Daily Newsie

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.

It is now less than two weeks until our wedding, and I’m beginning to get nervous. I am by and large incapable of seeing the “big picture,” so I tend to move through life a day/week/semester at a time with no real goal in mind — I figure I’ll get there when I get there, and then I’ll see what’s going on. So making a commitment like, oh, spending every day until the end of time with someone is a little new and a special blend of exciting and frightening.

“So what are we going to do?” I asked my fiance’ as we waited for our entrees at our favorite steakhouse last night. “You know, with our lives?”

He had some good answers: travel Europe, be the cool aunt and uncle to our nieces and nephew, adopt a handful of dogs. Maybe buy a house, maybe not. Take fabulous vacations. Eventually find a place between Indiana and Pennsylvania so we can help take care of our parents when they get up in years. Climb our way out of school-related debt and sack away all we can for an excellent retirement. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I would like to take the time to be the kind of volunteer who always has her fingers in something, become a master of the kitchen, and learn how to keep a clean house.

I suppose that’s enough to keep us busy for the next 50 years or so, huh? I’m trying hard to see past the end of my own nose, since lately I’ve been buried beneath a deluge of marriage-related material (completely coincidental) that’s scaring me a little, and I’m trying to picture what’s going to happen to us in the coming decades. I guess there’s only one way to find out, and that’s to take the plunge!

I generally avoid blogging at work because I would really rather not get caught, but a great injustice has just been visited upon me and I am not happy. I wanted to chronicle this outrage before my indignance wears off.

So I’m sick today, right? I feel awful, and it occurred to me a short while ago that an orange juice and sausage-cheese bagel from Speedway would really hit the spot. I normally work alone, but I left a note on my keyboard anyway and ducked out. And wouldn’t you know, I learned from the kind man at the register that Speedway quit making sausage-cheese bagels, and instead now makes everything on a biscuit or a croissant with egg, which I find gross.

I am aghast, but sadly, I am not a stranger to companies taking away the things I love most. Crunchy Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Hershey’s Cookies-n-Mint candy bar, Dr. Pepper Berries and Cream, Ocean Spray Juice and Tea, Spatini spaghetti sauce flavoring packets … I could go on, I’m sure. Instead, I will nurse my orange juice and eat the Donut Gems I got in place of my sausage-cheese bagel, and possibly weep softly for humanity.

Confidential to my father: If you haven’t opened your gift yet, don’t look!!

Waiting in the lobby of Carter’s Tattoos.

Cole applies the design onto my leg as I begin to wonder what exactly I’m doing here.

After four other tattoos, you’d think I’d be used to this feeling by now.

Cole pins down my leg so I don’t thrash around and screw everything up.

Closeup action shot.

Is it over yet?

I love you, Daddy.

That’s red ink, although the way my leg hurt I thought it was blood.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!

(That lyric is from James Taylor’s My Traveling Star as performed on One Man Band, and it seemed to me a perfect line to capture my father.)

Every year I go to the card store and stand in front of the racks, perusing Father’s Day cards. I know I’ve found the perfect one — or two — when I start to cry like a girl in the middle of the aisle. I can’t help it. My dad is my hero, and this is the one day out of the year I can pay a few bucks for Hallmark to say what I can never articulate.

It was only a few years ago that I realized my father worked two jobs to support his family — factory worker by day, Realtor by night. I remember counting the Band-Aids on his fingers at the dinner table and visiting the Century 21 office, but somehow I never put the two together. He certainly didn’t act like he had two jobs, at least not in front of his children. He used to take my brother, Betsy the dog and me to the creek in his old blue truck, graciously allowing me to pretend I was driving over the rutted carnival grounds on the way to the water. If I was ready when he got home from work, and if I had proper shoes on instead of my jellies, he might take me for a quick ride on the back of his motorcycle before dinner. He helped me balance on my purple two-wheeled bicycle until I could ride it without training wheels. That’s what stands out throughout my childhood: He was never too busy, never too tired to do something fun.

In my teenage years, we would sometimes sing together, although not as often as I would have liked. He taught me to saddle a horse, to drive a stick shift, to take care of the family dog. Without saying a word, he showed me what to expect in a husband — someone who brings coffee every morning, helps with the dishes, and means every part of those vows. He cheered for me when I ran cross-country, sacrificed who-knows-what so I could study abroad, bought CDs of choir performances (and actually listened to them), sat through endless 4-H horse shows in the sweltering sun, rushed to the emergency room on his day off when I burned my leg with hot glue, and gave his permission for me to marry the only man I’ve ever met who comes close to the standards my dad set. He knew when to let go and let his little girl make her own mistakes. He is amazing, and I am so proud to be his daughter.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I hope you like your cards.