Pathetic

Yesterday, one of my friends hosted a Drunken Volleyball Party. The invitation said that we were going to drink heavily for an hour, then make our way down to the sand volleyball court at her apartment complex and play a few games. It sounded like a fun afternoon, so at the appointed time Penn and I showed up at her apartment with a dozen beers and a couple of shot glasses.
Once everyone else had arrived we kicked things off with a power hour. Do you want to know when I last attempted a power hour? I'm fairly certain it was sometime in 2003, and I'm positive I didn't complete it successfully. But yesterday I was successful! I think I owe my success at completing my first ever power hour to the magical invention that is iPowerHour. Yes, you can get your ipod to play a random minute of sixty songs so that nobody has to sit around with a watch. Brilliant! So, anyway, the power hour went well and other than having a sort of fizzy belly I didn't feel too bad. Not bad for having slammed down 4.5 beers in an hour, anyway.
Then we went down to the volleyball court and although I generally hate team sports and avoid them at all costs, hitting the sand was actually a lot of fun. We only had a handful of people in our group but there ended up being a few other groups at the court so we mixed and mingled with them. I can't say I was exactly an asset to my team, but I did manage to serve the ball over the net instead of into it a couple of times and there was a sort of impressive moment where I reached for the ball and ended up in a split. I wasn't aware I could do the splits anymore, but it appears that I still can (when I'm buzzed and in a pile of sand, anyway).
We finished off the night with pizza and more beer and a game of Taboo. And then Penn and I went home and immediately fell asleep on our couch at 11:30 and then woke up at 1:30 in the morning all confused and disoriented. In other words, it was the perfect kick off to summer. But I woke up this morning and I was sore. I'm sore in muscles I didn't know existed. It's the muscles that run along the side of my ribcage, below my arms. My lats, maybe? Anyway, they hurt. And now I feel completely lame because, seriously, who gets sore after the Drunken Volleyball Game?!?!
Pa.the.tic.

Next time I write I'm going to tell you about my family vacation. It was one of the best weeks of my life, I think. Penn and I got home on Thursday and I'm still moping about the fact that I'm not currently on the beach with a bottle of Orange Crush in one hand and a magazine in the other. But I'll be okay, if only because I'm going to go ahead and assume there will be other great vacations in my future.

How We Met III

Penn didn’t call the next day, but I didn’t really expect him to call. So I was surprised when my phone rang on Sunday afternoon and the caller ID showed an area code I didn’t recognize. I figured it had to be Penn, but I didn’t answer. I don’t know why I didn’t answer. It wasn’t as if I was trying to play a game, trying to pretend that I was too busy to answer. I was nervous, I guess. I wanted to be more prepared than I could get in the thirty seconds of a ringing phone. That, and I thought that Penn might be wanting to do something before he headed back to his hometown, and I didn’t have time to hang out that afternoon but I didn’t want to say no. So I didn’t answer the phone. A few hours and many mental pep talks later, though, I thought, “Okay. He was a nice guy. He was cute. He didn’t seem creepy. He seemed interesting. Call him back. It can’t hurt, right?” So I called him back.

That was the best phone call I’ve ever made. I am so incredibly glad that I called him back. That’s another way in which I came so close to never having him in my life at all. Nine times out of ten, when I exchanged numbers with a guy I didn’t call him, even if I had thought he was nice or interesting or entertaining or attractive. And that same nine times out of ten I didn’t answer when the guy called me. I had this horrible habit of just ignoring phone calls until the guy eventually gave up and stopped calling, and then I would briefly wonder what I might have missed but mostly just be relieved that the guy had given up. I have no idea why I used to do this, why I was always so willing to give my phone number to guys I had no intention of ever actually pursuing. For some reason, though, I didn’t do that with Penn. And it’s not like it was love at first sight when I met Penn. I thought he was interesting, but I’d thought the same thing about other guys and I didn’t return their phone calls. Again, the fact that I called him back is one of those things, like the saved matchbook, that make me think that even though logically I wasn’t yet thinking of Penn as something special on the night we met (not because he wasn’t special, but because I don’t let myself do things like that, I’m too pragmatic to believe in love at first sight), something inside me knew he was going to be immensely important in my life and that I shouldn’t let him get away.

I talked to Penn for hours during that first phone conversation. He was already back home so he just wanted to talk, and talk we did, for almost three hours. And then the next day we didn’t talk on the phone, but the day after that we talked for an hour and a half, and then we were talking every day, and that’s how it all began.

The next week he took me to the aquarium on our first date. The weekend after that we saw Obama speak at a presidential rally outside the state capitol and eight months later we huddled together shivering on the National Mall as he was inaugurated. The year passed. One afternoon in July I sat on the floor and leaned against his legs as he sat on the couch and we talked about how soon we might be able to live in the same place, not realizing at the time that in October he would get a job offer that would allow him to move to be here with me. We had committed ourselves to making things work despite the hundred mile separation, and fortunately in our case that separation ended up lasting a blissfully short six months.

Everything moved so fast, but everything was so right. It’s as if some force wanted us to meet and be together, right from that first night. From before that first night, even. Remember my premonition? At the start of 2007 I was convinced it was 2008, and I kept having to tell myself, “No, not yet, 2008 will get here.” And I had no real reason to be excited about 2008, except that I had A Feeling. I had A Feeling that 2008 was going to be the year that something big would happen. I can’t explain it. I’ve never been able to explain it. I’m a rational person and I don’t really believe in premonitions, but I just knew. And then I moved here to the east coast and my premonition grew even stronger. As soon as I moved here I felt like I belonged here, and I felt this great sense of calm and ease and satisfaction with my life. I knew I was doing the right thing, I knew I was in the right place, and I constantly felt like Tony in West Side Story: “Something’s coming, something good, maybe tonight…maybe tonight…” So it was a big surprise to meet Penn, but it also wasn’t a surprise at all. I knew it was going to happen, I just didn’t know it was going to be him. I knew it was going to be good, but I didn’t know it was going to be this good, or this easy.

I’m so glad that my aunt came to visit that weekend. I’m glad we went to that particular bar. I’m glad Penn didn’t go to New York that weekend, came to City B instead, and convinced his friends to try that particular bar, too. I’m glad I decided to finish my vodka tonic. I’m glad I returned that phone call. I’m just so happy everything worked out right, for once, and no matter what happens in the future I am glad that I have had this year.
I don’t have the words to explain how I feel about Penn, except to tell you this: when I was in Russia recently, it was an amazing experience. Every day I learned a dozen new things and saw amazing things that I will never see again. It was exhilarating, and every day I was happy to be traveling. I felt fine. I felt great, in fact. And then I got back to the states and when I climbed into bed with Penn the first night I was home and pressed my body against his, I breathed. I really breathed, for the first time in ten days. And that is what being with him is like, always. He’s a breath of fresh air, the thing that makes me think, “Oh, yes, this. This is what I was missing all that time. This is what I needed all along.”

How We Met Part Dos

Looking back, this is possibly the worst pick-up line ever in the history of time. First of all, to this day I’m not entirely sure that there are five oceans. It’s possible that there are only four (apparently there is now a Southern Ocean, but I think that’s a new thing). Second, what? Could any question possibly be more random? In other words, I have no idea why this question made me want to respond to him, but I did. I laughed and named the four oceans I know and then he introduced himself and we started talking. The main thing I remember from our first conversation is that when I told him what I study he said, “Oh, I’m finishing my Masters in X!” X was a subject very similar to mine, so I thought for sure he was just pretending that he studied the subject so that he could get into my pants. But when I tried to call his bluff by asking him some questions about his subject he was able to talk about it enough that I knew he was actually telling the truth. Sadly enough, that alone impressed me. I had gotten so used to being hit on by lame guys who would quite obviously just pretend to be interested in what I do in the hopes that eventually I’d get tired of talking so we could hop into bed together. Penn wasn’t like that, though. Sure, he may have been trying to get into my pants for all I know…wait; actually, I DO know now that he was trying to get into my pants because he admitted it to me. But the point is, he wasn’t being as blatant about it as most of the other guys who I’d met in bars prior to that point. He was friendly and handsome and we were talking easily. For the first time all night I was actually happy that I had decided to go out. But then fifteen minutes into our conversation he said, “Well, I’d better go see what my friends are doing. Maybe I’ll talk to you later,” and he walked away. I thought, “Well, that sucks. I thought that was going well.” But what could I do? I let him go. Somewhere in the middle of our conversation I’d ordered another drink, and my aunt and cousin had come back into the bar but seemed to be getting tired as well, so, having struck out with the best-looking guy in the room, I started my departure countdown again: “When I finish this drink I’m leaving, for real this time.”
And then Penn came back! He came up to the bar to order another drink and we started talking again. This time we talked even longer. I found out he was from a city about an hour away from City B and that he was down for the weekend visiting one of his friends who was going to be getting married in a few months. I thought to myself, “Oh, too bad he lives so far away. I guess this won’t be anything, then.” But when he said, “Well, I’d really better go back to my friends because we’re getting ready to leave. Can I get your number?” I gave it to him. True, I always used to give men my number when they asked because I found it too hard to say no to guys’ faces. But when I gave Penn my number it wasn’t just to avoid an awkward moment. I was happy that he asked and excited about the possibility that he might actually call me.
Then he went back to his friends and I turned back to Rae and my aunt, who grilled me about the guy and said, “Oh, he was cute!” I said, “Yeah, well, we’ll see. He probably won’t even call me.” And that's when I noticed a woman about my age standing a few feet away, staring at me. She wasn’t even trying to pretend that she wasn’t staring, she was just standing there with her eyes fixed on me. So I did the only thing I could think to do, which was stare right back at her and raise my eyebrows in a way that I hoped said, “Chick, what’s your problem?” That’s when she walked up to me and said, “Were you just talking to Penn?” And my stomach jumped into my throat. I knew this was not going to be a good turn of events. In the second it took to say, “Yes…,” I convinced myself that she was about to say that Penn was a total psychopath and I shouldn’t answer his phone calls or, worse, that she was going to tell me she was Penn’s girlfriend. Instead, she practically shrieked, “Oh, good! I’m so glad! He was telling us that he just met a really cool girl at the bar so I had to come in here and see you for myself. And you look so nice! And normal!” I started laughing, then, relieved that she wasn’t his girlfriend and that he wasn’t a psycho. I asked her, “So, was I smart to give him my number?” and she enthused, “Oh, yes. He’s a great guy! You should DEFINITELY answer when he calls you.” Penn walked in then, along with the other guy he was hanging out with (the fiancée of the girl who had just accidentally freaked me out; three months later I was Penn’s date to their wedding). Unfortunately, at that point the balding guy with nerdy glasses who I had noticed earlier walked up to me and said, “You’ve been sitting down all night! Dance with me!” I didn’t know what to do. Here was Penn, obviously just a few minutes away from leaving. But here was this other guy who was clearly just trying to be friendly. He’d been making the rounds all night, talking to everyone in the bar and attempting to get everyone dancing. And I really, really can’t say no to people when they’re just trying to be nice. So I danced with the balding guy, well aware that Penn was watching the whole time. The older guy spun me around for a minute, and then as soon as the music stopped I told the guy thanks for the dance and then went right back to Penn and his friends to say goodnight. The last thing I remember talking about was poker. The girl asked me if I played poker and I said, “No, not really,” and she said, “Oh, that’s perfect! Penn doesn’t play either! We can all get together and we’ll teach both of you!” and then Penn and I exchanged, “Good to meet you”s and “Talk to you later”s and that was that. As soon as they had left the bar Rae said, “Hey, the guy you gave your number to looked pretty jealous that you were dancing with that other guy,” and I said, “Oh, really? Well, I was just trying to be nice to that other guy,” and Rae said, “I know, it was funny.” But I was convinced that I’d probably just blown it. Now Penn thought I’d rejected him and he’d really never call me. Greaaaaat. Oh well, though. I’d met an attractive guy who had asked for my phone number and had not tried to stick his tongue down my throat at any time during the night. All in all it was the most successful night out I’d had in months, even though I was convinced nothing would come of it.

How We Met

I've been working on this on and off for several weeks now. It's the story of the night I met Penn. I meant to have it posted by our "official" one-year anniversary (May 3rd), but obviously that didn't happen. And now it has turned into this monster document that I can't possibly post in one entry because it just wouldn't be readable. As it is, it's probably interesting only to me, but it's also something I didn't really document anywhere at the time. I didn't even write about it in great detail in my personal, not-for-the-internet journal, mainly because I didn't realize at the time that Penn was going to become such a huge part of my life. But now I know that it's a night I would like to remember, and it's about time I finally wrote about it somewhere. So here is Part I:

At this time a year ago I was first getting to know Penn. I was looking through my blog the other day and I realized that as far as this record is concerned I just sort of skimmed over the whole first six weeks or so that we were dating. After years of being single or more-or-less single and in relationships that were fun for the moment but without a future, I knew within the first few days of talking to Penn that things had the potential to be different. Things had the potential to be really, really good, and I was afraid if I talked too much about it or expressed how excited I actually was I would jinx it.

But now we’ve just passed the one-year anniversary of the day he officially asked me to be his girlfriend, and we’ve been living together for almost six months and we haven’t even come close to killing each other yet, so I feel like I can safely tell the story of how we met.

It was Friday night, the last weekend of March. My aunt from California was in town for a business trip, so I had driven up to City B to hang out with my aunt and my cousin Rae since this particular aunt is also Rae’s aunt. My aunt had also invited her “friend and business associate” Dan to hang out with us that night. Dan ended up being a fifty-something NASA scientist who was clearly married and also very clearly into my aunt (incidentally, my aunt—who has been divorced from my cousins’ father for as long as I can remember—is known in our family for her ongoing string of bizarre and/or inappropriate boyfriends, so Rae and I were having a lot of fun cracking jokes about Dan the Supposed Friend and Business Associate whenever they were both out of earshot).

The week prior to this I had been to my college roommate’s wedding in my home state and then out to Las Vegas for my brother’s 21^st birthday party, so I was still in recovery mode from the trip and not really in the going out or flirting mood. I was tired and, to be honest, if my aunt hadn’t been in town and we hadn’t already had the plans in place for several weeks, I wouldn’t have gone out at all that night. I mention this only because a) it proves the old adage that you always meet someone great when you’re least expecting it and b) it explains why I was not really dressed for a night on the town at all. I was wearing a cardigan, people. A GREY cardigan. How much more dull and non-descript can you get? Oh, and I was wearing the pearl necklace that my roommate had just given me as a bridesmaid’s gift at her wedding because it was brand new and I had been wearing it pretty much nonstop that week. Penn says I looked like a librarian. (And yet for some reason he approached me and wanted to talk to me anyway! But we’re getting there…)

Anyway, my aunt, her Friend and Business Associate Dan, Rae and I went out for crabcakes and then decided to head to a bar where a semi-well-known local band was playing. I don’t remember the name of the band, but I do remember the name of the bar. In fact, for some reason I kept a matchbook from the bar and took it home. I found it when I moved into my current apartment seven months later. I don’t normally collect matchbooks and I have no conscious memory of deciding to take the matches home. Now I wonder if I subconsciously knew at the time that I would want to remember the night. Rae and I picked that particular bar solely because we thought my aunt would like the band. And when we got to the bar I knew we’d made the right choice. The bar was a dark hole-in-the-wall place. I haven’t been back since that night so my memory may be faulty, but in my head everything is dark wood and the lighting is dim and sort of greenish from neon signs and the walls are absolutely covered with signs and stickers and license plates and police patches and the usual hole-in-the-wall bar nonsense. You’ve been to a bar exactly like this one, I guarantee it. Every drinker in America has been to some version of this bar at least once. Practically everyone in the bar was over the age of 40. The band was made up of a bunch of middle aged jazz guys. My aunt was satisfied and, since Friend and Business Associate Dan had headed home, she immediately befriended an ancient-looking hippie and spent the rest of the night talking to him. Rae and I grabbed seats at the bar. I ordered a vodka tonic. I drank it slowly. I listened to the music. The music was decent, but I was bored. It wasn’t even 11:00 yet, though, so it felt too early on a Friday night to call it quits.

I don’t remember when I first saw Penn. Thinking back on it, I recall noticing him up against the wall across the room from where I was sitting, but I didn’t really notice him, you know? I noted his presence, but in the same way I was noting everyone in the bar: old dancing couple, guy who looks like he has been a smoker for sixty years, kid who is way too young to legally be in this bar, balding guy with nerdy glasses, attractive guy by the back wall. I have no idea how long he was in the bar before he decided to talk to me.

It gives me the chills now when I think how close I came to never meeting Penn at all. I was getting more and more bored by the minute and I was getting tired AND everyone I was with had left me to save our seats at the bar while they went out to the patio to smoke. I was on my second vodka tonic at that point so I made a deal with myself: as soon as I finished the drink, I would say my goodbyes and head home. I was two sips from finishing the drink when Penn walked up beside me and said, “Hey, I have a random question. Can you name the five oceans? My friends and I are trying to figure it out and we can’t name all of them.”

To be continued...

Civilization is Doomed

Edited to add that I just did some googling and it appears the whole minus whale thing is intentional internet speak. I am pretty sure this just makes me hate it even more.

On the bus right now reading blogs on my BlackBerry (I love you, BlackBerry)and I came across the phrase "minus whale"written in a comment. Minus whale. Used like this: "Well, you minus whale tell her that he's just not interested." This is the second time I've come across minus whale this year, and both times the writer clearly meant "might as well." Might as well! NOT minus whale! What on earth?! Does it not cross these people's minds that the phrase minus whale is utter nonsense?! And what sort of godforsaken accent do they have that "might as well" comes out sounding identical to "minus whale?"
For some reason, this has me completely enraged, so enraged that I had to get it out here because texting half the people I know about the stupidity of other people didn't make me feel better about it.
What is with all the idiot encounters I'm having this week? Or maybe they are always around and usually I'm just better at tuning it out?
I need this semester to be over, pronto.I'm getting grumpy. I'm on my way to take my language exam. I have no chance in hell of passing and so this is a really pointless way to be spending my Friday, which is not helping matters.
Someone please cheer me up by telling me the whole minus whale thing is a pop culture joke that I've just missed out on prior to now. Please. I'm desperate to believe that people can't really be this stupid.

Notes

Penn is making fun of me right now because I am listening to "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me!" on NPR. I find it entertaining and when I combine listening to this show on Saturday mornings with watching The Daily Show a few times a week, I figure I pretty much know what's going on in the world. (I'm kidding. Sort of.) Anyway, just now I was sitting here at the dining table wasting time on the internet when I noticed it was 11:00, so I told Penn, "Oh, my radio show is on! Can we listen to it?" And he died laughing. He told me that I'm the only person our age in the entire country who has a radio program I must listen to. He said it's like we're living in the 1930s and I'm excited because The Lone Ranger is about to come on. Think he's right about that? (Answer: Yes, probably.)

Yesterday I was on the bus riding to campus. By the way, I ride the bus now because I did some calculations when it came time to renew my annual campus parking permit and I realized that I could spend at least $1,000 a year commuting to campus in my car or I could spend $350 doing the same commute by bus (or $600 doing the same commute by train). Needless to say, I will not be renewing my parking permit and I'm now even more committed to using public transportation. But anyway, yesterday I was on the bus riding to campus and the bus pulled up to a stop about a mile away from school. It stopped to pick up this blonde, over-accesorized girl who was obviously a college undergrad. When the bus doors opened the girl stepped up into the bus but was still sort of hanging halfway out of it so the doors couldn't close. She asked the driver, "Does this bus go to the University Town subway station?" Already I was rolling my eyes because this particular bus route terminates at the University Town subway station so do you know what it says in bright flashing lights along the front of the bus? University Town Subway Station. And then the rest of the conversation went like this:
Bus Driver: Yes, it goes to the subway station.
Girl: The University Town subway station?
Bus Driver: Yes.
Girl: Are you sure?
Bus Driver: YES.
Girl: [as her cell phone beeps] Oh, that's my brother, he told me to take the bus. Can I call him real quick to make sure this is the right one?
Bus Driver: You want to call him? You need to either get on the bus or get off.
Girl: I just want to make sure this is the right bus.
Bus Driver: This goes to the subway station.
Girl: But are you sure?
Random guy on the bus: Yes.
Girl: Can you wait just one second so I can--actually, someone might be coming to pick me up--
Me: [finally fed up, piping up from the back of the bus] YES, this goes to the subway station, I PROMISE.
Girl: Oh...okay.
And then she proceeded to spend the rest of the time I was on the bus chattering away on her cell phone about how she was taking the bus, oh my gawd.
What an idiot. And I have a sneaking suspicion that the only reason she finally got on the bus was because I, the only other white person on the bus at the time, said that yes, it was fine and it would take her to her destination. And that's really depressing, that there are people so racist (probably subconsciously, but STILL) that they can't even be bothered to trust the person who actually drives the bus for a living just because that person is black. I don't know if that's actually the case or not, but that's what it felt like and it ticked me off. Also, how self-absorbed do you have to be to think a bus that serves a major metropolitan area and has a schedule to stick to will just stop and wait for you while you make a quick phone call? Usually I like people. Sometimes, I really, really wonder what is wrong with them.

Penn and I are celebrating our official one-year anniversary tonight! I have a longer post in the works about that (I've been writing it on and off since March 28th, which is the night we first met) and I'll post it soon. In the meantime, he's taking me on a surprise date tonight. I honestly have no clue where we're going, but I'm excited!

Conversations with my Uterus

It: You know what's great? Babies.
Me: Yeah, they're really cute.
It: We should probably have one.
Me: Someday, sure.
It: No. NOW.
Me: Not now. I have things to do.
It: I don't care what you have to do, I want a baby NOW.
Me: Yeah, well, too bad for you, Uterus. I'm in school. I'm not married. I have a list of vacations I want to take with my hot boyfriend sans strollers and carseats.
It: But isn't Mari's baby adorable? The way he laughs hysterically just because you repeat the word "Hippo" in a funny voice? Who wouldn't want that kind of audience around on a daily basis?
Me: But they also cry.
It: I don't care. They're so snuggly. Didn't you see the pictures of Cas's baby? Don't you want your own seven pounds of cuddly baby?
Me: Did you know it costs at least $6,000 to pay for a baby's first year? Do you have any idea how much diapers cost? Because I saw the sale price in the Safeway flier last week and, damn, that sale price is still really, really expensive. Who is going to pay for that?
It: Not my problem. You're the logic, I'm just the hormones and the emotions. Baby...baby...
Me: They don't stay babies, they grow up!
It: Don't you want a kid?
Me: They whine. Their idea of fine dining is Chuck E. Cheese. They throw screaming fits in the most inconvenient places possible. They wake up at 4:30 in the morning for no reason at all whatsoever! And then they're teenagers.
It: They're hilarious. Wasn't your boyfriend's nephew hilarious this afternoon, flipping through his children's Bible and "reading" it?: "God, Jesus, Jesus, God...Jesus, God, Jesus, God...rock, God"? Don't you think it's great that they get so excited about the tiniest things? And you get to go to petting zoos and ride carousels and do all sorts of other things that are still really fun but kind of creepy and/or strange to do if you don't have a kid as an excuse.
Me: Yeah...but I'd have to discipline the kid, and pay for the kid, and get up when the kid gets up at 4:30 in the morning and accidentally locks himself in the bathroom. And think of all the things I do now that I wouldn't be able to do anymore. I really like beer. And riding my bike by myself. And sleeping past 9:00.
It: But it would be fun!
Me: But it would be hard!
It: But it would be rewarding!
Me: But I'm not ready!
It: But I'M ready!
Me: I know! But I don't know why you are!!! Shut up!
It: Baby.
Me: No.
It. Baby!
Me: No!
It: Babybabybabybabybabybabybabybabybabybabybabybaby.
Me: [head in bathroom cabinet, triple-checking that I still have several years of birth control pills, considering the advisability of swallowing two every day just to be on the safe side.]

What is with the biological clock? Does everyone feel this way? Is it something that just happens around the age of 25? I've been vaguely aware of it for some time now, but in the past year or so it has been getting harder and harder to ignore. Penn has been teasing me lately, saying I have babies on the brain, and I try to deny it but it's true. It doesn't help that so many of my friends are pregnant right now (seriously, at least once a week when I check Facebook someone has posted belly or sonogram or newborn pictures). And Penn's sister and her two kids came to visit us this weekend and I thought that having them here would be sort of a pain and would be a wake-up call as to exactly how annoying it can be to have kids around 24/7, but no. It didn't work. Her kids were well-behaved and cute as hell, even the 4 year-old who was previously known as "The Terror." Sure, they had a few moments where I was secretly thankful that they're not mine and I didn't have to actually be responsible for taking care of them. For instance, they really did get up at 4:30 this morning and I was really grateful that I wasn't the one who had to drag myself out of bed and get them cereal and cartoons (I don't think they normally get up at 4:30, they're visiting from Europe and jet lag has them a bit confused...at least, I hope for Penn's sister's sake that they don't usually get up at 4:30 in the morning). Also, I can't say it's exactly enjoyable when you're trying to walk and every five feet someone wants to remind you of how much their feet hurt.
But then they do such funny and cute things that it's really, really hard to remind myself of all the reasons why I don't want one yet. Yesterday we were walking up to the capitol building and The Terror announced, "That's where Uncle 'Bama's works!" I died laughing. He's consistent, too. We saw the president on TV when we were eating dinner later and he said, "Look, it's Uncle 'Bama!" So apparently The Terror thinks the president is called Uncle 'Bama. I asked his mother why he was calling him Uncle 'Bama, and she has no idea, she said that's just what he has always called him since he became aware that Obama exists. I can't stop laughing every time I think about it, mainly because I wonder which of these two scenarios is true:
A) He thinks that Uncle is a name, so it's just a coincidence that several of the men in his family, including Uncle Penn, have the same name as the president of the United States.
B) He knows what "Uncle" means and realizes that he has several uncles, one of whom happens to be our nation's leader.
Truthfully, it's probably neither of those things and he has never even thought about what "Uncle" might mean, it's just a sound you make sometimes when referring to some people. Still, Penn and I got a big kick out of that. Uncle Dan, Uncle Penn, Uncle 'Bama...
So, yeah. I had a lot of fun with the kids and although it should have been really effective birth control, it wasn't. Someone still needs to punch me in the ovaries and tell them to settle down. I DO want kids eventually, I just don't want them now. Seriously. My brain tells me all the time that I am completely not ready. I'm not married (in fact, Penn will probably read this and freak out. Don't worry!! My logic is much stronger than my bio clock, I promise! And I'm not ready either!), I'm not at a point in my life where it makes sense to have a baby (actually, I'm not sure that point exists in anyone's life, but whatever), I don't have the money or the space or the time or the willingness to give up all the alone time I have with Penn. Basically, it's something I look forward to doing in the future but am not fully ready to do right now. There are parts of me that do feel ready, though, which I guess is reassuring. I didn't know if I'd ever get to the point where being pregnant didn't feel like a disaster, and I can now say that it wouldn't be a disaster if it happened. It wouldn't be great, but much worse things could happen. So that's good. It's just that there are so many other things I want to do first.

And now I'm going to knock on every wooden surface in the house in hopes that I didn't just jinx us.

Also, maybe we need a puppy! (I'm kidding, I'm kidding.)

Things I Should Have Written About Last Month

Last night at the grocery store I bought a new brand of popcorn to try because it was on sale and because I've been on a popcorn kick lately. For the record, it was one of those pre-portioned 100 calorie pack things, and it had Weight Watchers points on the side of it so, okay, I suppose it is being marketed to a certain audience. When Penn and I got home from the store and were putting things in the cupboard, I noticed that the back of my new box of popcorn says, "We know you're a multi-tasking mom!" and then went on to tell me about some eco-friendly shopping bag that "Master Multitaskers" can get for mailing in three proofs of purchase. Sigh. I told Penn about the back of the box and said, "Is this really my demographic now? I'm buying products that just assume I'm a mother?" And Penn said, "Better get used to it!" And then I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for five minutes scrutinizing the wrinkles on my forehead (which maybe only I can really notice so far, but they're permanent now!!) and then I melodramatically whined to Penn, "We need to get married soon or else I'm going to be all wrinkly and you're going to be gray-haired in our wedding pictures!" (because we all know that the ability to have pretty wedding pictures is ENTIRELY the reason behind having a wedding). I don't actually care about this and I'm only writing about it here because it amused me, but I actually do have permanent forehead creases now (tiny, but permanent) and the other day on the subway I found a gray hair in Penn's beard and our friends are having babies and buying houses and, wow. I'm well on my way to being one of those women that subscribes to Redbook.

In other news, I have finally fully committed to my bicycle. I've had it since February and I've used it for exercise on the trails around here once or twice a week since then, but up until last week there hadn't been much good bicycling-for-fun weather, and the bicycle commuting wasn't happening yet because I didn't have a bike lock or a bag that I can carry when on the bike. But now that it's spring (and now that I finally have extra money to spend) I bought a good bike lock and a helmet and a water bottle that will fit in my bike's water bottle holder and a pouch to go under the seat so I can carry my phone and ID when I'm out exercising and Penn bought me a bike bell that says I Love My Bike and now I can actually really utilize my bike for both exercising and commuting. Hooray! But the main reason I wrote this whole paragraph was to tell you that my new bag has 12--12!!!--separate zipper pouches. Why? Why does anyone need twelve individual pockets in one bag? Yesterday when I rode my bike to work I had my laptop and a couple of books in one pouch, my sandwich and water bottle in another, my phone in another, my keys in another, and my lip gloss and a couple of pens in another and I still had 7 empty pockets. It's bizarre.

This past week went by really fast. I can't believe it's already the weekend again. We had a good visit with Penn's mom last weekend (and I thought the birthday cake was tasty, by the way!) and then this week I've just been working and trying not to get overwhelmed by all the e-mails that my department chair has been sending out lately about scheduling comprehensive exams and making book lists and...blah. There is so much that needs to happen in the next 7-8 months, but hopefully by the end of 2009 I'll be a PhD candidate (as opposed to a PhD student, which is what I am right now; you're not a candidate until you've passed your comprehensive exams and you're ABD-All But Dissertation).

Anyway, I promised a few more highlights from my Russia trip, and since it has now been almost a month since I went, I guess I should wrap that up. So, here are some bullet points of the highlights:

• We took an overnight train from Moscow to St. Petersburg. Anna and I ended up sharing a sleeper car with Dr. New and Dr. Scary. Actually, we spent a lot of time together on the trip. It's a weird situation at this point in my education, because I'm definitely not just a student, but I'm not quite a colleague yet, either. Anyway, the train was fairly comfortable, but it was ancient. Anna looked at the reading lights above our bunks and said, "I'm fairly certain those were made by Stalin himself." Seriously, the train might have been around for that long. Also, the snack that was waiting for us in our compartment was red caviar in little jars. Not really what I would think of as a midnight snack (we caught the train at 11:30 PM), but interesting. I brought the jars home to the states for Penn. It's really, really salty. Oh, and we also had a snack pack for the morning, and it had yogurt in it but it wasn't cold. Our hotel in St. Petersburg had free continental breakfast and they would put out unchilled yogurt every morning, too. Isn't yogurt supposed to be refrigerated? I was too scared to even try the room temperature yogurt, but I'm guessing since that's how they serve it everywhere in Russia it must be okay. Still, yuck.
• You know what rocks, though? Russian porridge. I rocked the porridge every single morning. Ooh, and they had these muffins with marmalade inside. They came in handy little plastic packages so I'd swipe a couple every morning to eat when I got hungry walking around town.
• Other Russian food that rocked: pelmenis and varenikis. Freakin' addictive dumplings in sour cream sauce. I need to find somewhere to get them here (I guess pierogis would more or less fulfill the craving and those are relatively easy to find in this part of the country). And blini, which are thin buckwheat pancakes similar to crepes but a little thicker that could be either savory (smoked salmon, yum!) or sweet. I'm also going to make a sweeping generalization here and say that Russians are really into potato salad. Sometimes we were on our own for meals but a lot of times when we were together as a group we had prearranged meals. Often the prearranged meals were "traditional" Russian food, and every single time we had a Russian meal, the first course was a potato salad (and the second course was borscht, and the third was meat in some sort of cream sauce). A couple of times at a restaurant separate from the group I would slowly sound out the menu, order a salad, and then remember too late that "salad" pretty much always means potatoes with something.
• While I'm at it, here are a couple of other sweeping generalizations: 1) Russian women love knee-high spike-heeled black leather or pleather boots. And while I'll wear knee-high leather boots to go out at night, I don't generally consider them work appropriate (well, okay, maybe sometimes appropriate at my job, if worn with tights and a skirt that is at least knee length, but I don't think I'd be wearing them if I had a corporate job). Apparently in Russia it's perfectly acceptable. 2) Russians are big fans of the cloakroom. Which I guess makes sense, considering you're wearing coats for so many months out of the year. You know how here in the U.S. there is sometimes a coat room at a nicer restaurant or a theatre or club, but even then you generally have to tip and/or pay and so it's optional? Not in Russia. In Russia, everywhere we went had a coat room unless it was a coffee shop, and even then there were coat racks everywhere. Draping your coat over the back of your chair like we do here just wasn't acceptable. There were a few times in museums where it was kind of chilly and I wanted to keep my coat, but it wasn't allowed. There are old ladies manning the cloakrooms and they get pissed if you don't check your coat.
• The Hermitage Museum is amazing. I'd go back to St. Petersburg again someday just to be able to go back to the museum. I've been thinking about it, and I'm pretty sure it's my favorite of all the art museums I've ever been to (and I've been to a lot of impressive museums: the Met, the Vatican Museums, the Uffizi Gallery, The Tate, the Philadelphia Museum of Art...I do really love the British Museum, too, although I feel like that's a different kind of museum and it's sort of like comparing apples to oranges. I've never been to the Louvre--it was closed due to striking workers the one time I was in Paris--so I can't make a comparison there). Given, I'm not judging entirely on their art collection, although that was very impressive. Name a well-known western artist and there is probably an entire room (at least) devoted to that person's work in the Hermitage. It's a HUGE collection. I was there for 6 or 7 hours over the course of two days and I probably only saw 40% of the collection. What made it impressive for me, though, was the design of the Winter Palace and the other connected buildings. It was so beautiful inside. The ceilings were covered in detailed painting, the floors were incredibly elaborate inlaid wood, there were glittering chandeliers...Many of the rooms were literally breathtaking. I would walk into a room and go, "Da Vinci, wow...OH MY GOD, look at the floor!" Also, one of the professors that took us on the trip used to work at the museum before he came to the United States, so because of his connections we were able to go down into their vaults and look at things that are not normally displayed to the public. It was amazing. We got to see tapestries from the 1200s, dresses that belonged to Maria Feodorovna and Alexandra Feodorovna, tiny little shoes belonging to Nicholas II's children, caftans worn by Peter the Great. It was fascinating, not so much for the garments themselves but because of the history of the people who wore them.
• One night a couple of friends and I went to a restaurant called "Lucky Shot" that advertised "Lots of meat and game over an open fire," and there was bear on the menu. Bear! It was $90 a serving so we didn't get it. I guess it's so expensive because someone has to go out and actually hunt the thing. It's not like you can farm bear. Have you ever seen bear on a menu here? I haven't.
  
• One night a bunch of us went to a drag show. One of the guys on the trip read about it and wanted to check it out. It was such a funny experience. None of us speak Russian so we missed most of the jokes, but it's amazing how much can be conveyed just through tone of voice and gestures. At one point the two drag queens took a couple of our guys up on stage and joked about them for a bit and then picked the smaller guy up and carried him back to our table. It was hilarious. Everyone in the coffee shop (the drag show was at a coffee shop/bar) sang a Russian national song at the end that everyone knew but us, and as soon as they were done the drag queens came running up to one of our guys, who had already told them he was from Brazil, and told him, "National song Brazil!" So he gamely sang the Brazilian national anthem. Everyone was cheering and laughing. I was proud of him for playing along. That same night we started talking to the people at the table next to us--most of them spoke very broken or no English and I was the best of the Russian speakers in our group at the time (and my entire vocabulary consists of the numbers 1-5, "thank you", "bear", "beer", "chocolate", "tea", and the words that happen to sound the same in Russian and English, like coffee) but one of the girls was actually relatively fluent in English so we were able to get by--and they were going to take us to another dance club. However, after almost 45 minutes wandering the streets of St. Petersburg in the middle of the night, during which time our translator was swigging from a handle of whiskey and getting progressively more and more tipsy and my friends and I were becoming less and less clear on exactly where we were in relation to our hotel, we decided to call it a night and head home. I think our Russian friends were very insulted that we didn't trust them, but it was getting a bit shady and we had lost our translator to the whiskey, so what else could we do?
• I think that was also one of two nights that I saw the gypsies. We were walking down the street and I heard horse hooves on the cobblestones and I assumed it would be mounted police, but no. Both times it was a couple of women about my age or maybe a bit older riding their horses through the street with the reins in one hand and a can of beer in the other. It was my friend who had been to Russia before that told me they were gypsies. I have no idea if it's actually legal to ride your horse through the city center of St. Petersburg. My guess is no.
• Another highlight of St. Petersburg was our visit to Catherine Palace, the tsars' summer home about 40 minutes outside the city. The palace was insane. It was HUGE, and it's divided into baroque and classical styles, both sections of which are ornate as can be. The famous Amber Room is also there, which was sort of interesting although it was much smaller than I was expecting it to be. Anyway, the palace made me realize why there was the Bolshevik Revolution (seriously, Russian royals, who needs that much effin' gold leaf when everyone else is eating beat soup and freezing to death?!) but it was still pretty stunning. I did have a mildly scary experience at the palace, though. We had gone through the palace with a tour guide, and at the end of the tour she said that she was going to give us twenty minutes to look at the gift shops and then we were going to meet in the lobby. So I looked around the gift shops and about ten minutes before we were supposed to meet up to go to lunch I decided to buy myself an amber ring and buy a gift for my mom. Then there was this whole series of ridiculous events where the cashier didn't want me paying with a credit card so I tried to use my debit card in two different ATMs but couldn't get cash out for some reason so I came back to the store and finally convinced her to just let me pay with the credit card even though she stuck her nose in the air and growled, "This is small charge for credit card," (it was a $45 purchase, I wouldn't exactly call that small, but I guess it's all relative when some of the items in the shop were selling for thousands of dollars). By that time twenty minutes had passed and I was supposed to be back with my group, but here's the thing: I could see them. From where I was standing at the cash register making my purchase, I could see my group about twenty feet away putting their coats on and gathering up their things to go outside. So I knew we were about to leave, but I figured I had a minute to finish my purchase. But I literally looked down to sign my credit card receipt, looked up, and my entire group was gone. Vanished! In the entire nine days we had been in Russia prior to that point nobody had moved that fast the whole damn time, and the one time I need everyone to loiter an extra two minutes they actually decide to leave somewhere on time (seriously, the whole week prior to this we'd pick a meeting time and then actually leave 10-20 minutes after said time). I didn't think it was a big deal, though. The coat room was just around the corner, I figured I'd run over there, grab my coat, then head out into the snowy garden which is where I knew we were going next and catch up to them. Well, yeah. That didn't happen. I grabbed my coat, left the lobby literally a minute after they did, and they had already disappeared down the garden paths! It didn't help that the garden is huge and that every single person in sight was wearing a black coat, so in the big sea of tourists I couldn't possibly tell which group was mine. I briefly thought about just heading into the garden and searching for them, but then I remembered my mom's constant lecture any time we were going somewhere crowded when I was a child, "If you get lost from me, DO NOT TRY TO FIND ME. Stay right where you are and I promise I will come back for you." So that's what I did. I went back into the lobby, figuring that at some point someone would realize I was missing and come back for me. I knew they were going to wander in the garden for a bit and then go to a group lunch, and I figured that if they never noticed I was missing while they toured the garden then when there was an empty space at lunch they'd figure it out. And I figured at the very, very least if somehow they got all the way through lunch without noticing I was gone they would absolutely, definitely notice when they got back on our van to drive back to Petersburg. So I was like, "Okay, just chill. It may take two hours, but someone will realize you're gone and they'll come back." And that's when I realized my wallet was missing! Yes, I lost my entire tour group AND my wallet in a five minute period. So I ran around frantically trying to ask the cashier (who spoke limited English) and the coat check woman (who spoke no English at all whatsoever) if they'd seen my wallet and getting progressively more and more panicked. The only reason I was okay about that was that it was the last day of the trip and I figured I could just go back to the hotel, cancel the credit and debit card in the wallet, and bum a bit of money off of someone just to get me back to the states. So I knew it was going to be okay, but I was like, "What kind of bad karma is this?!" Fortunately, everyone realized within about twenty minutes that I was missing (and I think it only took that long because everyone had sort of split up temporarily to see the garden and it was only when the whole group came back together again that someone thought to do a headcount) and my prof and the tour guide came back for me. I actually felt bad when they came into the lobby because they looked so much more scared than I felt. My prof said, "We were panicked!!" and he gave me a big hug and started trying to hustle me out of the building when I was like, "No, wait, I have a bigger problem. My wallet is missing!" My professor probably thought I was the biggest dingbat in the world at that point, and he said, "What was in it?" and I said, "Just two credit cards and my student ID" and he said, "Oh, that's okay, that's nothing." I'm sure he was thinking, "Good lord, this woman lost her passport and we're supposed to leave in the morning and now I'm going to be stuck in Russia with her until we can figure this out." Fortunately, I know better than to carry my passport in my wallet or purse (I carried my passport, whichever card I wasn't planning to use that day, and my driver's license in a flat fannypack type thing that I hid under my pants). I asked my professor if he could ask the coat check lady if she'd seen the wallet, and he said, "It's useless. It's gone. I'm surprised this didn't happen earlier, to be honest." But amazingly enough, she directed him to the information booth and there was my wallet, just sitting in their window!! I had been carrying it in my hand while we'd been in the palace (since I had to check my coat and backpack in the stupid cloackroom), and I think when I realized my group was missing I got so panicked as I was putting my coat on that I temporarily just forgot to hold onto the wallet since I don't normally carry my wallet in my hand and I just dropped it to the floor or something really flighty like that. So anyway, I was reunited with both my group and my credit cards and now it's just a funny story for everyone else to tell, the time *A* got lost at the Catherine Palace.
• One final story: on our trip home we had to get up at 3:45 AM, take a van to the St. Petersburg regional airport, fly to a Moscow regional airport, and transfer somehow from that airport to the international airport to catch our flight to New York City. Note that I said "transfer somehow". No one had bothered to figure out how a dozen people and all of our luggage were going to get from one airport to the other. So I watched my Russian professor do the best thing ever. He took out a thousand ruble note, handed it to a van driver, had a brief discussion, and then said, "Hurry, everyone, bring me your things and get on this bus." So we all piled into the van with our stuff. There was another old man already on the bus, along with two women in the back seat who just sat there like statues as we loaded all of our luggage around them. Finally about five minutes into the drive the old man looked at Misha and said, "Did you RENT this? Where is it going?!" Misha explained to him that the bus was going to drive us to the airport but then it would go on ahead to wherever it was originally supposed to go. Basically, it would be like me climbing onto the crosstown bus, handing the driver $30, and saying, "Can you drive me ten blocks downtown first and then come back up here and finish your route? Thanks, buddy." In other words, that would never happen here! But in Moscow the driver was just like, "Yeah, whatever, no big deal." The best moment, though, was when my professor said to no one in particular, "This is very Russian. Don't panic." And we weren't panicking, until he said that! Fortunately, we made it to the airport safely and we made it home safely and the whole trip was a really interesting experience.
  
• Russia is probably the hardest place to explain of anywhere I've ever been. It's modern but not, European but not, capitalist but not, gray and dreary but not...it was somehow very much what I expected it to be and not what I expected it to be at the same time, and the feeling I had when I was there was different than the feeling I've had on other trips I've taken, although I still haven't been able to put my finger on what made it feel different. There's a tension there that's impossible to explain, and not even entirely a negative tension. Go, though. It may not be first on your list of places you want to see. I know Russia is maybe not on everyone's dream vacation list, but if the opportunity ever presents itself, go. You'll see some beautiful and interesting things, and you won't regret it.