Daily Newsie

Today was my last class of the summer, which was pretty awesome if you ask me. Just before Dr. C. let us leave the sweltering classroom (apparently they shut off the AC on the weekends, which of course is when we have class), he asked us to pair up, close our eyes, and imagine our perfect Friday ten years from now. Research has shown, apparently, that saying things like this aloud makes it more likely it will happen. (By that logic, then, blogging should do the same.)

My partner wanted a wife and kids, a house on the beach, and a flexible schedule in management that would allow him to enjoy all those things. I smiled; he’s exactly the kind of easygoing and funloving guy who would fit right into a position like that. He looked at me expectantly and I closed my eyes, imagining the click of my heels on marble tile as I reported for work at a Capitol building, dressed in a smart business suit and carrying a matching attache case. Diet Pepsi in hand, I stroll to the kitchen to begin brewing a cup of coffee for my boss — the governor, Speaker of the House, mayor, President. I am 37, I am a press secretary, and I am fabulous.

He (or she) is happy to see me slip into the office, balancing the coffee and a stack of morning newspapers as we prepare to begin our day. A quick review of the day’s news, some return phone calls to reporters, lunch with governmental bigwigs and an afternoon press conference, then back out the grand doors I go, headed for a downtown loft apartment with hardwood floors and minimalist furniture. Dinner is Thai takeout on the coffee table with my beloved while the dogs watch from a respectful distance, perking their ears every time my BlackBerry buzzes with a new missive.

To be truthful, I’m not really sure where this all came from, but it’s what showed up when I closed my eyes. Now I just have to make it happen within the next 10 years. I was slightly annoyed at this exercise when Dr. C. suggested it — why won’t you just let us leave already? — but, I have to admit, it’s pretty cool to think about.

Where do you want to be in 10 years?

My routine trip to the mailbox was enlivened by the sound of a car horn tooting a very General-Lee-esque bar of “Dixie.” Also, one of my favorite bars has “Dueling Banjos” on the jukebox (just ask The Best Friend), and during our last trip to the Olive Garden the waiter ensured us that he would get an erroneous charge “tooken” off our bill.

Ahh, the Bluegrass State.

The good news is, I got the GA position I was salivating over, complete with a letter offering the tantalizing prospect of a partial tuition waiver. I’m quite excited about it, but today has been so gray that I’ll wait until later to celebrate.

I found out at lunch today that a former source and a good friend (we’ll call her A) has cancer. Again. She battled breast cancer several years ago and won, but this time it’s attacked her spine. The doctors say there isn’t a thing they can do for her, so now it’s time to wait and be comfortable. And suddenly I am clutching the telephone in my cousin’s office nine years ago, hearing my father on the other end tell me my mother had a brain tumor and feeling a rising wave of numbness in the pit of my stomach. This time, the numbness subsided much more quickly and anger took its place. Here is a woman who’s already been through hell and back, who faces every day with a smile and a joke, who makes light of the debilitating illness she beat into submission. And now it’s come back to take her life when millions of people across this earth are far more deserving of such a fate.

“It’s not fair,” I mumbled over and over at the Mexican restaurant today, toying with my nachos but not eating any. A friend sat across the table from me, nodding silently. The diagnosis was handed down only a few days ago, apparently, so I called A’s best friend just in case A’s usually uncrushable spirit was dampened by this latest blow. If she doesn’t call back tomorrow, I’m calling A at home to see if she wants some dinner, some reading material, some company while she waits for the inevitable. And I know the kicker will be that A will welcome me into her home with open arms and a happy heart while I fight back tears and this incredible, bitter anger that’s been boiling under the surface for nearly a decade.

It’s times like these I wonder if there really is someone controlling the universe … and, if so, why is He or She asleep at the wheel? It used to be a comfort that there was some sort of higher purpose that my mother’s death fulfilled, but too many years of missing her have dashed that hope to shreds. In a world that so desperately needs more people like A and like my mother, why do good people keep dying?

After the par-for-the-course tiff about what we should have for dinner tonight and the subsequent ruling-out of any pizza/sub/fast-food option, Beloved and I went through the cabinets and decided to pull together the last dredges of food in the house: a packet of brown gravy, a few scrapes of sour cream, some egg noodles, and a few hamburgers we defrosted and crumbled up into a saucepan. Voila! We have stroganoff … and a slight problem; namely, no clean dishes or silverware.

So we did what anyone whose entire kitchen is in the dishwasher would do — combined the noodles and gravy in a saucepan, fetched our last two forks, and pulled the coffee table over to the couch so we could eat. The finishing touch? Watching Tyler Florence make butter-basil tuna on vegetable ratatouille on the “Food Network” while we ate. Dream big, I always say.

Tonight I stumbled upon some information about an old friend from college, which got me thinking about other old friends from college, which led to a frenzy of Googling until I’d figured out what (almost) everyone is up to now. Those were the days, when I was always running off to New York City (but always too broke to really enjoy it), meeting exciting people who knew things, wandering the streets until I was sure I knew my way around. It was close enough to my alma mater that some of my friends moved there after college — as did one of my favorite professors, the first educator to really tell me I was good at what I did — so even after The Ex-Boyfriend from NYC and I broke up I still had plenty of excuses to go there. I remember so much about it — O’Lunney’s on Times Square, crossing my fingers to get picked for the Avenue Q ticket lottery (no luck), the little Italian restaurant a boy took me to (where I had asparagus for the first time), hailing a cab by myself and then sitting in the backseat frozen with uncertainty. They were thrilling, terrifying, tumultuous times. I had my heart broken in NYC … but several months later it had nearly healed again, against the same backdrop of the Empire State Building but with a different person by my side.

Of course, it wasn’t nearly all that fuzzy and warm. I recall sitting hunched on a couch in what I thought were nice clothes, surrounded by strangers who didn’t even try to talk to me once they figured out I wasn’t one of them. I have never been ashamed of my background, my education, or my hometown, but sitting there watching leggy, tan blondes and brunettes adjust their labeled couture and discuss politics in haughty voices, I felt like the biggest country mouse ever. I struggled to remember which fork was which at pretentious restaurants that cost a staggering amount of money — always someone else’s, but that didn’t make me any less uncomfortable. It was glamorous and lovely, but I didn’t fit in at all.

That whole phase of my life seems so long ago. I miss it sometimes, and I wonder, too, what would happen if I were to go back. But, ah — you can never go back. Sitting here in my little Kentucky apartment — midway through my master’s degree, surrounded by great friends and a wonderful family, enjoying a blossoming awareness of the political world, and blissfully using whichever fork I want — I’m pretty convinced that’s a good thing.

I was looking for some background noise so I could properly do my homework when I stumbled upon an episode of “Snapped” on the Oxygen network. Imagine my surprise when I heard a very familiar name: Fred Jablin. He was a well-known communication researcher and professor who was shot in 2004 by his ex-wife in his driveway while their kids slept upstairs … and he also authored a paper about organizational disengagement that I used quite heavily in my case study for Applied Org. Comm. To me, his name is as recognizable as a movie star’s, which either makes me a loser or a darn good graduate student.

I knew he was murdered, and I looked up quite a few articles on the crime, but it’s still weird to hear his name on television. I leaned on his article so much last semester, it’s almost like he was a mentor of sorts.

Thanks for the A, Dr. Jablin. I wonder what else you could have taught us.

So far, this weekend has been just about perfect. It kicked off with a great visit from the sister-in-law and nephew, who’s just about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. We shopped, toured the train museum, and scarred the little man for life when the hibachi grill cook produced a tower of flame that sent D scurrying for his mom’s arms. (Later, though, he kept asking to see the picture The Husband snapped of D’s terrified face as the fire reached for the ceiling.)

The wedding, of course, was very short and sweet, performed by Sharon at Misty Valley while our witnesses — her husband and daughter-in-law — snapped pictures. (We’ll post some in a bit!) Bearby wore a snappy bow tie as our “ring bear,” and performed admirably under pressure. I only cried a little bit, and then before I knew it we were married and posing on the steps of the chapel before heading to the Dairy Queen in Simpsonville, Ky., because I wanted ice cream. After that, it only took about 30 minutes to reach the Inn at Woodhaven, time we spent happily calling everyone to tell them our good news. The Husband’s grandfather — with whom he shares his first and last name — and grandmother were particularly ecstatic, and my father was pleased to welcome a new son-in-law to the family. It’s wonderful to be surrounded by so much love!

Last night’s dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse here in Louisville was amazing — when we made the reservation, they asked if we were celebrating a special occasion, which of course we were. From the moment we stepped inside the door, they made the biggest fuss over the “newly-formed Walston party,” including complimentary champagne, many congratulations, and free dessert. The restaurant is located on the top floor of the Kaden Tower, so as we ate we watched rain fall on the city and debated whether to go to the riverfront fireworks. Then, a sudden burst of color made several people gasp, and the waitstaff pushed open the glass doors surrounding the dining room so the guests could watch fireworks from the open porch. From our vantage point 16 stories above the city, we could see at least five different fireworks shows exploding in the sky.

Our waitress told us where to find the nearest Kroger, so we wrapped up the night with a quick trip to my favorite grocery store and fell asleep watching “Family Matters” on Nick at Nite. This morning, we ate breakfast in the main house (it was wonderful — breakfast AND the main house), then I took a long soak in the whirlpool tub with a book and Yo-Yo Ma’s “Simply Baroque” CD, which was one of many I found in a stack next to the CD player in our cottage. Now The Husband (I’m going to need a nickname for him, I think) is out fetching Chinese food, and, after we eat, our plans for the afternoon include a nap and dinner at Louisville Slugger Stadium, where the minor-league Louisville River Bats are playing this evening.

We purposely made absolutely no plans for this weekend, and so have spent it in a glorious haze of books and television and food, rarely leaving the incredibly comfortable bed. I’m already dreading rejoining the real world tomorrow, but I’m trying not to think about it.

My new husband is snoozing peacefully beside me, recharging his batteries before an 8 p.m. reservation at Ruth’s Chris and fireworks over the river at 10:30 p.m. We lucked out at the bed and breakfast, where they upgraded us (for free!) from a regular room to the Rose Cottage, which is tucked aside all by itself and is absolutely gorgeous: a fireplace, high ceilings and a cute little reading area on the top landing, as well as a big ol’ bed. Pretty sweet luck, if you ask me.

The wedding was very nice, my wedding ring is very shiny, and everyone is very happy. Have a great weekend, everyone!

I placed an emergency phone call to my father this evening when the internal wedding pendulum that’s been ticking happily between “I’m OK” and “I’m panicking” began to list a little to the frantic side. He, in his straightforward, honest way, gave me the secret to marriage: Remembering in dark times the vows you recited in happy times. Going to bed angry if it gives you some time to cool down and be alone with your thoughts. Realizing that there will be rough patches, but not giving up when they hit. Knowing without a doubt that this is the right decision to make, and that this person is the right one to be with. My father thinks I’m with the right person, and — between moments of crazed terror — so do I.

I’m thinking of this marriage like I think about my family — we have seen each other through proud moments and embarrassing times, celebrated events with incredible joy and mourned losses with interminable grief, and by turns grew closer together and farther apart. But in the end, we are family, and we love each other enough to get past the crappy stuff. I hope with all my heart that The Fiance’ and I can be that sort of family, even if it involves sleeping on the couch a handful of nights along the way. I’m sure there will be times when we don’t like each other very much, but if we can follow my dad’s advice and remember the vows we’re now less than 72 hours away from saying, we’ll be OK.

This may be my last post as a single woman. That thought is both wonderful and a bit sad — but mostly wonderful.