the wishbone

So, when I was seven and we went to Utah for Thanksgiving with Grandma Gale, I tore a wishbone with my cousin Amber, and I won.

This meant I got a wish, and I was ready. I'd been ready my whole life, practically. I wished to be......

A princess.

This, of course, meant a fluffy pink dress, (think Glenda the good witch, only a darker pink) tiara, and wand. Supreme executive power wasn't really a concern for me; it was mainly the super kickin' threads and mystical powers I was concerned with.

As I climbed into bed that night, I imagined what it would feel like, being a princess. I pictured myself in the dress. I could feel the pink tulle, that wasn't itchy at all like the tutu I wore for Halloween in kindergarten, because this was magical tulle. I clutched my fingers around the imaginary wand, and pondered what my first magical act would be.

When I woke up, I wasn't different at all. No pink dress, no wand. No tiara. Just me, in my jammies. Resigned to life as a commoner, I went out for breakfast. Grandma made me toast with peanut butter and marshmallow fluff, and I forgot my disappointment.

Tonight in the cab on our way home, I recounted my tale for Paul. I'm sure he's heard the story at least ten times by now, but he listened like it was brand new and said really soft like something kinda sweet and mushy about there being other ways to be a princess that didn't involve the extravagant attire.

Huh. More than one way to be a princess.

I actually don't wish the princess wish anymore. Well, not without some serious wardrobe modifications, and I'm not sure what the rules are on wishes like that. I mean, once it's out there, it's out there, and I don't know if an addendum can be made.

Sometimes, though, I wish to wake up a mother.

I'm not even asking for the fluffy pink dress, wand and tiara. I know it's work. I know it's hard.

I always say I believe that Heavenly Father has a plan for my life. That He knows best, that all will work out for my good. That I will, someday, be a mother.

Do I, though? Do I behave the way I say I believe?

Lately, I have been more and more consumed by fear.

Fear that I won't ever become a mother.

Fear that I will become a mother BECAUSE WHAT ON EARTH AM I GOING TO DO???? I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!!!!

With all that fear, I guess I sort of forgot about faith. The fear just felt so comfortable, you know? I must be afraid for a reason, right?

The other day Miggs told me about when she went cliff jumping, and how she got to the top and was completely terrified. The only thing that got her to jump was seeing all the other people who jumped coming up out of the water, all okay and not dead.

I've been thinking about that, about letting go and believing. Believing that Christ did what I believe He did. That I can let this fear, this sorrow, this pain, go. Believing I can rejoice along with the women becoming mothers, even though my turn hasn't come yet.

Maybe that's a way I can be a mother, right now. Even though it doesn't look quite as I imagined it would.

Tonight, I will lie in bed, and imagine what this will feel like. I'll imagine sadness just sliding off me, feel that slow sweet spreading of joy.

I'll imagine waking up in the morning, waking and feeling that I am exactly as I am meant to be.

death kitty

more animals

written on my desk in music class

flea
bored
tacos
chief banky
Jesus is Lord
I think, therefore I am
New York's finest

Anyone know what a chief banky is?

i heart hockey

So, remember when I didn't like hockey because of all the violence and brutality?

Did I mention I also think it's awesome?

Probably not, because I didn't know until Friday, when a couple of our greatgreat friends took us to the Princeton-Cornell hockey game, JUST HOW MIND BLOWINGLY SA-WEET it is.

Mind you, this whole hockey love thing came as a complete shock to me. I mean, when P-Dog watches football, sure I might look like I'm paying attention, but actually I'm picking out the names of our future children. Live baseball games are fun as long as I have someone there for me to share my innermost thoughts and feelings with, and golf is completely delightful if I want a nap. Those announcer people have the most soothing voices.....

So, I had no plans whatsoever to actually watch the hockey game.

Until we entered the rink, and I was overcome with this feeling of.....dare I say....excitement? Yes! I think it was excitement! And know what? All that violence and brutality I've always associated with hockey actually makes for a very entertaining live game.

Also, hockey has the BEST sports jargon. You may ask, how do I know this, seeing as I am the one napping during golf. I am not offended. I know this because I totally just googled hockey terms and came up with a whole list of them and thought.......

ANOTHER REASON I LOVE HOCKEY!!!!!

Biscuit in the basket? Guess what that means?? Go ahead, guess!! It means scoring a goal!! Tell me that's not adorable.

Deke- This means fooling an opponent to move out of position. I think this would also make an excellent celebrity baby name.

Meat wagon- a player whose only skill is fighting. Um.......HILARIOUS. I'm putting this on my list of favorite insults that I will use only in jest because I'm not about hurting feelings.

Sin bin- the penalty box. Parents, I would submit this as an excellent title for the little one's time-out location. "Deke, you're being a meat wagon. Time to go to the sin bin."

I'll tell you what- if loving a sport for its silly jargon and fast paced brutality is wrong, well, I don't want to be right.

i raise my goblet of rock.......to paul

Please, raise your goblet of rock, and join me in wishing Paul a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!

Fact: Rush is Paul's favorite band in the whole world.

Fact: The album 2112 came out the year of Paul's birth. I site this as further evidence that he rocks.

Fact: I feel like there is an I Love Lucy episode for every situation in life. Paul feels like there is a Rush song for every situation in life. Remind me to ask him to explain Xanadu one more time.

Fact: Paul does not like birthdays. I am hoping that in posting a song by his most favorite band of all time, he will stop associating birthdays with menacing clowns, and instead associate birthdays with the most rocking band in the universe and let me throw him a huge party with balloons. Also lots of Diet Coke.

an official memo

Email received from one, Paul Boerem, 5:35 p.m:

Official MEMO.

Paul is the BOSS.

All are to do what he says.

He is the final authority on all matters of official and non official business.

Again, urgent.... Paul is the boss, he has always been the boss and he will continue to always be the boss.

This MEMO is now complete. Thanks for your help in this matter.

The BOSS
Paul David Boerem

putting our hat in the ring

"I looked in to adoption benefits at my work."

That's what Paul said when I called him at lunch a few weeks ago.

"Wow! Okay, you're feeling good about this?" I'm trying to keep my voice from doing cartwheels.

"Yeah, I feel good. Let's get this thing started!"

Okay, he's got cartwheel voice going on, too. I hang up the phone.

And grin.

A feeling washes over me, a feeling sort of like the first time I had grape soda, standing in Albertson's with my dad. Only this is a fizzy warm feeling, and the soda was fizzy and cold, but that's beside the point.

The point is, we're going to adopt a baby.

Yessssssss.

I have lots of thoughts and feelings. I'll talk about them later. Right now I'm just going with the warm fizzy.

I felt like the Yip Yips, my childhood friends from Sesame Street, capture my feelings best in their classic song. Enjoy!

a longing for the unattainable

I have a thing for Paul's belly button.

Don't ask me why, but for some inexplicable reason, I find it irresistible. I simply must touch it. I don't want to tickle it, mind you. My intentions are completely honorable. Sort of. All I want is to rest my index finger nicely over it.

I know. Weird, right?

Paul doesn't like it. I can't imagine why. Who on earth wouldn't love having their belly button accosted by a loving (and slightly quirky) wife?

Well, over the years Paul has kind of gotten wise to me. He'll see my adoring sideways glance in the general direction of his belly, and catapult himself to the other side of the room. This should probably hurt my feelings, or maybe I should think hey, Paul doesn't like this so how about rubbing his back instead, but really it just motivates me.

Today, for example. We're in the office/kitty palace, and he's about to leave for the store. I really, really want to touch that charming belly button, but I know I have to be stealthy about it, so I sidle up all cute like, and then look at the hem of his t-shirt. I get a concerned look on my face, and say hey, let me just check something here.....

"ANDREA BOEREM STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!!!!"

"What? What do you mean?" I bite my lip for some extra cuteness. It doesn't work.

"YOU KNOW I HATE THAT!!!! I SWEAR TO YOU, ANDREA BOEREM-"

I make my eyes all big and innocent. "What? What do you swear?"

"I SWEAR IF YOU TOUCH MY BELLY BUTTON, I WILL PIN YOU DOWN AND GIVE YOU THE WORST RASPBERRY PINKBELLY NOOGIE OF YOUR LIFE!!!! OF YOUR LIFE!!!!!"

I think he's bluffing.

i guess seven is a really really good number

Overheard on the subway ( please picture a smallish gent decked out stylishly, speaking to an equally stylish fellow):

"I know the market is bad right now, but I would really like to buy a house, so I can have many cats. I would like to have maybe four, five, no, seven cats. Seven cats. Seven is a sacred number, right? I want a black cat, with green eyes."

Okay, then.

seven is a good number

I've been tagged by my BFF redstarmama.

She's pretty much one of my favorite people ever. Just in case you were wondering. Here's the part where I answer the questions.

7 Things I Plan to Do Before I Die

1. Get a Bachelor's Degree (aiming high)
2. Go jogging (aiming low)
3. Have a child. Maybe I should have put that before jogging. Also I'd like that to be well before I die, if that's possible. I'm not looking to break Sarah's record.
4. Learn to sew. And knit. I want to make aprons, and knit a scarf. Perhaps many scarves.
5. Voluntarily eat vegetables (this is before I die. nobody hold their breath, okay?)
6. Have a dishwasher. And a garbage disposal. Too greedy? Dang.
7. Go shopping one time and buy whatever I want, regardless of the price. (Is that more a dream than a plan?) - this was last on redstarmama's list, and I kinda like it. I'm leaving it right there.

7 Things I Do Now

1. Complain about physics
2. Talk about going jogging
3. Love Paul like there's no tomorrow. You there, Paul? I love you, dude.
4. Go to church/read scriptures/LOVE IT!!!
5. Bake stuff, and then take it to people because if it's here, that's ALL I WILL EAT.
6. Laugh
7. Love New York/miss my family

7 Things I Can't Do

1. Eat vegetables
2. Or fruit
3. Or want to
4. Stop thinking about candy?
5. Stop wanting chocolate chip cookies for breakfast?
6. Leave the last brownie in the pan
7. Or want to

7 Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex (Paul)

1. That little gap in between his front teeth
2. He has this angelic curl that falls over his forehead when he sleeps. I wish I slept cute.
3. He prays for us to have a family. I'm kind of in love with that.
4. Two words: bi-ceps.
5. Um, you've seen some of the stuff he says. Hi-larious.
6. He works hard, which I love, and he wears scrubs while working hard, which I also love.
7. He's Paul. And he's mine.

7 Things That I Say Most Often

1. For reals.
2. Totally. I don't like that I use that word so much, but there it is.
3. NO TICKLE!!!!!
4. I heart you, Paul.
5. I'm thinking about going jogging.
6. Eeeeew, did you fart?
7. Nice burp.

7 Celebrities I Admire

1. Abigail Adams
2. Lucille Ball
3. I think all my favorite celebrities are dead.
4. I just looked on People's website at their list of celebs. Nothing.
5. I agree with redstarmama, James Earl Jones has got the Darth Vader thing going on.
6. How about celebs I don't like? That, I can do.
7. I'm going to wake up at three in the morning with a whole list. I just know it.

7 Favorite Foods (I will have no problem coming up with these...)

1. Deep fried Twinkie
2. Scharfenberger Nibby Bars. You're welcome, redstarmama.
3. Bacon
4. Potatoes
5. Cheese. Glorious cheese.
6. In N Out, number 2, ketchup only. Marry me.
7. Cereal

7 People Who Need To Do This

1. Justin
2. Meridth/Edward
3. Katie
4. Ryanne
5. Reagan
6. Tamara
7. Joe

Secrets of a Successful Cat-by Westley B. Cat

I'm going to be honest with you.

I've started and re-started this post about five times. There's just no good opener for a cutting edge piece on life as a cat written by an actual feline. I mean, this is groundbreaking stuff here, people. In case you didn't know. Not that I want to sound elitist. Although as a cat I sort of am better than you.

So, you're wondering, what's with all the grooming? What is my cat thinking when he licks that one yucky part? Why does he seem to think he owns my house? What's so irresistible about the laser pen light?

Well, I'm going to tell you, but only because I'm hoping a talent scout for one of those marvelous reality T.V. shows sees this post and launches my career as a budding writer.

1. So, grooming. Well, I do have obsessive compulsive disorder, but that's another post altogether. Aside from that, there are two simple reasons for the 250 daily cleanings: 1) I have this amazing barbed tongue so it's pretty much biologically predetermined, and, 2) this is just one of multiple techniques used to make my fur irresistible to you. You will notice I also frequently sidle up to you and happen to graze past your leg as if to say "Why hello, didn't see you there, would you like to pet me? Very well, if you must."

2. Now, about that yucky part. I find that quite distasteful myself, actually.

3. Why do I think I own your house? I have a better question for you: Why don't you let me in the closet? Huh? That is what doesn't make any sense. Besides, I do own your house.

4. What is so attractive about the laser pen light? Simple, really. Upon activation, a glowing red demon is released, and must be captured and killed. Upon completion of this task, I will be the recipient of a lifetime supply of closets to peruse and delicious soft kitty food to consume. Surely you can see the urgency here. I have been unable thus far to succeed, but I am very close, I assure you.

Thank you for your time. Please tell all of your wealthy talent scout friends about me. In conclusion, I would like you all to know that I am taking over the world effective right now. Bow to the kitty, peasants. Also I need more cat food.

the burden of greatness

Paul: Andrea, you are just so great.

Andrea: You're so great.

Paul: You're so great, you don't even understand how great you are.

Andrea: No, you don't understand how great you are.

Paul: No, I do, actually.

this is my brain on physics

Scribbled on a page in my school notebook, last Thursday:

Do we have any data on physics melting the brain? Anyone? Get on that, please. Posthaste. My brain is melting quite rapidly, every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday from 10:00am to 11:40.

If physics exerts a force, n, on my brain, x, and if for every force there is another force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction, then physics is pushing on my brain and my brain is saying "Cut that out!! Don't you know you are useless to me and will always be useless to me and stop messing with my lobes!!" and pushing back with an equal force because sometimes, sometimes my brain can be forceful.

I got an 86% on my quiz. 86%. I am going to fail. My brain is melting. I can feel it- I swear I can. I called Mom and she said 86% is just fine for a first quiz, a very respectable grade. Damning with faint praise, I say.

I know Einstein wasn't a great student, but he also came up with the Theory of Relativity, so he could say "Hi, mom, yeah so I got an 86% on my physics quiz but also I am going to come up with a scientific theory that is going to blow the brains off the world in general."

Here the diatribe abruptly ends, because Paul shows up to take me out to lunch, and talk me out of my tree. It is a very tall tree and most difficult to talk me out of, because thanks to physics I now have the formulas to determine just how quickly my body will accelerate towards the ground should I fall out of my hypothetical tree which represents my greatgreat fear of physics.

Wow.

Yeah, so sometimes I get a little melodramatic.

So, fast forward to Saturday night, and I'm watching a broadcast of the general Relief Society meeting and Dieter F. Uchtdorf is blowing my mind with his insight. Wait, what's this? I should rejoice in my accomplishments? Set worthy goals, but not be so hard on myself if I'm not perfect?


I LOVE IT!!!!!


86% is pretty okay for a first quiz. Maybe mom was right.

Okey-dokey. Feeling slightly more relaxed now.


Thanks, insight. Thanks, Heavenly Father.


Also.......


NEXT QUIZ I'M GETTING AN A!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Okay, now I'm done.

Westley and Buttercup

I would like to introduce you to our new cats, Westley and Buttercup. Westley is the dashing feline on the right; Buttercup is the dainty grey kitty on the left. While the decision to get cats felt like a fairly natural one for us, you, like our friend Colin, might have the reaction "Why?" and then again, "No, really. Why?" Well, in answer to your question, we felt a void. A void that could only be filled by adopting two furry, meowing creatures. Still more of you remembering my inability to keep plants alive might wonder if I am up to task. I would submit as evidence one husband, namely Paul, who has been alive for all seven years of our marriage.

mmmmm. yummy fur.
a pensive Westley contemplates the complexities of life in general and more specifically why he is not allowed in my closet.
buttercup is judging me because I sometimes watch reality t.v. on the quiet. step off, buttercup.
really. stop judging me.

love and wedgies

Andrea: I love you, Paul. You're the best husband ever.

Paul: (casts an adoring glance at Andrea) Awwww, thanks......would you like a wedgie?

Andrea: No. Definitely no.

URGENT. PLEASE WATCH. AND LAUGH.

Please. Watch this video. If you do nothing else today, your time will not have been ill spent. Please!!! There is a disco ball!!! And matching sweaters!!! and terrible lip synching!!! And awesome choreography!!! And a cat!!!!! WHAT ELSE DO I NEED TO SAY TO YOU TO GET YOU TO WATCH THIS???? DIDN'T YOU HEAR THE PART ABOUT THE CAT???? By the by, does anyone have any data on how frequently cats appear in music videos? Just curious.

what i did for summer vacation

the friendliest mob you'll ever meet

me and the cutest guy in the world

these sunglasses only cost me like five bucks.

I heart C.S. Lewis forever.

I mean that. Really, he blows my mind with his crazy good insight, and also his smashing vocabulary.




Have you read that piece on imagining yourself as a house that God comes to rebuild? Well, you should, because it is FANTASTIC.....did I mention I love C.S. Lewis? So, you imagine yourself as a house, and God comes to rebuild that house and at first you expect and understand the work being done, but after a while it all becomes pretty painful and unpleasant, and you come to realize that the Lord has much more planned for you than you might have supposed. Here I would like to say that I am not much liking my paraphrasing. It sounds lame. C.S. Lewis is probably right now protesting in a very dignified British accent that I am pulverizing his brilliant piece with my inadequate explanation.



So, what, you may ask, does that have to do with Costa Rica?

Well, I'll tell you.

So, day 1. We arrive in Costa Rica. I am in a be-yootiful country, with oceans the color of the frosting on those wildberry poptarts (See? I knew that color could be found in nature!), monkeys (and who doesn't love a monkey?), and eight of the most awesome people on the planet, including my husband to whom I would like to award the gold medal for Most Awesome Husband Ever Ever. So, pretty good set-up.


We clean up, go out for dinner. There's some talk about planning activities. We decide tomorrow will be the national park and the beaches. I am psyched out of my mind. There is talk about snorkeling and mountain biking, but I'm not too concerned. I'm sure I'll be able to finagle my way out of those, no problem.



No such luck. Mob mentality is incredibly powerful, especially when the mob is super friendly and they tell you things like "oh, you'll love snorkeling, no sharks eat your feet at all ever", and "mountain biking is so much fun, I'm sure you won't fall off the mountain and get eaten by a chupacabra". Also I bet they bought some black market Costa Rican hypno-dust and sprinkled it on my morning vanilla cremas.



So, day 2 finds me in a kayak on the ocean, with Paul. The ocean. OCEAN, OKAY? Ocean.



Man, I am freaked out by the ocean.



Well, we are kayaking, and I'm enjoying myself. This is actually fun. I don't feel at all concerned that the kayak could tip and I could become surrounded by great white sharks all very angry because they heard about the one time when I tried a sample of shark at the meat counter at Albertson's with my mom.



I figure that the snorkeling will happen after we've rowed our kayaks in to the shore, in some nice, non intimidating shallow tide pool. So, when the guide ropes all our kayaks together and says "okay, put on your flippers", naturally I think I may have heard wrong.



As I slide on my flippers and quietly begin hyperventilating, I think, nope. Can't do this. No way.



As I heft my feet over the side and jump in I think again, nope. Definitely can't do this. I can't believe I am doing this.



I hate you, Ocean.



Well, okay, maybe I don't hate you. You're really beautiful and all, and I love to look at you and wade in you, but the swimming with the deep water with all the unidentified sea creatures potentially swimming underneath my feet? Not so much a fan, is what I'm saying.



I'm going to be eaten by a shark. I know it. I just know it. Oh, there's Paul. Hey, he doesn't have a life jacket on!!! Great, ocean. I'm going to be eaten by a shark and my husband is going to drown.



The guide, who has up until now been showcasing some teeny cute blue fish, now shouts "Big fish!! Come see big fish!!!"



Uh, what?



Big fish???? How big??? It's a shark. I knew it. I knew I was going to be eaten by a shark, I knew it!



"Big fish!!!"



STOP SAYING THAT!!!!!



Well, I think you get the picture. I survive, but just barely.



So, day 3. Mountain biking.



Now, I have never been mountain biking. What is my reason, you ask, for having never before participated in such a breathtakingly gorgeous activity so rife with the possibility for fun and discovery?



I hate being dirty. Also I don't like sweat. Also I don't like doing hard things. Why do I have to do hard things??? Haven't I grown enough??? Why can't I just relax?? But I'm getting ahead of myself.



I climb on my bike, and take off. As I crawl along, being passed by the leaf cutter ants on the ground and already feeling considerable discomfort in the general area of the bike seat, I think:



I hate you, mountain biking.



It's five minutes in to the trip. We've just gone over a hill that's probably smaller than the uneven flooring in our apartment, and already I am sniffling into my bike helmet.



Why am I doing this? Who was I kidding? No way can I do this! I couldn't even jog five blocks to Ellen's to help her pack!! The guide probably hates my guts. Why can't I go faster??? I mean, I don't want to go faster, no way, but why can't I? Curse my spindly limbs!



I'd include the rest of my inner diatribe, but you get the general self loathing idea.



"Great job," the guide says. "Here, change to this gear, that will make it easier. Doesn't that breeze feel nice?"



I grumble something in return. The breeze actually does feel pretty heavenly, but at present I'm the guest of honor at my pity party, and I really can't be bothered.



Every time a hill comes up, the guide tells me how to pedal, how to shift gears, but really he probably hates me.



He seems pretty patient. By now I've stopped at least five times, and he doesn't look too mad. He's got sunglasses on, though. He keeps telling me I'm doing a great job, like I believe that.



Then, the guide stops.



Great, I think. This is the part where they thin the herd. He's going to take me out.



He picks a flower. "Here, look. The flower used to make Chanel No. 5. They use 12 pounds to make one bottle-here, smell!"



Well, I'll be darned.



Somewhere along the way, as I stop paying so much attention to the angry voices in my head and listen more to the Yoda riding along beside me, I look around.



Hey, that's a pretty mountain. Was that there before? Hey, look!! Pretty flowers!! Where did those come from? Wow, leaf cutter ants!!!



When I finally get to the end, all sweaty and dirty and tear stained, Paul is there, cheering for me.



There's more, so much more, but for me, right here is where I want to stop. Right here, where I see that I can do hard things. It's not pretty, and I take about fifty times longer than everyone else, but I get there. Thanks, guide. Thanks, mountain. Thanks, friendly mob. Thanks, Costa Rica.

checklist

Speedo?

Check.

Sunscreen?

Check.

Ridiculous amount of tiny travel containers that I have only recently decided are my favorite things ever except maybe for pop tarts?

Check.

Oh, yeah. Pop tarts?

Check.

Okay, I think we're ready for Costa Rica. The first thing I plan on doing is playing a rousing game of my -farmers- tan -can -kick -your -farmer's -tan's -trash. I plan on dominating. See you next week!

Disclaimer: So I haven't actually included EVERYTHING we're taking to Costa Rica. Clearly it would be foolish to travel to Costa Rica with only a Speedo, sunscreen, pop tarts and travel containers, although I do enjoy the mental picture that provides. Also, Paul bought the Speedo as a joke. As a side note, I am bringing a camera.

dear diary

December 27, 1990 9:28pm

David was quite annoying today, Walt, a little better. I feel like an ant carrying a large pineapple. Ah, well. I have never really thought of myself as very pretty before this year. Mr. Layton says that boys will chase me all over at the Junior High, but I don't think I am THAT glamorous. My fondest dream is to become a writer.

There she is, teenage me. Staring out at me from the pages of an old journal. I can see her, with her braces, bangs, and pink lipstick, teeth too big for her mouth. I remember being her, remember how clothes felt too loose, how she loved to daydream. I love her. I want to pick her up off the page and hug her, and tell her that it gets better, that someday she does get a bra. I want to protect her, from things she's already experienced. I want to tell her, don't wear that shirt on the first day of seventh grade, the one with the geometric puffy paint design and huge rolled up sleeves. Trust me.

I am so thrilled with the delightfully cringe worthy material shouting at me from these pages that I feel I simply must inform Paul. Surely he would want to become acquainted with the adolescent experiences of his bride?

Nope.

We sit in Manhattan Diner, and as Paul slurps the last bit of chocolate shake, I grin.

I found an old journal yesterday, I say.

Oh? Paul looks amused.

Yeah, and it's awesome! I mean, HUGE cringe factor, but I say things like "my fondest dream is to become a writer", plus there's a letter to my future husband! That's YOU!!! I can't wait for you to read it.

Paul looks at me as if I should have known better.

I'm not reading that. No way.

But it's ME, I croon.

Exactly. I know you.

But it's TEENAGE ME, I plead.

Yep. Teenage girls are crazy. No way I'm reading that.

What??? You don't want to get to know teenage me??? Well, that about does it, Paul Boerem. I am quite offended. I can't believe you don't want to get to know teenage me. I fold my arms for emphasis, and make my angry eyes.

Why are you offended? You know I love you.

But you don't love teenage me. You don't even care about teenage me. You've just rejected my teenage self, is what you've done.

Paul looks at me, puzzled.

Um......didn't mean to offend you....

How could you think I wouldn't be offended??? If you had a teenage journal, I'd want to read it. I'd want to get to know teenage you!! YOU REJECTED TEENAGE ME, I shriek. Why won't you give her a chance?

Here, I picture Paul on trial. He sits on the witness stand as I pace. I am judge, jury and lawyer. I offer him a chance, one last chance to redeem himself. Will he get to know teenage me? Paul leans in close to the microphone and clearly enunciates:

No, I do not ever, EVER, ever, want to read your teenage journal. Ever, ever ever. Ever.

Sentencing is pending.

I really love him, so I figure on being lenient.

to do list

Seeing as I am no longer gainfully employed, I thought perhaps I ought to start a to-do list, so as to make the best use of my time. Here is what I have so far:

1. Buy high heels, pearls, and new apron

2. Buy a litter

3. Need people to carry me on litter. Place ad in craigslist.

4. Grapes

5. Need people to eat the grapes for me. Place ad in craigslist.

6. Find wisecracking friend. Make her move in next door. Better if her name is Ethel and she is married to a dude named Fred.

7. Call Paul at work to have a long, meaningful conversation about my feelings. Become offended when he has to do his job.

I always feel so much better when I'm busy, you know? I think I'll go name all my socks now.

we are one, but we're not the same

Andrea: You know, I guess we're sort of opposites, but it never really occurred to me until recently, because we have a lot in common.

Paul: Oh, like we're both humans, with hair? And teeth?

Andrea: Yeah. Like that.

birds or twinkies?

I've been experimenting a bit with my blog's look. I like this backdrop, because I think the birds are kinda cute, plus I think the overall tone is superhappyfun, which is what I'm going for. Today though, I found a blogger template with......

Twinkies.

Dude.

TWINKIES!!!!!!

I find myself feeling conflicted. Do I stay with the cute birds and flowers, or do I represent my love of refined white sugar?

I am really at a loss here.

See Paul Go

Check out Paul, riding the mechanical bull at Johnny Utah's. Good times.

i hate math

I hate math.

I hate math's guts.

I wish math would go away and leave me alone.

I am supposed to go and take a stupid test tomorrow and it's going to tell the whole world how stupid I am at math and then everyone is going to point and laugh at my stupidness and I HATE STUPID MATH!!!

I would like to pause and take a moment to offer my sincere apologies to any math lovers. I know in my mind that math is beautiful and logical.

It's also stupid.

About half an hour ago, as I alternately glared at my ACT prep book and attempted word problems, Paul came in to check on me. I think I'll work out, he said. Want to work out with me?

Of course I responded that I can't work out because I HAVE TO STUDY, and he said okay, whatever you want, and I then I got mad because I really wanted to work out but I was up to my earlobes in STUPID MATH and how is that fair, that he gets to work out and then he's going to look great plus he's smart, and I'll be STUPID AND FLABBY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

Go ahead and work out and get all buff, I said. I'll just stay here and get more stupid.

He smiled at me.

So I said are you laughing at me? You think this is funny? I'M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO WORK OUT FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!!!

He said he wasn't laughing at me, but I could see him biting his lip.

Then he grinned and said it's just that I can see you being....well, you, and I love you.

Bah.

Stupid math.

dad

I first med my dad when I was born, and we've been friends ever since. (I'm just going to pretend like my teenage years never happened, okay?) Every time I talk to my dad I love him a little bit more, and I loved him quite a lot to start with, so.....you do the math. Which, by the way, he is really good at. I really, really love him. Here are some of my favorite things about my dad:

1. He loves the Lord. He always, always wants to be found doing the Lord's work, and I can't think of one instance when he hasn't been. No fanfare, no big deal to him. He sees work to be done, and does it.

2. He loves my mom. Really, really loves her. I asked my mom once what were some of the things she loved about my dad, and she told me that when he looked at her, he had the kindest eyes she had ever seen. Ever since I heard her say that, I try to take close-up pictures of him. See? Kind eyes.

2. He loves me. He loves all of us kids, but for now I'm going to be nice and selfish and just talk about how he loves me. He has always wanted a strong relationship with his children, and knowing the importance of communication, would make time each Sunday for a father-daughter chat. By the time I was a teenager I was of course obligated to find this tedious and dorky, but really it was pretty awesome, and I'd like to start a petition to overturn this mandated crabbiness for teenagers. Now that I'm grown and away from home, he writes me letters. Can you believe that? Letters, with spiritual and fatherly council that never fails to uplift and inspire. Each letter ends with him expressing his love and gratitude for his family, and.....yeah. I'm pretty close to crying right now.

3. He wants to be riding a bike when he's 90. You know what? I totally think he will. Every morning, my dad does four things: reads his scriptures, writes in his journal, says a prayer, and goes for a jog. Man, I love that. I want to be more like my dad.

4. He forgives people. I was not a nice teenager. I yelled. I slammed doors. I glared. Yep, there were several years when I was not very pleasant, but never has he made me feel bad. He's just happy when people change for the better, you know?

I have like a million more things, but then I'd be crying buckets and that might scare Paul, so I think I'll end here.

Dad, I love you. Maybe someday, I'll be more like you. I sure hope so.

a near miss

Today I almost, ALMOST got pooped on.

There are two worlds: One in which we blissfully lunch at the park, hatless and carefree, and the other world where we cast nervous glances at large gatherings of fowl and recount our bitter war stories. Phrases like "Oh, that could never happen to me", and "lucky for me I have invisible bird poop repellent with me at all times" are so easily rolled off the tongue, but of course we have no immunity. Only a staunch belief in our invisible bird poop repellent.

As I sat on the park bench enjoying the sun and thinking of prospective names for my hypothetical future offspring, I was an inhabitant of the first world, and happy to be so. Moments of tragedy are never anticipated, and this was no exception. A split second was all it took for the, er, dropping, to splat onto the park bench, soiling the hem of my skirt.

My life flashed before my eyes, I tell you.

That is perhaps an exaggeration. Maybe my life did not in fact flash before my eyes, but I was certainly reminded of how fleeting life can be, and how we must be certain to make the most of the moments we are given and if I may say, the outfits we wear, as we can never really be sure if this will be the last time we are to enjoy wearing that cute little number we have pulled from our wardrobe.

I now stand before you (well, I'm not actually standing, but I think it sounds kind of more powerful than "I sit before you") a changed woman. A woman who has been spared the misery of bird poop on her hair, and I am determined my life shall be better for it. I of course regret that Skirt was not spared, but I pledge that Skirt shall not have been soiled in vain.

As I consider how my life will be changed and improved as a result of this experience, I must be honest that I am really coming up with nothing here. I mean, I'm really not a hat person, plus they mess up my hair and I do love a good blow-dry. I'm also not an advocate for violence directed at pidgeons, however careless they may be about where they choose to relieve themselves, so there seems to be absolutely nothing to be done beyond the usual savor-every-minute stuff.

I think maybe I'll just go home and hug my clothes.

finding my funny

Sometimes I feel like I don't have anything to say.

Most of the time I have a good deal to say. I like to look for the joy in life. I enjoy finding the laugh, especially when the laugh is tucked away inside the un-funny: monsoon rains on the way home from work, trying unsuccessfully to have a baby, cranky patients at work. There's a laugh in there, I just know it. When I find the laugh, I feel like I have something to say.

Sometimes, I don't.

Sometimes, I don't want to find the laugh. I'd rather lick my wounds, along with an ice cream cone and some chocolate pudding. Chocolate coated grief. Mmmmmmm. Nummy.

I just laughed a little. There we go, there I am. I knew I was in there, somewhere.

How come? How come sometimes the laugh is right there, all fizzy and sweet and ready to spill over, and sometimes hiding?

Buried underneath late bedtimes and early mornings, and ninety five degree weather and going back to school and will I disappoint someone and am I ever going to be a parent, there's a laugh, I just know it.

Thinking..........thinking.........

Hmmmmm.

Maybe some bits of life are not funny. Some bits are difficult and even slightly rotten, and you know what?

I think that's okay.

I'm just going to save up laughs like they're food storage. A good laugh can keep for years, you know. I'll just pack them away, with the best ones right on top, and make sure they're good and ready for my next Cranky Time. So, the next time I find myself up against an un-funny Character Building Experience, I'll just use some recycled funny.

I've got my little brother squirting Kool Aid out his nose, a four year old quizzing me about my eating habits, and Paul making silly faces. I've got Dad asleep at the kitchen table, I've got my outfit for the first day of seventh grade, puffy paint and all.

That's good stuff, man.

I think I just found my funny.

Monty Python - Spam

I have some thoughts I have been collecting, in little bits, and sometimes quite big bits, that I would like to share. I have not had time to organize all the bits, however, and not wanting to be remiss in my blogging duties (Paul will laugh when he reads "duties") I thought, geez, I better post something. But, what could I post? I mean, it hasn't yet been confirmed that I'm actually getting the Nobel Peace Prize for International Chocolate Consumption (what? I've been to Paris.) and I didn't want to jump the gun by making the big announcement prematurely. So, what then? I figured the next best thing to announcing I've won a Nobel Peace Prize would be Monty Python on the origin of spam.

Week 1- Robert Muraine The Great- So You Think You Can Dance

Yessssss! So You Think You Can Dance is back!!!! Could I be any happier? I think not. Check out this guy- I don't quite understand how he does what he does, but I think it's pretty awesome. Yep.

for your consideration

I need a new bathing suit, because the one I have now makes me look like a nun. Or, what a nun would look like if she wore a bathing suit. Do nuns wear bathing suits? Anyways, I can't decide. I have gone back and forth for two days now, and I need to break the cycle. Can you please tell me which one you like better? I think I'm leaning a little more towards the gingham one, but then the minute I resolve to purchase that one, I change my mind again and think I like the polka dot one more. Geez. This has to stop! Please help, okay? Just make up my mind for me. Awesome. I knew I could trust you.

obituary

Yesterday morning, at approximately 9:50am, the blender belonging to Paul and Andrea Boerem passed away, due to complications related to excessive smoothie making. Known simply as Blender, he (although gender is uncertain) was adopted a little over a year ago and while little is known of his early life, his Cuisinart heritage speaks volumes. He was known for his love of pureeing soups, and especially enjoyed preparing frozen hot chocolate. While blending was of course his strong suit, he did moonlight as a food processor, and would frequently attempt more difficult projects, like raw carrots. He was largely unsuccessful.

When not involved in the pulverization of foodstuffs, Blender enjoyed hobbies, such as sitting in one place not moving at all. He was frequently frustrated by his inability to speak due to being an inanimate object and sited as his hero Pinocchio, or would have sited Pinocchio as his hero were he able to communicate actual thoughts and feelings.

Paul and Andrea would like to champion Blender's admirable work ethic. At a time when many other blenders would have chosen to spend the remainder of their waning lives on a sun-drenched counter top in Miami, Blender continued to puree, dice and blend like a champion.

Blender is survived by the Toaster, and Waffle Iron. Following the traditional mourning period of one day and a rigorous selection process, Blender has been replaced by Blender No. 2, who is considerably less modest than Blender, and has already indicated that he would like to rule the world, or at the very least the kitchen.

In lieu of flowers, ice would be greatly appreciated.

smells like swagger

Paul just got new deodorant.

Not just new as in never been used, but also a new scent.

Swagger.

Uh huh.

What, you may ask, does swagger smell like? Is the scent meant to remind us of someone swaggering, or does the scent cause one to swagger?

Well, let me tell you, I can't wait to find out.

I have long been intrigued by the marketing for men's products. I just adore the names. So silly and man-ish. Lots of words like "ultra", and "max", only they like to add lots extra of the letter "x". Or should I say, exxxtra.

Plus there's the whole man and nature factor. Arctic force. Mountain rush. Axe makes a deodorant with a scent entitled "tsunami". Um, tsunami? For reals? As in a huge ocean wave caused by an underwater earthquake or volcanic eruption? Yummy. I personally would find that irresistible. I'm picturing some guy in marketing thinking "Hmmmmm, tsunami. Sounds powerful. Let's go with that."

So, swagger.

It was either that or pure sport, and the allure of this new and most confident scent was too much to resist.

For a moment I felt the need to compete, and considered switching to a new scent myself. I was concerned. I mean, my own tried and true green tea and cucumber scent has worked very well for me in the past, but this flashy new scent was making me think.

Maybe I want to swagger, too.

I was almost decided upon arctic apple when I realized that I am no longer twelve, and what the heck am I doing, considering switching to a scent like arctic apple? Sheesh. None of my lady scent options were really very cool. I mean, Spanish rose? Asian pear? Powder fresh? Mystic rain? Come on!

Nah. I decided to stick with green tea and cucumber. I still have a little self respect.

This morning as I showered, Paul entered the bathroom. I heard the medicine cabinet open, and then:

"The scent of confidence!!"

I chuckled.

"What? I swagger sometimes."

Paul just walked in. He asked what I was posting about.

Deodorant, I said.

He grinned.

"I'm getting my swagger on!"

Geez.

i heart moms

mom. i love you so much, mom!

mom in law. i heart you forever!
the best sister ever. ever!
the best sister in law in the world

My mom just totally blew my mind. In the best sense. She was telling me about how she felt when she first became a mother, and I have to say that's one story I never, EVER get tired of hearing. Fitting for a first child, right? Me!!! I was the first!!! I could listen forever to her tell me about when she first saw my face, and we looked into each other's eyes, and how she felt like I looked into her soul. Which I did. Also I was probably trying to communicate with the power of my mind that I really wanted some milk. Anyhoo. She said, and this is what blew my mind:

" Motherhood is.....a revelation. Just a complete revelation. I have never understood so well just how much, and how completely God loves us as when I've just had a child. I experienced it for the first time with you. I've experienced it five times.....each time, just pure revelation. God loves us so much."

Mind blowing, no? Yep, that's MY mom. Boo-yeah!!

I love it. I love moms. You know what? I think in a way, all women are mothers. My sister? Kids aren't even a blip on her horizon yet, but this one time, when she was a senior in high school and I was going through a difficult time, she woke up at 3:00 in the morning, just so she could read me a favorite scripture of hers before I left for work. Tell me that's not the work of an awesome mom! See, I knew you couldn't. My sister in law? Well, I don't know if I've EVER seen someone so good with kids in my whole life, and when she has kids she's going to rock that whole scene like crazy. For reals. And my mother in law? Let me tell you. You go over to their house, and you just try to not feel loved. Go ahead. I dare you.

And my mom. I don't think the words have been invented yet for how much I love my mom, but here's an attempt:

crazystrongunbeatableeternalheartloveforever

I think that covers it, almost.

Nice work, Heavenly Father. Thanks for moms.

anniversary post (or why I should not eat only cake all day)

P-Dog and I just celebrated our seven year anniversary on Monday. For reals, seven years. And I don't itch at all, not even a little bit. I have been meaning to post about this all week, but I wanted the time to create a post that would sufficiently communicate the depth of my feelings for him. They are very deep, I assure you. Now I have plenty of time, but I have eaten only cake up until now, and have a beyond splitting headache. Paul is at work, and I am really wishing he were here right now because I want some 7-up and for him to rub my back. Paul, come home from work, okay? I know your job is important and all, and that you're probably keeping someone alive right this moment, but I need 7-up, okay? Dang. I think I'm going to go puke now.

old macdonald had a bus

I am riding the 31 bus to work today when two sisters board the bus. One looks about four, and the other maybe five or six, and they are very cute indeed. Curly brown hair, huge dark eyes- the cute market is cornered with these two, I tell you. I have to grin because not only are they insanely adorable, they are singing Old Macdonald Had a Farm, and who doesn't enjoy a rousing chorus on the way to their place of employment? Or pre-school?

They sit behind me. There are two seats, but they kind of squish into one, and continue singing.

"Old Macdonald had a...."

"Bus!! Old Macdonald had a bus!!"

"No, Old Macdonald didn't have a bus. No buses."

The older sister takes charge. They resume:

"Old Macdonald had a tree....."

Here I am waiting with bated breath to find out what sound a tree makes, because all this time I am not able to figure that one out, and no one yet has been in the forest to hear a tree scream when it is cut down (that I'm aware of). I don't get to find out, though, because the older sister has just changed her mind. Maybe Old Macdonald did require public transportation, after all. She sings reverently:

"Old Macdonald had a tree........and buses...."

"Eeeeyi eeeeyi oooooh. For you and me, for you and me."

Clearly they have mixed up Old Macdonald with This Land is Your Land, (obvious to a seasoned singer of nursery rhymes such as myself) but seeing as they are both cute as a button, I let it slide. I exit the bus, and here I am.

Still grinning.

change

You know how I've been talking about going back to school? I've been talking about it for a while, right? And you know how it's been bugging you because I'm all talk and no action, and you'd really like to smack me and tell me to GET MY ACT TOGETHER AND DO SOMETHING, but you're too nice?

Well, I did something.

I gave my notice at work.

Effective....sometime in July. Exact date to follow.

I was having a great talk with Miggs, and she's just so good at being inspiring that before I knew it I was jumping up and down on her couch like Tom Cruise. That's a slight dramatization, but I really was jumping up and down on a couch in my head, I swear.

So, I got to thinking about how if something is good, we should do it. Right away. This helps to avoid people wanting to smack us, and also it's a good way to show Heavenly Father we really do want His help, by being obedient. Even if what He wants us to do is hard, and we would rather hide under the table and suck our thumbs.

Then, at work on Monday, without even really trying, it just popped out.

I'm going back to school, I said. I'm really going to miss you guys. I'm feeling kind of scared, but a good kind of scared. The kind of scared you feel before you try a new roller coaster.

Just like that, I told the best boss in the world that I was leaving.

I'm going to go hide under the table and suck my thumb now.

Thanks, by the way, for not smacking me. Your kindness knows no bounds.

brand new me

Guess what?

I'm assertive now.

Uh huh. Didn't think I had it in me, did you?

Well, I did.

There comes a time in every passive girl's life when she must decide: is she a mouse, or is she....not a mouse. Because mice are generally not all that assertive, I take it. Also, they can't even talk, so if the mouse wanted to be assertive I think it would have a rather difficult time.

Well, I am NOT a mouse.

I was on my way home from work, minding my passive business, all ready to swipe my metrocard when my spidey-sense told me there was a tourist kid in front of me who needed help with his metrocard.

Swipe, THWACK. Swipe, THWACK. Swipe, THWACK.

It's always a little embarrassing when you get stopped by the turnstiles. Now, being the passive person I am, normally I would have been quite content to stand behind him as he swiped incorrectly for a good long time, cheering him on, or I would have maybe hopped lines, but yesterday was different.

"You have to watch the little screen. It will tell you if it worked."

Didn't register. Swipe, THWACK.

I grabbed the metrocard, swiped it, returned it to the hand of my greasy-haired buddy.

"Uh, thanks."

I swiped my card, walked through, and then I chuckled.

That was awesome. I'm so assertive now.

The Gender Olympics

Paul Boerem is not a girl.

Well, he isn't.

I think I got ahead of myself.

So there's this documentary called The Business of Being Born, about women, and they're having babies, and should they have them in the hospital, or at home? There was a free screening at the hospital, and I thought, I'd like to have a baby sometime, so I'm interested in this, plus it's free, and that's pretty great. Also I've been concerned lately that my hypothetical children are taking their sweet time because I don't yet have my parent license, and I am wondering if that's how you get it, by going to see documentaries like this.

I watch as women, well, um, give birth. On film. It looks painful. I totally want to do it. I marvel at just how crazy that is, that I can see something that really does not look like a walk in the park, and here I am ready to sign up like someone just said "Would you like some free cheesecake?" Heck yes, I do.

Well, the movie ends, and I go home, and I'm all intellectually charged with woman power and stuff, and naturally I want to talk to Paul, because I want to impress him with what a smart wife he has. Except, remember I'm not really good at debating, because I don't like it? Yeah, well, I forgot about that.

We start to chew the fat (I've been waiting to use that phrase....) and at first we are really having a very nice time, and I'm patting myself on the back in my head and thinking, look at us. Look how smart and open minded and enlightened we are. They should make a documentary about us, is what they should do.

Naturally I was surprised when we both got all mad and stuff. I mean, okay. Here's how it happened:

So we're talking about episiotomies, and I was like, so I don't think I want one, and then he was like.........hmmmm. Funny, I actually can't remember exactly what he said, because I was pretty busy planning my rebuttal. I like to stay ahead of the game.

At any rate, he says something that sparks a little of the feisty in me, and then, I tell him that he can't really understand because.....

He doesn't have any girl parts.

Yep.

I busted that one out. The gender card.

Here I would like to remind everyone of one minor detail:

Neither of us has ever given birth. We are in no way qualified to be having this conversation.

I would also like to point out that if these questions were actually applicable to us, we'd be so psyched, giving birth in Taco Bell would be fine, although I would prefer not to. No offense to anyone who has labored at the Bell.

Still, it is immediately apparent that each of us is representative of our respective genders, and as such we each bear the solemn responsibility of attempting to force the other to SEE THINGS MY WAY!!

Paul stands up, states that he will not dignify my comment with a response, and huffs out of the room.

I sit on the couch, pondering. Am I amused, or do I feel a huge sense of injustice? I go with amused, until it's time to go to bed, and it's my turn to say the prayer, and I extend my hand so we can hold hands during, except I decide, you know, I don't think I'm going to say the prayer just yet. I should apologize to Paul.

So, I apologize. Well, kind of. It was the sort of apology where you think, yeah, I'm apologizing, but really I'm using my apology as a jumping off point to continue the debate because ACTUALLY I'M RIGHT!!!

It didn't go over as well as I'd hoped it would.

I led off with saying that I was sorry but, well, he didn't have any, um, girl parts, and then I can't really remember exactly what we said, just that this time I got mad, got out of bed, stomped out of the room and shut the door.

Hmmmm.

I don't believe in sleeping on the couch.

Also, I can't sleep alone because I really like how Paul snuggles.

I am lying on the couch trying to come up with a way to go back in to bed without completely groveling or admitting defeat because I AM RIGHT, but really missing Paul, when the bedroom door opens.

I close my eyes to fake like I was asleep, but let's face it, I'm a really bad faker.

He sits down on the couch.

Looks at me. A little confused, a little like he wants to laugh.

Can you come back to bed, please?

I smile.

You missed me, didn't you!

He smiles. Puzzled.

Yeah......WHY, I don't know, but.....yeah!

I say the prayer.

This time, I say it for reals.

unrighteous dominion, part deux

Andrea: I heart you forever, Paul.

Paul: Then do the dishes.

Andrea: What?

Paul: .......Nothing.

holy envy

"Mom, I want a snack."

She's pretty adorable, this tiny girl who's just boarded the bus. Head to toe pink, umbrella included. I wish I could wear head to toe pink. Let me re-phrase: I wish I could wear head to toe pink and have people think I look cute.

"Mom, I want a snack."

She's not whining, just looking all cute and puzzled at her mom, who sighs patiently.

"I know, honey. Remember, you'll get a snack when you're all done with class?"

"Oh, okay."

She seems satisfied, and returns to admiring her frilly pink umbrella. I'm admiring it too, truth be told. It's quite a fine umbrella.

"Mom, I want a snack. Can I please have a snack?"

"Sorry sweets, you can have one when we're back from school, okay?"

Once again, this satisfies her. She peeks at me from her seat. I make a silly face at her, which she seems to like.

"Mom, I want a snack."

Here, my little friend determines that her previous tactics have proved ineffective, and she decides to step up her game. She's pretty sharp, and shrewdly decides to continue with the not whining (which is very big when you're five, from what I remember) and to go with a cool and calculated attack:

"Mom, I want a snack. Mom, I want a snack. Mom, I want a snack. But Mom, I want a snack. Mom, can I have a snack please? Mom, I'd like a snack. Mom, can I please have a snack?"

Her mother, demonstrating saint-like patience, calmly replies "I know, honey. I know."

It's my stop. I get off the bus, smiling and sad all at the same time. I think I know how she feels.

It's weeks later, and Paul and I are visiting some good friends who've just reproduced for the first time: a sweet baby girl. I'm holding her, patting her back, delighted when I get her to burp, beyond pleased that she's stopped crying and is nuzzling sweetly into my neck. I think:

Put me in, coach. I can do this.

I know, honey, I know.

I'd like a baby, please.

Remember, Andrea? You'll get one, when it's time.

Oh, okay.

So, how about now? Can I have a baby now? I swear, I'll be good. I'll feed it vegetables and everything. It's just that I'd really like one, and everyone else has one. I've been really patient, right? I mean, did you just see how I got her to stop crying? Good work, right? Well, there's way more where that came from. Have you seen my silly faces? And my diaper changing- pure magic, I tell you. I've got names picked out and everything. Good names, too. Not the kind that will get them made fun of, you know? And I found this website that has these really awesome onesies and there's one with a picture of the Ramones on it and how great is that? So, how about it? Can I have one?

No, not right now. Remember, soon, just not yet.

Right.

I think it's holy envy because it's a good thing that I want, right? A holy thing. It's not like I'm saying "Holy envy, Batman. I'd like a baby."

Paul smiles at me as we leave. He says:

"Put me in, coach. I can do this."

andrea in wonderland

The Queen of Hearts gets manicures. I mean, why wouldn't she? If I were Queen, I'd get manicures daily. No, make that twice daily. No, thrice daily! I think when you're Queen, the word thrice is very big. I had a point. Oh! So, there's this woman who works at the hospital who looks exactly like the Queen of Hearts. I first saw her at a computer training course. I sat across from her, and had an extremely difficult time concentrating. I kept wanting to shout "Off with her head!!". It wouldn't have been appropriate. On the last day of the class, I came very near to telling her she looked exactly... like a dear auntie of mine (um, yeah! that's it!), and would she mind if I took her picture, but my better instincts told me not to. Also, I was afraid she might sit on me.

I saw her again in an elevator, and was really quite thrilled. I felt like we had a history, even if she didn't know it. I did my best to send telepathic messages to the other people in the elevator, not wanting them to miss out on an opportunity to see the Queen (of Hearts), but I don't think anyone got it. Yesterday, I went for a manicure while on my lunch break, and as I happily breathed in the toxic fumes and admired my freshly painted nails, I saw her! She was getting a manicure!! I was de-lighted. Hey, I shouted inwardly, you know you're a pretty great villain! I mean, not as great as Maleficent because I think we can all agree she's the best villain ever, but you're pretty great! So, you get manicures too, huh? Cool. Me too. So, remember when we were in class together? Can I have a picture taken with you so I can show my friends? Or, would you mind shouting "Off with your head!!"? That would be awesome.

I totally get why she came to New York. Fresh start, get lost in the crowd, work at a hospital. I bet she got crazy bad press when Alice went public.

Andrea vs Paul: The Great Fruit Debate of 2008

Yesterday evening, at approximately 7:15pm, Paul David Boerem accused me, Andrea Gale Boerem, of prejudice against fruit, including allegedly preventing fruit from being included in meals and snacks, and of not including fruit as a kitchen decoration which would encourage consumption of said fruit. Allegedly. (I know that last "allegedly" wasn't really necessary, I just like how official it sounds.)

I would like to respond to these charges:

I AM INNOCENT!! I WOULD LIKE TO BE CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES!! Plus, the charges aren't even for real because he's not a lawyer!! Also how come it's MY fault??

Now, I would like to clearly define my feelings about fruit and vegetables. I have nothing against them- they are peaceable, and clearly mean no harm. Except maybe for pineapples, which are kind of sharp and pokey, but I guess that's not really the pineapple's fault. That said, I do not like to eat them because they taste yucky, except I guess fruit doesn't really taste yucky, but the texture really bugs me. Also, I do not like ANYTHING about bananas. Or peas. Or beans. I cannot budge on this.

The quibble began when Paul related a grocery store experience from earlier yesterday, when a most friendly lady who was very pro-mango felt it her duty to extol the many virtues of mangoes. Paul agreed, but then he told her he never eats them, and I quote, "because my wife doesn't like fruits or vegetables, so I never eat them."

The injustice of this statement screamed at me like Howard Dean. Naturally, I had to defend myself.

My argument was polished. Concise. Elegant.

"Huh? No way. How come it's MY fault? You can eat fruit and vegetables anytime you want!! How many times at the grocery store do I ask you if you want fruit or vegetables and you say NO!!! Yeah, how about that? You can eat fruit or vegetables any time you want, buddy."

Paul counters by explaining that he doesn't think about it because when he grocery shops or plans meals, he's thinking about what I would enjoy, and marriage is about the two of you together trying to make each other happy.

Well, I didn't fall for that baloney. No, sir!

"Wait- you don't eat them because you don't have anyone to eat them with you?? That sounds to me like you wish you were married to someone else. Hey- how do you think that makes me feel? To know you're suffering in an unhappy, fruitless (hahaha) marriage? Do I not make you happy? Don't I make you peas sometimes? Do you want another wife? Is that what you want?"

I am sounding a little hysterical. I get carried away sometimes.

At this point, Paul smiles and says I'm right. Except I know he doesn't really think I'm right. He's placating me. He really thinks that he's right, and I know it except I can't prove it because he's looking at me all lovingly and saying I'm right.....

Okay, he wins.

running in slingbacks

The universe is trying to tell me something. Only problem is, I can't quite figure out what. We speak a different language, the universe and I, since I'm human, and the universe, um, is kind of infinite and eternal and all. You see, Saturday I had planned to meet a good friend at the temple. I checked the weather: 44 degrees, sunny and a little windy. No rain, no snow. Perfect. I wear my cute tweedy brown skirt that Paul bought me with a cream colored sweater and tan fishnets and my brown kitten-heel slingbacks. I am feeling quite dapper. I don coat and scarf, and step outside.

Into a snowstorm.

Gigantic fluffy and very wet snowflakes are fluttering down, and I think this looks quite pretty, but then the wind starts, and I change my mind. The snow is evil, and it is out to get me. My fishnet clad legs are feeling quite chilled, and my hair is soaked, and snowflakes are attaching themselves to my eyelashes, and I know this sounded like a lot of fun in the Sound of Music, but when you're wearing mascara, well, not so much fun. I consider turning back, but then I rally and inwardly shout things like "Stand your ground!!!", and "Push forward!! You're almost there!!" I make it to the subway station, and discreetly try to preen. Preening discreetly is kind of hard, in case you were wondering.

I get off the subway at 59th, and prepare myself to navigate another blizzard. I step outside.

Into bright sunshine.

No trace of snow at all!! At all! It is a lovely wintry day, and I look like I took a shower with my clothes on. I make it to the temple, all the while reminding myself that the Lord looks on the heart, and not on outward appearance, and really, REALLY hoping that's true, because I am looking not a little bedraggled.

We have a very nice time at the temple, and I sit next to a cute little old lady with lavender hair, and I think, that's nice, that there are still old ladies with lavender hair. Also I encounter a man who sounds just like the Impressive Clergyman from The Princess Bride.

Upon leaving, the temperature has dropped considerably, and the wind has come out to play. The wind and I, well, let's just say we're not exactly friendly. My friend and I cross the street, and a particularly large gust of wind blows some hair into my very sticky lip gloss. I hate that.

"AAAAUUGH!!! HAIR IN THE LIP GLOSS!!!"

I fish the hair out. All better.

"Thanks so much, I had such a great time, and- OH, NO!!! IT GOT ME AGAIN!!! LOTS OF HAIR IN THE LIP GLOSS!!! AAAAUUGHH!!! IHATETHEWIND IHATETHEWIND!!"

Seeing my obvious discomfort, my friend shouts "Run! Run!! Run!!!"

After a quick hug goodbye, I am off like a shot, doing my best to navigate Columbus Avenue in my kitten heel slingbacks, which it must be said can only be worn comfortably for about three hours, and once this time has ended, they become wicked sharp toe pincers. They eat my toes. I am not a graceful runner, and the kitten heels are not helping. Plus, my toes are being devoured. I am running/limping down the street while trying to protect my lip gloss from further invasion. This takes some concentration, so naturally I am less than pleased with the people who decide to stop right in the middle of the street and make me want to get MADMADMAD, but then I remind myself (through clenched teeth) that they're all God's children, and hurry on.

As I wait on the platform for the train to come, I realize someone near me is talking. That someone is a homeless/drunk man, and he is feeling a little frustrated that the train is taking so long to come.

"Why is it taking so long? Do you know when the train is coming? Do you know when the train is coming?"

He doesn't appear to be speaking to anyone in particular. Suddenly, I am intently studying the gum splotches on the concrete.

"There are NO express trains coming EVER, EVER again. It's because people don't like Germans. Yeah, or chocolate."

Hmmmm.

I look over at him. He is holding a paper airplane, fashioned from one of the posters with subway information. He looks fondly at his creation.

"This is an excellent airplane. I'm quite brilliant, you know, at this, making paper airplanes. See, look!" He launches the airplane, which does in fact fly quite nicely.

I ride the train home, entertained by a little boy who, high on life and perhaps candy, is tirelessly circling one of the subway poles while singing "IT'S THE BEST DAY EEE-VER!!". He alternates this with a rousing chorus of the ABC song, and The Wheels on the Bus. His dad chimes in on that one. The lady sitting next to me is quite amused, and inquires:

"Did he have cupcakes?"

"No. I took him to see Spongebob Squarepants."

Ahhhh.

The universe is trying to tell me something.

unrighteous dominion

Andrea: I think I broke the internet.

Paul: Just in our apartment, or for the whole world?

Andrea: I'm not sure. I'll check.

Paul: I bet it's because you don't do everything I say, like you're supposed to.

Andrea: That has NOTHING to do with it, and YOU KNOW THAT!!

on being twelve

My skin is currently experiencing a mid-life crisis. I hadn't thought that nearing thirty was any big deal (it is the new twenty, after all) but apparently my skin feels otherwise, and in a last ditch effort to re-capture my long lost youth, it has decided to break out slightly more than normal. Okay, a lot more than normal. My chin looks like a war-zone. While I obviously would have preferred my skin to do something more prosaic, like buy a new sports car, or start busting out some new slang terms, I must deal with the crisis at hand, and as I looked in the mirror this morning I thought "hmmm. I don't think I've had this many pimples since I was twelve......hmmmm, twelve......." and then I had this flashback to where I was twelve.

When I was twelve, I weighed in at about 90 pounds, soaking wet and with clothes on. I was a big milk drinker, firmly believing what the milk commercials had told me: "Billy might not like me now, but I'm drinking my milk......", and just waiting for my chestal area to fill out. It never happened. Anyhoo. In my journal I would catelogue my feelings about life, thoughts on the classics, and muse over my future occupation.......okay, so that's kind of not all true. I really did have some fairly deep thoughts, but mostly I talked about boys, and how I really wished I looked like Judy Garland (see below paragraph: I was REALLY into old musicals.). An actual entry in my journal: "I have made up my mind to be as glamorous as possible." Yikes.

I had two great loves: candy, and old musicals. I would save up my babysitting money, walk to Albertson's to buy a box of Froot Loops and some Snickers bars, and hop over to the video store to rent Meet Me in St. Louis, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Summer Stock......you name it, I rented it. I would then try to rope my brothers into watching them with me. ("No, this is a really good movie!! It's, uh, got some fighting in it! I know you'll like it.") I was largely unsuccessful. Also, I had a really big crush on Gene Kelly.

Three life altering events took place the year I turned twelve: I was allowed to wear makeup (yessss!!!) I was allowed to get my ears pierced (double yesssss!!!) and my period started, which as we all know is not really that much fun, but my mom did buy me a new purse, and I finally got to bust out that starter kit I got in the fourth grade after my mom and I watched that video with the rest of my class that had the girl from Annie.

Ahhhhh, good times. I've enjoyed this trip down memory lane, but I'm pretty happy that I'm not twelve anymore. Being twenty-eight has some perks: seeing as I have a job that pays quite a bit more than previous baby-sitting gigs, I can now afford to buy a LOT of Snickers bars (yessss!!), and I'm married (quadruple yessssss!!!!), and Paul could TOTALLY kick Gene Kelly's trash. Gene really could tap, though.

Also, about wanting to look like Judy Garland.....yeah, that was before I found out about all the drugs and stuff. Then I decided I wanted to look like Vera Ellen . She didn't do drugs, did she?

Anyone Else But You - Michael Cera and Ellen Page

Paul, I lurve you. I loave you. I luff you. Basically, I heart you forever. Exclamation point.

cold shower of death

I've always had a good relationship with our shower. Sure, sometimes she takes a little while to heat up the water, but I'm patient, and I'll go eat my cereal while she wakes up. That way, I get fed, and Shower can take all the time she needs to get my water nice and piping hot. Now, maybe she was having an off day, maybe Paul just spent too long in the shower (investigation pending), maybe I somehow offended her (does she not like the clean shower stuff I spray afterwards? wrong scent?), either way, this morning when I turned on the water for the shower, it was decidedly lukewarm. Did I panic? No, of course not. I quite patiently poured myself a bowl of cereal, and waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, I'm definitely going to be late for work, and the water is now wavering between lukewarm and slightly chilly. I start to panic. I call Paul.



"Paul? I needthephonenumbertothecabthewaterisstillcoldnothappytakingacabtowork."



I don't know why, but I don't think he understood me the first time, so I repeated myself, got the phone number to the cab company, and started bargaining with the shower.

Okay, Shower, I said, how's five more minutes? You've got five whole minutes to get nice and hot, okay?

I perch on the edge of the toilet seat, hand under the chilly water. Five minutes pass. Nothing.

Okay, Shower, I'll wait five more minutes, I say.

Nothing.

At this point, it becomes glaringly clear that I am going to be forced to take a cold shower. All reason departs from me at this point, and I start a bitter diatribe directed specifically at the shower, and generally at my apartment, which has decided to conspire against me.

Oh, boy. I'm going to have to take a cold shower. I can't believe this. I hate the cold. I really, REALLY hate the cold! You've got to be kidding me, Shower. I - OH MY GOSH!!! THE HEAT ISN'T EVEN ON!!!! I'm supposed to take a cold shower in an apartment with no heat?? I HATE YOU, SHOWER!!!

I remove my robe. I am naked and freezing and pacing in my heatless bathroom, and I am about to hop into a cold shower.

Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Okay, I can do this. I can do this, IcandothisIcandothisIcandothis okay I'm going in-

OH GEEZ!!! OH GEEZ!!! SWEET MOTHER, THAT IS COLD!!! OH, SHOWER, REALLY? REALLY, DO YOU HATE ME THAT MUCH?

I am yelling at the top of my lungs. I would feel bad, but at the moment everyone else in my building is taking a nice hot shower, (see? reason is completely gone.) so I want them to hear me suffering.

I manage to lean back far enough while washing my hair to avoid getting completely soaked with the freezing cold death water, but then it's time to for the soap. I stand in the shower, wet hair plastered to my neck, shivering as I glare at the bar of soap. I swipe the bar of soap all over in record time, and am now presented with the problem of washing off. My first instinct as I face the freezing cold evil death water shooting out at me from the showerhead of pain is to cross my arms in front of my chestal area to somehow keep slightly warm. While this is completely ineffective, it does make me feel a little better.

I keep my upper arms plastered to my body, and use my hands to splash water in my general direction.

This isn't working.

I surrender to the freezing water.

OKAY FINE, I'M WASHING OFF!! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?? AAAAHHHHRRRGHH!! THIS IS REALLY NOT COOL, SHOWER!! I THINK I AM HYPOTHERMIC!! OH MY GOSH, I'M TURNING BLUE!!! I AM REALLY UNHAPPY RIGHT NOW!!! OH, GEEEZ!!!

Okay, done.

I step out of the shower feeling a sense of accomplishment akin to what I'm sure new mothers and olympic champions often feel- no one has ever done this before. I dry off using three towels, bundle up in my robe, and although I am abismally late, I take a few minutes to sit on the couch and recover from my post traumatic stress disorder. I somehow manage to get ready in 30 minutes (see, Mom? I can get ready fast!), and in a cab. Miraculously, I arrive at work a little early.

Maybe I'll bring Shower one of those cute little scrubby poofs to hang from the spout. I feel a little bad for yelling at her so much.

overheard

On the subway:

"They call it right-sizing now, not down-sizing. Right-sizing is the new buzzword."

Awesome.

i have not yet perfected the art of time travel

Last night, we took a cab home from the Upper East Side.

Paul opens the door, I slide in, reach for the seatbelt, and realize that the previous passenger has left their Blackberry. I pick it up, marvel at the bright shiny phoneiness of it, and try to figure out how it works. Too many buttons. Afraid if I push the wrong one it will explode. Paul takes it from me, the phone rings, and Paul answers. He hears:

"Mom? Mom. Mom. Mom? Mom. Mommommom. Mom? Mom? Mom."

Paul tries to answer "I- no - not - hey- I AM NOT YOUR MOTHER! YOUR MOTHER LEFT HER PHONE IN A CAB."

"Oh. She's coming up the stairs. I'll tell her." the kid hangs up. Another ring. Paul answers. He hears:

"Hello? Hello. Hello. Hello? Hello. Hello? Hello? Hello."

Paul tries to answer: " Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Geez, stop saying hello! IF YOU SAY HELLO ONE MORE TIME I WILL HANG UP THE PHONE."

"So-rry. My kid's phone isn't working properly. Hello? Hello?"

The phone call ends. At this point, Paul has a splitting headache, and hands me the phone, since clearly it is my turn to be Nice and Polite, and it is Paul's turn to be Grumpy and Impatient. We take turns. It works well for us. The phone rings again. This time, I answer, and very nice Upper East Side Lady is telling me how glad she is we found her phone, and can she pick it up.

"Let's see, I'm at 59th and Park, so it might take me a while to get to you, and I'm going to Connecticut tomorrow. Can I come on Sunday, when we're on our way home?"

"Sure, but I'm at church from 1:00 until 4:00, so you can't come during those times."

"How about 2:00?"

"Um, no, we won't be home then. You can come before one, or after 4:30."

"Oh, okay, great." At this point, I assume that it is clear that during the hours of 1:00 and 4:00 we will not be home. My assumption is incorrect.

"How about 2:30?"

Okay, I know, three hours of church is a long time, but surely the concept is not so foreign as to cause a complete breakdown in one's concept of time, is it? Thank you for agreeing. I explain once more that what with not being home and all, 2:30 is actually not good. I am thinking she has just about grasped that when I become aware of the fact that Paul is yelling at our cabbie, who has not gotten off the FDR when he should have.

"You should have gotten off!!"

"You told me not to!"

"I told you not get off at the bridge! I SAID 181st!"

"You have to go like you're going to the bridge to get to the 181st exit!! You didn't want me to get off, and that's why we're in this mess!!"

At this point I have an epiphane: the cabbie is right. Since I am completely directionally challenged and almost never know where I am or where north south east or west are, I was quite pleased with myself, and felt like I needed to share.

"Paul, he's right."

Oops. Not the best time. Right.

Paul shoots me the Boerem Look of Death, the cabbie thanks me for my endorsement, and I continue attempting to explain my inability to be in two places at once to Upper East Side Lady. She decides to leave right away, and I, bolstered by my newfound sense of direction, tell her how to get to our apartment.

We part ways with the cabbie, who has by now realized the subtle connection between feelings and wallets, and made up with Paul. Upper East Side Lady arrives shortly thereafter, and in a fit of good will insists Paul accept a crisp $20.00 bill for his troubles, no doubt part of her charitable campaign to make certain that people who live above 80th are able to buy groceries.