideration the idea of going someplace we've already visited doesn't wholly indulge our wanderlust. But our 2003 trip was spent volunteering in central Costa Rica, me in an orphanage and he in a nursing home. There was lots of crying and journaling and personal fulfillment, very little time spent thinking anything other than WHY, WHY IS LIFE SO UNFAIR. This time, in a different kind of demonstration of life's unfairness, we're heading straight to the coast for some surfing and diving and biking and hiking. We're leaving Saturday.

(Have you seen that commercial where the woman walks into the office and says to her coworker, "How's it goin', Frank?" And he parrots back, in a disdainfully mocking tone, "HOW'S IT GOIN', FRANK??" and sets off a chain of ugly behavior? If I don't take a vacation, I will be Frank. Thus is this vacation a form of volunteerism. I volunteer to subject myself to many days of sunny, salty pleasure so I may return to the States and answer all inquiries as to how things are going with, "WONDERFUL, and don't YOU look fine today!" and set off a chain of lovely, kissy kindness. It will eventually reach you; you're welcome.)

In preparation, I scoured my wardrobe for beach-appropriate clothing and discovered that I have none. In fact, it appears that I do not step outside between the months of May and October. So I went to Target and discovered what millions of people discovered about a billion years ago: oh my god, what a steal. I got some cute summery clothes and a pair of sunglasses that I could lose on a bus and not think about twice. I'm going to take only items that I won't mind dirtying with sunscreen lotion, salt water, mud and the dripping juices of giant, luscious Costa Rican fruit with which I will daily stuff my face. (See? Life = unfair.)

Except for my computer. Yes, I will be taking a laptop because I have work to do. And you thought I was being sarcastic when I said that life is so unfair. Aren't you cute.

I leave you with two photos from our previous trip to this lovely country. Once again, we'll do our best to avoid the most touristy, least authentic spots. I've read that more and more strip malls are popping up around the country, complete with Burger Kings and coffee shops that sell American atrocities such as iced mocha latte coolers. That just makes me sad, because it doesn't have to be the inevitable result of tourism.

Brief Notes on A Young Year

It's 2008, and I still can't tell you about the subtle differences between Argentinean chocolate and Australian chocolate because I never found the international chocolate sampler that was supposed to be the star of last night's party. But I can tell you about the taste of tiramisu that has been stuffed into tiny plastic cups for mass serving: still pretty darned good.

The Italian Embassy looks nothing like you would think. If you're imagining St. Peter's Basilica or anything with grand Roman arches and columns, you are mistaken. The results of some Googling indicate that the building is something like a post-modern palazzo, which means nothing to me other than "not ornate" and "not super old/cool looking."

So it was no Renaissance, but the food was extremely good, the drinks were included and the people-watching was prime. The best fun was seeing guests emerge from the chair after having their caricatures drawn, disproportionate renderings in hand. One girl smiled politely and thanked the artist, then quickly turned her back to him to hide her horror.

"Does my nose really look like this?" she asked a friend, her voice full of apprehension.

People with shaky confidence should not pose for a caricaturist.

I started out dreading my choice of New Year's Eve activity, mainly because it did not include pajamas or closed eyelids, and I ended up braving the cold weather and resolutely ignoring my brain-numbing congestion and fever just to GO OUT. MUST GO OUT. And we had a darned nice time, which is more than I can say for the next seven to ten days of anyone who came into close contact with my germs last night. (Just kidding! I didn't sneeze on anyone without their informed consent.)

I would post a photo of us, but why post a photo when I can post a video of us waiting for someone to take our photo? It's far more amusing than the photo itself. It also shows what happens about every time I ask my husband to PLEASE SMILE FOR THE CAMERA LIKE A NORMAL PERSON IS THAT SO HARD.

That is me, sans six inches of hair. I'm sure that my hair still looks long to some of you seasoned shorties, but it represents a fairly significant change for me. Significant enough that my stylist, scissors suspended in mid-air before their attack, said, "Are you SURE? Did you tell your husband about this?" I quickly produced a signed, dated and notarized "Permission to Make Independent Decisions About Hair Style" form; she shrugged and went to work.

The only notable development since midnight's mumble-through of Auld Lang Syne was the arrival of an email from my landlord. You remember her -- the happy, smiley ray of golden sunshine? Well, she responded to my request that we be allowed to foster a helpless, lonely, downtrodden, orphaned kitten with a resounding NO. I can only imagine that she's worried that a kitten might pee on the nice hardwood floors but that fear seems to rely on the assumption that I won't pee on the hardwood floors, a course of retaliation currently under consideration.

That's all I have for you, people. It's 2008, that's fabulous with me, and I have a pan of warm brownies and a warm husband waiting for me in the living room. No warm kitten yet, but 2008 is young.

We now return to our regularly scheduled lives.

The title refers to me. You, on the other hand, are about to get sucked into a long post.

From the moment The Mouse and I agreed to have this big wedding reception, despite having eloped, I knew that much of it was going to be about the differences between who we are -- as individuals and as a couple -- and who people expect us to be. In some ways, I think this theme has been ever-present in The Mouse's life because he's a first-generation American. But then I came along, with my gay friends and liberal politics, with my godlessness and kindly views on cohabitation, and I elevated the mild case of culture clash to something chronic. Like leprosy.

We dealt with little conflicts at every turn, and I'm not going to judge my in-laws harshly here. They come from a different world than I do, literally and figuratively. Each of us unconsciously catalogues our experiences into our own Reference Book for Life, and when you look up "marriage" in their book it says things like "we must serve three meats" and "can you at least pretend that you changed your name?" My very presence has thrown them a lot of curve balls, and they did remarkably well considering their total unfamiliarity with my wily kind. In the end, they were nothing but gracious and kind to my family and friends, and they threw us a day-after-reception party that was nicer than most receptions I've attended.

I also knew that I was marrying into a family and culture that takes that whole "marrying into" phrase just a bit too literally.

Drunk Mouse Relative: Welcome to the famileeeeeee! I looove you. You are the best. I love you. You know that I love you?

Me: Thank you, I love you too. And welcome to my family.

DMR: [confusion, silence]

Wife of DMR: Ahem. It does go both ways, dear.

DMR: But... but... No. Welcome to OUR family. You are in OUR family now.

And when my parents left the in-laws' house the next day, there was some confusing conversation about whose daughter I was now, and who would be taking me home. I quickly announced that I am my parents' daughter and nothing would change that, thankyouverymuch, and that I would be taking myself home. In the Old Country, the wives are absorbed into the husbands' families. But this isn't the Old Country, which is also why I'm lucky enough to still have all of my teeth, indoor plumbing and smooth hands that have never slaughtered a pig.

The week leading up to the reception was one of the best parts about it: just me, my mom and my dad working together. My mom came through like she always does -- staying awake until quiet hours of the early morning to strip the leaves from flowers, while still managing to make dinners and cakes and muffins and responding to ambulance calls when anyone happened to need a good life saving. My dad was incredible -- cutting ribbon for hours and using this fascinating method called math to determine that I had dramatically underestimated how much ribbon I would need. (Have you heard of this math? I think it may be the way of the future. It really works.)

The flower project was completely crazy. Every day, more flowers arrived. This was after only the first day, with about a third of the flowers:

Each night, we had to monitor the temperature on on the porch to make sure it wouldn't dip too low. We had to cut and re-cut and strip leaves and change water. Lukewarm or tepid? Are the buds opening? Don't let them open too much. PUT THEM OUTSIDE. Why aren't the opening? GET THEM IN HERE. Make the water warmer. NOT THAT WARM.

Late in the week, we loaded the completed centerpieces into two cars, along with the hundreds of candles and votive holders and favors and cranberries and candies, and headed out.

 

That night was spent with some of my dearest friends in the world and my family, all crammed into a crappy little hotel room constructing brown Chinese takeout boxes with yellow ribbon handles and stuffing them full of candy. And that was the other great thing about the weekend: watching (most of) the people I love most finally meeting each other, and being instantly smitten. My parents loved my friends! My friends loved my parents! My friends loved my brother! My brother loved my friends! It was a big goddamned lovefest, and I felt like some mad, brilliant scientist for combining all of these human ingredients in one room and getting such a lovey, fuzzy result. Eureka, indeed.

The reception itself was a strange mix of good friends and people I've never seen in my life. And while I was saying, "Thank you for coming!" I was often thinking, "Who are you?"

And before I knew it, the hour hand was nearing midnight and the peep-toe heels -- which seemed so comfortable when I bought them -- were causing excruciating pain in some parts of my feet and eerie numbness in others. I realized that the people I most wanted to spend hours and hours and hours with --  preferably while in pajamas and drinking something warm, but at a reception would have sufficed --  were starting to filter out the doors. One of my brothers didn't even show up in the first place. And I still smiled and felt content because this was never going to be the Best Night Ever. And piss on the people who looked horrified when I said that out loud.

Yeah, I said it, and yeah, people looked at me like I was insulting their mothers or like my marriage was doomed. And I wanted to say, wait, I'm fine with this not being the Best Night Ever, I'm good with this -- what were you expecting?

If you've never gotten married but plan to have a traditional wedding, let me tell you something: You are absolutely out of your mind if you expect it to be the best day of your life. I don't even understand people who approach weddings like that, honestly. And why would you even WANT that? If that's your ideal, what will you think of all the days and years to follow?

The commitment and the day may symbolize the best decision you ever made, sure. But weddings are gatherings of people, and complications arise when people gather. Some people hate each other. Some people used to date each other, and maybe it didn't end so well. Some people are smiling at you while thinking that your dress is ugly. Some people are scamming on your hot little cousin, either unaware of or indifferent to the fact that she is underage and OFF LIMITS. Some people are talking about how shameful it is that you didn't change your last name and obviously don't honor the institution of marriage, or that you did change your last name and obviously don't honor the accomplishments of Gloria Steinem. Some people are staring at you and imagining your seemingly perfect life while getting sloppy drunk and mourning their own crumbling marriages. Others are trying to avoid looking at all of the beautiful babies in the room, who are painful reminders of the babies they aren't having. And that's where bridezillas come from: They have so carefully constructed this fairy tale day in their minds, and when they realize that people and circumstances aren't turning out the way they wanted, they freak out. They demand control over everything, anything, and shut out the things they can't control. And they are unhappy.

This weekend, I was so happy. But it was because I had proper expectations.

Our wedding was a simple, quiet affair between the two of us. The reception was the opposite. It was a pretty fun party with kickass centerpieces, if I may admit, but it was a gathering of people with all of the resulting complications. Still, there were bits of perfection. In having parents who stayed up late to help me with crazy projects that involved thorns, despite the throbbing pain in their backs from hunching over flower buckets all day. In having friends who came to our party from all over the country and told us our speeches were good when they really weren't. Perfection was in having someone love us enough to fly to our reception from Tokyo and be on American soil for only 24 hours before flying back. It was in having most of my family members decide to direct their gazes a little higher than any rifts that may separate them, even for just a night, so we could all be together. There was perfection in watching my brother and The Mouse's brother and cousins sway with their arms around each other while stumbling through songs from the Old Country. It was in watching my hilarious, loyal, and very hot husband walk into our hotel room that night, pull off his tie and collapse on the bed, exhausted and happy and relieved.

"It's over," we both said, and we smiled ourselves to sleep.

Tuesday morning marked the return of normal life. Of my creative writing. Of feeling in my toes. No more seating charts or RSVPs or hemorrhagic spending. And we vastly prefer this life to pomp and circumstance. What can I say? The party was nice, but marriage is great. And that's why we got married in the first place.

(Photos, snapped by the talented Sam and her talented partner Rachel, to come.)

Don't look at me, Madagascar. I'm on your side.

Unless you've been to Paris, you can't really walk around gushing about how romantic the cafes and narrow streets are. Unless you've been to Tokyo, you can't credibly talk about how hordes of people move around like they're part of a well-oiled machine. But you don't have to set foot in Washington, D.C., to say, with all authority and accuracy, that this city is all about politics.

This is where the work of the country gets done. Or, as some argue, this is where the work of the country goes to die in the form of red-vs-blue bickering, quid-pro-quo politics, filibustered legislation and sex scandals among some of the most powerful, unattractive people in the world.

When I was in grad school several years ago, I spent three months in D.C. reporting for a TV station and a radio station. This was the year Clinton was impeached, and we covered a lot of politics. By the time my professor told me that she hadn't been able to pay attention to my succinct and expertly delivered live shot because a stray section of my long, unruly hair had not been sprayed into place, my feelings about the shallowness of broadcast journalism and about the shallowness of politics were too entwined to separate. The world would have seemed a much simpler place if the reporters could keep their very un-Jane Pauley hairstyles and the politicians could refrain from having sex with the interns, but this was asking too much.

For a long time, my journalism training kept me from being a good private citizen. It predisposed me to always look at a situation from all sides except my own, mainly because I was too young and inexperienced to figure out my own take on things. Journalism doubled as a safe way to avoid the complicated business of figuring out. But I rarely do journalism about politics anymore, and I've grown up to realize that not only do I have opinions about the direction of the country, but that I have some pretty strong opinions. Which is why I was here today:

I don't know who to back for the Democratic nomination. Some of the time, I just want to back whoever can win -- whoever will help this country remove its giant dunce cap. Show us how to once again play nice in the international sandbox. Lead by example. All that darling stuff we learned in kindergarten.

Sometimes I want someone who's tough. A loving mama bear who will claw your intestines out if you go after her cubs. Someone who makes me feel safe in an uncertain world but doesn't feel the need to bitch slap any country that dares oppose us. (ARE YOU LISTENING, MADAGASCAR? EITHER YOU ARE WITH US OR YOU ARE AGAINST US, YOU LEMUR-LOVING NANCY BOYS.)

And sometimes, I hear someone like Barack Obama say all the right things -- all the simple, idealistic things that I hold so dear beneath my thin crust of cynicism, and he's just 10 feet from me and that makes his words all the more real -- and I think, Dang. This feels so good.

Except for when I am trampled by throngs of excited supporters. That doesn't feel so good.

But what feels the best is living in a city where, although sometimes at a crawl, history is always being made right outside your door and offering you the option of helping it along.

Now. I just realized that I have absolutely no idea whether my readers give one pink panty about politics or next year's election. Do you? Tell me.

Conversations with Alise, Part 6

Unless you're new here, you know about Alise, the now-toddler daughter of one of my best friends, Mindy. Alise is, for me, a Compelling Nonverbal Argument in Favor of Having Kids Soon. I once called her that, only I said "CNAiFoHKS," and boy, you should have seen her eyes roll! She hates acronyms, and she found the lack of helpful vowels in this acronym to be particularly appalling.  

"In addition," she said, "Never abbreviate emotional statements. You only make it painfully obvious that you prefer to mask the emotion of the statement behind a cloak of meaningless letters. The question is: for whom is the cloak?"

"Oh, Alise," I swooned. "I gotta tell you, you are just as smart and sassy as I hope my kids will be. But what if they're not? Oh, god, what if my kids grow up to be like -- like those awful dimwits in Jay Leno's man-on-the-street interviews?"

"The ones who can't name the vice president and who think the capital of the United States is New York?"

"Yes!"

"Well," she shrugged, "that's TBD."

"To Be Determined?"

"Too Bad, Dummy."

"Oh, Alise--"

"Stop your worrying. For better or for worse, your kids will turn out to be like their parents."

"Yes, you're right, you're right. Wait, what are you implying with the 'worse' part?"

"Look," she said, "this is all very fascinating, but do you mind if we talk about something else for once?"

"No, not at all. Shoot."

"Well, I was thinking the other day about Elmo and the commoditization of happiness -- may I have something to chew on? My gums are giving me terrible trouble today -- anyway, those Elmo dolls and the commoditization of happiness. Because they're not selling a toy so much as an experience, you see..."

"Wait," I said. "Can I write about this on my blog?"

"I don't see why not. But why don't you ever disclose details of your conversations with my mother on your blog? After all, my relationship with you is just shy of thirteen months old -- yes, 'that's your entire life!' Ha ha. But that would give my mother seniority in your affections."

"Well, I don't think your mother would appreciate me disclosing all kinds of details about our everyday conversations with the rest of the world. We're adults, you know? And it's sort of different when you're an adult."

She thought for a minute. "That's probably true. But I suspect that change -- the age at which a person begins to require a private life -- comes much earlier than adulthood. I mean, come on. I'll be starting preschool in a couple of years. I'll have classmates, a reputation to establish. But there they'll be all over the web: photos of me sitting around with my shirt off. Photos of me sitting around eating my shirt--"

"I didn't post the ones of you eating your shirt."

"VIDEO OF ME SLEEPING."

"It was cute!"

"How creeped out would you be if someone videotaped you sleeping and posted it online?"

"Look," I said, "I get it. There is a tendency, in this weird, virtual world we now live in, for parents to treat children as something like public figures. 'Sorry, you can't have a reasonable expectation of privacy because you're a baby!' And now all these parents are chronicling their children's lives -- first and last names included! -- online for all the world to see. And if children are to have the freedom of self-determination -- self-definition -- it would seem that a public childhood presented through the filter of an overly analytical parent would be somewhat... limiting."

"Exactly."

I laced my fingers behind my head and leaned back in my chair.

"Look," she said, "don't worry about it. Someday I'll be able to start my own blog if I choose to. After all, there's no better way to control the lens through which the world views you than setting forth your own super-biased version of yourself. And it's not like I have much to combat. You're actually portraying me in a very positive light, on the whole, and I'm sure you'll agree to remove any information or images that I later find to be... suppressive."

"I didn't post the ones of you eating your shirt."

"Well aren't you a saint."

"Certainly not, but I also didn't post the story about the time you poo--"

"I think that's quite enough. Now I'd appreciate it if you could dress me and lift me off the floor. I have a bit of a chill."

For Those of You Who Like Your Sugar Extra-Sweet

On a cold January day in 1995, when I was 18 years old, I reported to the first day of Philosophy 102: Logic and Reasoning. The teacher called through the names on her list of registered students. One name caught my attention because it was so unusual, and I turned to see who it belonged to.

He was a tall man with broad shoulders. A round-eyed boy with a mop of dark hair.

In the coming weeks, when the teacher split our class into groups of four, this tall boy and I sat across from each other, our desks nose to nose. We did group assignments. He accused me of sailing through class on his effort. I accused him of sailing through class on my effort. Every third word from his mouth was a joke wrapped in serious packaging. He drove me crazy.

One day after class, as we walked the long, diagonal sidewalk that dissected the quad, he asked me my birthday. When I told him it was June 26, I knew what this joker would say.

"No way. So is mine."

I rolled my eyes, but he insisted. And then he produced a driver's license to prove it.

It was several years before we found ourselves in the same city on the other side of the country and decided to become more than friends, more than acquaintances who shared the same birthday and the same alma mater. We both must have needed those years to grow up, to experience more of life and figure out what it was we really wanted out of this 80-or-so-year journey we get to take on Earth. To find each other again and build a mutual history, to decide that we want a mutual future, too.

And so yesterday, on my 31st birthday and his 33rd birthday, and in the city where our relationship really began, we officially signed up for this mutual future. We got married in San Francisco!

 

 

 

 

It was romantic and fun and funny and weird and wonderful, and we both got for our birthday exactly what we wanted.

I have about five or six million more things to say about this process of getting married, but I have only about five or six more days in San Francisco. So I'm afraid this wonderful city takes priority over my philosophical blathering. Plus, my husband (OH MY GOD OH MY GOD MY WHAT?!?) is waiting to take me to lunch.

I'm having lunch with my husband.

My wife has an inner ear infection.

How long does it take to get accustomed to saying such delicious things?

(And now that we're married, it seems a fine time to admit, here in a public forum, that YES, MOUSE, YOU DID GET A BETTER GRADE THAN I DID IN PHILOSOPHY. But only because I taught you so much and turned you into a logic-and-reasoning monster.)

Talk to you all soon!