Why, hello, old me. I DIDN'T MISS YOU AT ALL.

I have to confess to something. Lately, old, annoying habits are creeping back in on me like ... I don't know, annoying creeping things. (Do you like how, when a metaphor is not at my fingertips, I just keep going? Quality, schmality.)

Are you ready?

My biggest habit is getting frustrated at people for not doing something I think they should be doing.

Ha! That's a big habit, yes? How nice it would be if I just had a smoking problem or bit my nails or something. Even a totally bizarre habit, like constantly flapping my hands on my wrists while I talk or continuously crumpling up little balls of paper and eating them (or both, which would be quite a trick), would be vastly preferable to this one giant habit I have. But no. When I have a habit, I do my best to make it the biggest, most all-encompassing, relationship-ruining habit possible. It's probably the overachiever in me.

In my defense, this habit is a CARING habit. My urge to control the entire population of the earth as if they are my own personal marionettes stems entirely from a set of the very best intentions. Put simply, I want people I know to be happy. And they often complain about things that make them the exact opposite of happy.

I'll give you a made-up example. Say I have this friend who is all, "Man, this house I live in just makes me so UNHAPPY. I just want to cry with the unhappiness. I just wish there was something I could do. But there is nothing I can do. I've tried moving the couch, but it didn't help. I even painted the den. I have explored all avenues of action. Nothing works. Not even hanging things on the walls that are from Target and who doesn't love Target. I am doomed, mostly because the house has three unsolvable structural problems, all of which I can describe to you in great detail, and these problems invoke my utmost misery. I am thus mired in a dark black sludge, the clutches of which I shall never escape. You're so lucky you're not me, because I am trapped in the walls of this house like a ... a house mouse. Wait, that sounds cute, but I'm actually feeling very devastated."

And innocent, sweet me, all angelic and caring, gets super excited, because, hey! I just thought of a solution! So I clap my hands together and then grab them enthusiastically by the shoulders and say, "Oh! Oh! I know the answer! You're going to love me forever when I share this with you: you could simply move OUT of that house and live somewhere else!"

Surprisingly enough, my hypothetical friend does not, in fact, love me forever. (Join me in my shock, will you?) Actually they usually shoot me an annoyed look and don't invite me out for dinner ever again. The last words out of their mouths, before they leave angrily and never come back, are usually something like, "Ugh. Moving out of the house that makes me unhappy ... how could you even suggest such a thing? That option is clearly impractical, because ... well, I don't know, but what I do know is that you're really irritating and need to get off your high horse of advice already. Wait! I think I can't move because of interest rates, or something! That's right. Whew. I almost forgot why but that is definitely why. Well, that and because renting isn't feasible, because ... uh ... I think because I just read this article about crook landlords. Whatever. Shut up. It's easy for you to say I should just move, because you're really effing lucky and your life is awesome and you work at home in your pajamas so you can't possibly understand what it's like to be born under a forever curse, like me."

Then the hypothetical friend continues, in a sudden bout of inspiration, "The answer to my problem isn't moving at all. The answer is excessive whining about my paralysis in this situation, the racking up of some credit-card debt, and then maybe the rationalization of a purchase of a giant fudge sundae, which I will then ingest, right before I complain about my weight. Which you also would not understand so don't even LOOK at me like that, you skinny bitch."

Right now I have several friends reading this blog who are sitting there, thinking to themselves, Oh my God, she's talking about ME. In an overdramatized, side-splittingly humorous fashion, but still, she's talking about ME.

Ha! That's where you're wrong. I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about EVERYBODY. I tricked you into thinking you were special, that this blog post is about you, when the fact is, I've hit all of you this week, sniper-style! I've been on a tear!

Oh, what an awful habit. Really. I hate it. This habit makes me want to rock back and forth and grind my teeth. This habit is a demon and I would so, so love to exorcise. Lord knows I've tried. I studied witchcraft. I ate boiled bat wings while chanting, "Spirit of bat, float and soar! Bring my best qualities to the fore! Leave my flaws on the batcave floor, and please let me quit being such a judgmental ... person!" Nothing worked.

This habit has caused me such guilt and unhappiness. My efforts to help people be happy didn't change anything. People were as unhappy as they'd been before. I couldn't help them, which made me sad, and they were annoyed with me for trying, which made me even sadder (and, okay, kind of defensive). Not to mention frustrated, because FOR GOD'S SAKE GET A GRIP AND JUST MOVE OUT OF THE HOUSE ALREADY BEFORE I BURN IT DOWN JUST TO SHUT YOU UP.

I'm beautiful and complex! Like a snowflake.

I know lots of people in awful marriages, awful jobs, awful friendships, awful LIVES, and I. just. want. to. shove. them. I want to make them move, snap them out of it, do for them what they cannot seem to do for themselves. Life is too short, and I panic on their behalf, because how can they not want more for themselves? How can they fail to care about themselves at all? How are they okay with just being so miserable all the time? Isn't it unfair that they just expect me to do nothing and watch them suffer? Isn't that asking too much of me as their friend? I care about them so much that it becomes a source of toxic impatience and frustration. It's bad for me, it's bad for them, it doesn't help anyone. I know this. I've tried to stop. Did I mention I've tried to stop? The boiled bat wings, remember. I ate them.

Let's review my About post and have a good laugh, shall we?

"I will tell you that I've gotten much, much better at realizing that it is unhealthy to be upset at people for being stupid, when they will always be stupid in some ways, and for that matter so will I. ... Know that I am working mostly on myself--what I need to do to be fitter, happier, more productive (bonus points to you if you get the Radiohead reference). There's a lot about me that I can work on, and I think I've finally realized that it is far better to do that instead of worrying about what everyone else is doing."

HA! HA! Oh God.

Exhibit B: "If you secretly enjoy the drama of feeling angry, you will never run out of things in this world to be angry about, but take it from me: that's not a good hobby. Think of all of the times you are upset. How often is it about something someone else is doing? I know people who fret constantly out loud about how their friend should stop doing drugs/sleeping around/having kids/spending money--as their OWN marriage/career/budget/value system falls apart in front of them. Try to work on yourself instead of being angry about what other people are or aren't doing. You probably suck in lots of ways too. I know I do."

Oh, that's precious. Look at how hard I was trying. LOOK HOW HARD.

That was me in November. And for a while, I was true to my word. People I knew complained, and I said either positive things ("Well, I'm sure you'll figure something out eventually--you're smart! These things just take time") or neutral things ("Oh, well, I can see how that would be upsetting") or just changed the subject ("Look! Cookies!"). And you know what? I felt HAPPIER. Because I wasn't getting ulcers over the fact that my hypothetical friend insisted on torturing herself by living in that damn hypothetical house. Instead I was enjoying my life, living and letting live, and it felt really, really good. I was realizing that we all have problems, that we all complain just because it feels good to complain, and most of us are really OK with our lives in general and aren't looking for solutions. I could admit that I am often the author of my own demise. I could look at how often I complain about deadline killing me and acknowledge that everyone knows that's my own fault, yet THEY let ME complain, how nice of them, and I should return the favor.

In fact I could understand that me writing a post about my bad habits is the EXACT SORT OF THING that keeps me from getting my work done. Yet I continue to write posts instead of doing my work. Because I am human. Just like everyone else.

In other words, I gave up that habit, and it felt wonderful.

Then, a few months later, I secretly decided once again, without really informing myself of the attitude change, that I am perfect, I know everything, and people should just listen to me. I'm incorrigible, apparently. (And sexy. But I don't see what that has to do with anything.)

So, look. It's time for a change, for me to try again, because I know letting go of this habit is the answer to my problem. And MY problem is the one I need an answer to--not everyone else's problems. I tried to give this habit up once, and I succeeded, if only for a little while, and that gives me hope that maybe, eventually, I will be rid of it forever. I don't know how I got in this damn house, but it's time to move out again and start from scratch. Well, not ENTIRELY from scratch. I'm taking the stuff on the walls, because it's from Target and who doesn't love Target.

A truce twenty-six years in the making

If the stinging slap she delivered to my mother upon my birth* is any indication, my sister really, really liked being an only child. Either that, or she really, really didn't like me in particular. From my position it really didn't matter which was true, as the resulting abject sibling hatred was the same in either scenario.

Our first meeting clearly did not go well, despite my mother's efforts to prepare my sister for that fateful day. My mother says she gave my sister a doll, and the idea was that caring for babies was something my sister and mother could do together, like, "Here, you take care of your plastic baby and I'll take care of this real baby, and we can work side by side and spend lots of time together making sure our babies have everything they need." I think this was supposed to convince my sister that we were all in this together and that it would be fun. Unfortunately my sister isn't really that stupid.

So instead I can imagine that whatever cute little baby doll my mother gave her became not a symbol of sisterly love, as my mother may have hoped, but a rudimentary introduction to voodoo. I was too little to remember, but if my sister's feelings for me at the time are any indication, she was holding that thing underwater and chanting in tongues while wishing fervently for my prompt demise so she could once again have all the parental love to herself. She was precocious that way.

It didn't help that my sister and I were (and still are) so very different. My sister liked to count things, add them up, witness the mechanics of reality in motion. She could read at three and was probably arranging her own sock drawer by three and a half. Had computerized spreadsheets been readily available back in 1981, she would have eagerly used one to sort her stuffed animals by size, color, and texture (Smooth gets a value of 0, Mildly Fluffy gets a value of 3, and Wispy Angora gets the maximum value of 10).

And if she were indeed into baby-doll voodoo, I have no doubt her instruments of doll torture were always sterilized and organized neatly on a surgical tray. If I know her at all, the shank she shoved into the left eye socket of my plastic effigy was carefully sharpened to a deadly point, with routine sharpening maintenance on alternate Tuesdays.

While my sister was counting things and reading and impressing the heck out of everyone in general, I was wading in my own pile of unwashed laundry and trying to build parachutes out of garbage bags, which I would then hold over my head as I leaped ceremoniously off the highest point of our house that I could climb to. Unfortunately my handmade parachutes never slowed my descent, so all I got was sore ankles while my sister racked up a perfect grade-point average. I also attempted to dig several holes to China using only a fruit spoon (which is all my mother would let me dig with) while my sister did productive things like earn an allowance and find ways to rebuild the ozone layer.

That's right. I was the quirky kid. The one people write novels about. The one with the uncrushable spirit and vivid imagination. In literary works, that type of kid is inspiring and cute. (I was Ramona, for God's sake. Who doesn't like Ramona?) In reality that type of personality can be really annoying. As my entire family could probably attest.

In fact, kid's books are packed full of lies. I don't remember anyone being all that into Beezus, but everyone seemed impressed with my sister. Her intellect and obedience were so out-of-this-world that my parents weren't quite sure what to do with me. When one child is busy carefully sweeping the porch and the other child is busy smashing her fingers into her closed eyelids because it makes funny colors,** that tends to give parents pause.

My parents looked from one child to the other and determined that I was "dumb as a box of rocks," as my mother still phrases it to this very day. They consoled themselves with the notion that one smart child was enough for any family. And it isn't as if they gave up hope for me. They made sure I got plenty of fresh air as I ran around outside, so that my spirit and body would be fed and encouraged, so that I could bask in the wholesomeness of nature and perhaps find my own unintellectual path to happiness ... or at least build up my muscles enough to turn a pretty penny as a unskilled laborer in the shoe factory.

But lo! I went to kindergarten and underwent many tests, and it turned out that I was smart too! In a fanciful, useless way, versus the productive and profitable accountant sort of way! No one was more surprised than my parents when it was discovered that I almost always knew the right answer when it was requested of me--I just never raised my hand, because hand-raising is boring and was clearly designed by The Man. (My sister, on the other hand, probably raised her hand every time she knew the answer, because that is what you are supposed to do. Suck-up.) I never offered the answer voluntarily, because why bother if no one is even going to pay you or anything.

But as soon as someone got a clue and gave me a magic pen that rewarded me with pretty music when I tapped it on the right answer in a book,*** it was discovered that I was practically a genius. A really, really lazy genius.

If anything, this discovery only heightened the tension between me and my sister. Suddenly everything was a competition. But we were so different that each of us frequently lost in humiliating defeats/won in landslide victories, depending on the competition category in question. I could draw and she could not. She could add and I could not. We didn't allow the obvious fact that we were apples and oranges slow us down any when it came to gleefully shoving our achievements in the other sister's face.

Our rough start combined with our personality differences translated into about sixteen years of household strife. There were other factors, too, especially later on; as the responsible one, she often tried to parent me, asking whether I had done my homework and so on. Our mother was sick, and I'm sure she was just trying to help, but the high-school version of me, who was as fiercely independent and bull-headed as I am today, resented it with teeth-gritting ingratitude. I didn't care about her life and was baffled as to why she would bother to care about mine. All I wanted was to be left alone. In fact I was self-absorbed and oblivious (two things I will probably always be, despite my best efforts--it comes with living inside one's own imagination and also having what is, in all likelihood, unmedicated ADD), and for every instance of inappropriate parenting my sister committed, I'm sure I committed an instance of utter failure to be there for my struggling family, to help with small chores and tasks or to realize that I was needed in some way. I couldn't stand my sister's prissy, holier-than-thou meddling; she couldn't stand my shrugging, selfish lack of contribution. Simply put, we were a mess.

I tortured her whenever possible and she returned the favor, and ... I hated her. Really hated her. I could tell you stories that would make my hate for her sound amusing, but if I'm going to be very honest with you, it wasn't amusing at all. It was sick and unhealthy. I used to wish fervently that she would run away, move away, be kidnapped, anything, just so I would never have to hear her voice again, just so she would never again get into my business or nag me about studying or whatever she felt like mothering me about that day. I used to tremble with how much I hated her. The day I found out she wasn't going away to college, but rather had chosen to stay home and attend school locally ... I think that was the most angry with anyone I have ever been, even to this day. I couldn't believe she would choose to continue living with me. I couldn't believe she had thrown away a golden opportunity to rescue both of us from what we did to each other.

After that, there was no question that I was going away to school. As I saw it, she hadn't left me with much of a choice. The day I left, I was a nervous wreck, but still somehow found time to say really offensive and selfish things, like how happy I was to finally be around a bunch of normal people rather than a family who seemed to spend most of their time in a hospital. Once I had made sure everyone's feelings were good and hurt, I headed off to school and thought only about myself and my own strife for about four years.

And then, really slowly ... I don't know. I grew up some and lost a bit of the vain selfishness, she grew up some and lost a bit of the goal-oriented neuroticism, my mother's health improved, and somehow the tension eased. Then my sister had a baby, and we all loved the baby, and that made things better too. And I saw things her way sometimes, or at least I tried to, and I think she extended me the same courtesy a little more often. I still don't understand how failing to get a 4.0 GPA every semester qualifies as some sort of tragedy, and she still doesn't understand how I can sleep at night with the knowledge that I have never, not even for the first week, balanced my checkbook, but I think we've agreed to disagree, at least on some things.

And over time, I've started to realize that she isn't the only difficult one in the family ... that we're all difficult in our own way. That's been one of the hardest things about growing up: facing my own enormous flaws and understanding how extensively they contributed to the family strife that I once blamed entirely on my sister. (She still sucked worse than me, of course. Naturally.)

HIGHLY DRAMATIZED EXAMPLE CONVERSATION ONE:
MY SISTER IS VERY DIFFICULT
Schnozz: I'm thinking of moving to New York!
Schnozz's sister: New York? Really?
S: Yup!
SS: But ... isn't it really expensive to live there?
S: Yeah, I guess ... but so many people do it that obviously there's a way. I'll work it out.
SS: I hear it's really violent too.
S: There's a lot of crime there, sure, but there are a lot of people there too, and I'll be careful. Try being happy for me for once! You can't base your decisions on the fear that someone will rape and kill you.
SS: Yes you can! Why, just the other day I decided I'd better not leave the house because I heard on the radio that some killer was on the loose a mere three hundred miles from here. Besides, three of the five weather forecasts I check every day called for rain.
S: Uh. Right. Anyway, New York! I'm excited.
SS: I don't see why you're excited about being raped and killed.
S: What?? Shut up. It's an adventure!
SS: Yeah, if you consider being garroted in a deserted subway station and then thrown on the electrified rails and left for dead an adventure.
S: Ohhhhh-kay. I'm leaving now, for New York, to have an exciting, fulfilling life. You just stay here, where it's safe.
SS: I will. I have no interest in moving to a dirty city full of homeless people just waiting to slice your throat open for a dollar, but that's just me. Enjoy New York. I'll miss you when you're dead.

HIGHLY DRAMATIZED EXAMPLE CONVERSATION TWO:
I AM VERY DIFFICULT
SS: We really need to talk about something.
S: Okay! Hey, look, I can make a face that makes me sort of look like a turtle.
SS: I'm being serious. Can't you be serious for once?
S: Fine, fine. You're serious, I'm serious, we're all very serious. We're serious lawyer types. We're so serious that we don't even laugh when someone farts really loud in church. Because it's not funny. Church is not funny. Nor is farting. Farting is merely digestive gases escaping from the body via the anus and we don't find that funny at all. That's how serious we are. Here, look, I'll make a serious face. Well, a serious turtle face, anyway.
SS: You're impossible.
S: All right, all right. I'm listening. What's up?
SS: Well, it's about Grandma. Her bills have been really high lately, but you know she's going to insist on giving us a really good Christmas anyway, even if it means she'll be homeless by New Year's. So I think we should sit down with her and explain to her that we love her whether she gets us presents or not--
S: Speaking of Christmas, my mashed potatoes are sort of in the shape of a Christmas tree. Aren't they? Look! It's a mashed-potato tree! With garlands of cheese and garlic! I wish real garlands were made of cheese and garlic.
SS: OH MY GOD. Are you even listening to me? Don't you even care about your own impoverished grandma?
S: What Grandma needs is a drink or two. Let's take her out tonight. Can you imagine that, Grandma wasted? That would be hilarious. She would be all drunk and dancing on the bar, like, "Don't you wish your Grandma was a hot like me ... don't you wish your Grandma was a freak like me ... Doncha?"
SS: Um, I'll just ... take care of this myself. Bye.
S (to self): Doncha? Haaaaah-aah? Doncha?
(time passes while Schnozz stares into space with a half-smile on her face)
S (again, to self): I suppose the question is whether, in a bar striptease, one would remove one's teeth as part of the act, if one could.

We all have our flaws, as you can see.

The point is, my sister just came to visit me in St. Louis for a few days. And despite my lack of planning and inability to get ready on time, much less be aware of my guests' obvious needs, and despite her highway-induced anxiety and continual preoccupation with whether her travel budget was being followed appropriately, we managed to get along and even have a pretty good time. I'd say that's quite an accomplishment.

I enjoyed your visit, sis. We may never share a sitcom-worthy cheesy sisterhood, but I'm glad we no longer actively try to kill each other. Sure, I still will never, ever have kids close in age just in case they turn out like us, and sure, I will actively beg other mothers to refrain from having kids close together as well ... but if I ever do move to New York, I still hope you'll visit before I'm inevitably murdered in an alley.

And ... make sure you take care of that Grandma thing, OK?****
---------
*Yes, really.
**A favorite hobby of mine for years. It kind of hurts after a while, but the longer you do it, the more interesting and rapid the color splotches get. I used to do it almost every night to entertain myself after bedtime. This probably wasn't good for me, but back then it seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to pass the time.
***I only missed one question in that entire book. And it was a BS question about which was "bigger," a 2 or 3. I examined them carefully and determined that while the 3 obviously signified a larger amount, the 2 was technically "bigger," as in, its ink took up more square footage on the page. So I answered "2" and the tester was appropriately startled at my sudden lapse in intelligence. More important, no pretty music came out of the pen. I'm still pissed.
****I will totally take care of the next thing to pay you back. Unless I'm like, super busy or don't really feel like it.

P.S. I'll see you in hell.

Dear Guy Who Stopped, Looked, Stared At Me Briefly, Then Just Kept Effing Walking,

Yes, you were probably wondering why I was lying there, surrounded in scattered possessions, at the bottom of the stairs, struggling to stay conscious. In fact everything turned really green for a minute there, which is kind of weird. I can imagine it looked a little odd to you, the fact that I seemed completely stunned and helpless, UNABLE TO GET UP or even say anything to you. You know, on account of the pain. Which was considerable. But I digress.

I know it was a little late--after midnight, in fact--but I'm wondering what it was about me that looked so particularly dangerous. What about me made you tell yourself, "That girl in the innocuous pink fleece hoodie and the pink Skechers*, the one panting in shock and struggling to get her eyes to come back into focus, is probably just playing me for a fool. Sure, I could help her ... but that's exactly what she WANTS me to do."

And all I could do was look at you wordlessly while you looked at me. My apologies for that. I wasn't thinking clearly. I admit that my first thought on seeing you come around the corner was "Oh, good, someone is coming." But really that's not your problem. I just thought I could use some help is all. Not yours in particular or anything. It's just that I was sort of waiting to see if anyone--by which I mean, not you specifically, so please, carry on with your evening--had heard me. Not that I really had a chance to scream, but still, the bags that had been in my hands went EVERYWHERE, so there was QUITE the clatter! It was almost amusing. I tried to laugh, but apparently you need your spinal cord for that. And my spine had compressed rather abruptly when my feet disappeared from under me and my tailbone hit that first stair--oops, ouchie!--so my central nervous system was rather distracted.

I do apologize for not saying hello. Nearly breaking my neck in a stairwell is no reason to forget my manners. It's just like my parents used to say: if all my friends broke their necks in stairwells and then forgot their manners, would I do it too? No, of course not. My apologies again.

I do need to point something out, though, just for future reference. I know we live in a city and all, and you never know who is out to get you, but this IS a pretty secure building, and I had to open a remote-controlled gate and a security door just to earn the privilege of falling all the way down that particular set of stairs. That's one middle-class stairwell, my friend. Really. No need for alarm.

If you're curious (and I'm sure you are, because you just seemed so INVESTED in the situation), let me reassure you that I did eventually manage to get back to my feet, after several minutes. I didn't even cry until I got all the way up to my floor, and even then it was just a few pitiful sniffles--kind of anticlimactic if you ask me. And the massive headache didn't hit until just a few minutes ago. And I'm sure that eventually, my elbow will stop madly aching. These tingling fingers? Don't sweat it. I can type just fine, as you can see! The sensation is actually rather novel.

Nor am I concerned about my bleeding spine, where the edges of the stairs scraped all the skin off through my clothing as I went sliding on by--the wound is clearly superficial, so don't trouble yourself. I'm fine! Really. Bruises are puffing up all over my body, but who hasn't had a bruise or two, or sixteen? I'm sure you were just in a hurry.

No hard feelings! Not like those stairs! Which were REALLY hard! Heh.

Sincerely,
Schnozz
--------
*The pink Skechers that are of little use when their soles are slick with rain. Word to the wise.

A little over a year ago ...

Mr. S's homecoming from Iraq. March 4, 2005.

I just realized today that Mr. S had been home a year. A year!* It's hard to believe.

So it seems as good a time as any to center a post around my relationship with Mr. S. A good, juicy post. A good, juicy, procrastinating post.

First: I have a wonderful love with Mr. S (which I will henceforth refer to as our marriage, though I am referring more to that nice sweet thing that exists at the core of it). It's a beautiful marriage, something so good and right, like an ee cummings poem or ... I don't know, uh, a bunch of high notes on a harp.

Second: Being average folks just like everyone else, Mr. S and I have done our damnedest to run that beautiful marriage right into the ground. We've thrown things at it, chipped at it, taken chunks out of it, and generally behaved the way most married people do: like ungrateful asses. You know the type. You may have even seen the type in the mirror. Go ahead, self! you say. Burden that perfect marriage a little more! Take advantage of its good nature! It can take it! Perhaps we should rack up a little credit-card debt, or purchase a house and car we can't really afford! Maybe have a baby or six! Or perhaps gain fifty pounds! Or develop some kind of raging drug addiction! Or suddenly buy a motorcycle and start wearing leather pants!

And then the day comes when all the harp strings snap, and you have no one to blame but yourself. Well, yourself, and that despicable hussy. But I digress.

Single people who don't get what I'm saying will know later. Married people who "don't get what I'm saying" should stop reading this blog, because I don't like dirty liars.

Because I am NOT a dirty liar, I present you with ...

THE MR. AND MS. SCHNOZZ TIMELINE OF PAIN

May 1999: Mr. S and I meet. We have the worst first date ever. All Mr. S talks about is his ex-girlfriend, whom he dated for five years and broke up with in an engagement ultimatum from her, and how he wants to marry her ... but he's just not ready. At nineteen, I am apparently too stupid to write him off entirely, so we become nonromantic jogging partners. He is very lucky he got me when I was dumb.

June 1999: Nonromantic jogging partners who make out a lot and kind of go on dates and stuff. Kind of. Whatever.

July 1999: We are officially girlfriend and boyfriend! For all of five minutes.

August 1999: I tire of Mr. S drinking constantly and not being over his ex (what took me so long? I clearly had no self-esteem) and break up with him. He is drinking heavily these days, enjoying all the party days his ex forbade him from, so he doesn't even notice I'm gone for about three weeks. Mr. S has some growing up to do.

Spring Break 2000: Mr. S and I go to Florida together. We also go on dates here and there, but I am cautious and so is he. Plus he is also still not over his ex. Believe it or not. What a lame-o. She wasn't even that nice or anything. She was pretty hot, though. OK, like REALLY hot. I'll give him that. But hotness isn't everything. As he should have realized SOONER.

Christmas 2000: Someone calls me Mr. S's girlfriend at Christmas. He corrects them, saying, "She's not my girlfriend." Lots of family members laugh simultaneously. The situation is getting a little ridiculous.

Spring Break 2001: Mr. S and I go to Florida AGAIN. We have also seen each other on Christmases and other occasions. We are still sort-of seeing each other, sort-of not, with no real commitment, and occasional dates with other people, but very slowly, like stalagmite-formation slowly, our relationship has deepened, almost without us being aware of it. Miraculously, Mr. S has managed to finally get over his ex, setting no speed records whatsoever. He has also managed to grow up quite a bit, and no longer drinks as if he has a death wish. His better qualities, mainly his hilariousness and his additional hilariousness, are surfacing nicely. He mentions that he would kind of maybe like to be my boyfriend. Seeing as we have been casually dating for almost two years, this seems like an OK idea to me, but I make him wait until May anyway, just to punish him.

May 15, 2001: We're officially girlfriend and boyfriend again! Woo! Our families do not seem very impressed. Probably because we have been going on vacations together for years now. And because I was always at the family Christmas. But it is exciting to us, anyway, that we are finally ready to commit again. We are instantly very serious, as we have gotten our years of dating pretty much out of the way already. We only date for a short time before ...

August 2001: Mr. S publicly proposes on top of the Hoover Dam. (His logic was that restaurants and other venues change frequently, but the dam, baby ... the dam is forever. Thus we can visit it whenever we like.) He impresses the crap out of me by proposing in verse. ORIGINAL verse. That he has typed up on pretty butterfly paper and FRAMED. That would be nothing coming from me, but Mr. S struggles with everyday English. Up until this point, I have had no idea that he can even rhyme words. Everything is awesome! We're going to have lots of money, and I don't even have to work, and we can get a house. Man, this whole "life" thing is EASY. Marrying a pilot who works for a major airline is fun!

September 2001: Holy effing crap. Those towers just FELL DOWN. Along with Mr. S's excellent, would-have-been-high-paying airline job. Every plan we had ... poof. Gone. Suddenly everything is a mess. Panic ensues. I spent a lot of time chanting to myself that some people DIED and I should just shut up and be GRATEFUL already. Then panicking. Then more chanting. Mr. S takes it much, much harder, leading to a very long depression ... and later, a military enlistment. But quit skipping ahead. We're not there yet.

October 2001-December 2001: Mr. S, honey, I still love you. I mean, I don't love you as much as I did when you were rich, and I'm a little put out about having to get a job and stuff, but whatever, I guess I could use my college degree or something. Should we still get married? All of our plans are ruined. But we should still get married. I love you!

Summer or Fall 2002, I Really Can't Remember: Mr. S and I move in together. I design and edit pages at the local newspaper; poor Mr. S works a series of horrible jobs, including a stint at Wal-Mart. He is miserable. Mr. S is hired by a smaller airline. It ain't the big bucks, but it's something. Mr. S is then furloughed by that same airline before he even finishes training. Mr. S's depression on the employment front deepens. Discussions on his joining the military escalate. I of course do not want him to join. He is still so angry about Sept. 11 that he feels compelled to join. I feel that blowing up some poor schmuck in Afghanistan is probably not the best way to get revenge on a bunch of terrorists who are already dead. Ultimately I agree that he can enlist after our wedding. This is hard for me; I am a huge snob who never realized I could become a military wife. Being a military wife is for other people. Or so I think at the time. Because I am a dumb snob.

November 2002: We get married in the wedding to beat all weddings. We choose to wed at our own reception, so plenty of food is served and big-band music is played before anyone even gets hitched. The ushers dress as members of the Mafia. Hilarity ensues, including but not limited to a very very drunk bridesmaid with two broken dress straps (and the consequent flashing), the rolling-down-the-street of a certain giant concrete planter (and the consequent threats to call the police), and a striptease to Nelly's "Hot in Herre" by a believe-it-or-not-he's-dead-sober Mr. S (and the consequent crowd of women stuffing money in his underwear, including MY OWN GRANDMOTHER). Mr. S makes $400, and I am both out-of-my-mind amused and stunned at the overwhelming horniness of all of my fifty-year-old aunts. Who knew?







November 2002-October 2003: We enjoy a year of wedded bliss ... sort of. While we're happy with one another, Mr. S is not at all happy with his continually bad employment situation, and I can't say I blame him. For a while, he is so desperate for flight hours that he flies skydivers for less money than it costs him to drive down to the jumping area ... and at night, he sleeps in a tent on the airport lawn, because he can't afford a hotel room. During this time, Mr. S joins the Marines. He also gains back his job at the smallish airline (not the huge airline he worked for pre 9-11). I am already so tired of 9-11 overshadowing our lives at this point, but the repercussions are far from over.

November 2003: Mr. S leaves for boot camp just a few days after our first anniversary. We only speak to each other twice over the next three months. The rest is communicated in letters. Mr. S's mom delivers a present to my house every week, along with a prewritten note from Mr. S. He bought them all before he left, one for every seven days that he is gone. When Mr. S calls at Christmas, I don't recognize his voice; it is too wrecked from all the yelling at boot camp. He sounds as awful as I feel. Boot camp is not a good time. I'm not sure even deployment was that miserable.

February 2004: Mr. S returns from boot camp. I had mailed him his cell phone so he could call me; we spend the three hours he spends delayed in the Chicago airport on the phone, just catching up. I pick him up at the airport, trembling with nerves, and it is wonderful to see him again. He is different--skinnier, harder--but still him, much to my relief. I shock the crap out of him with our remodeled kitchen (the project that kept me sane in his absence). We get a pizza and watch the Simpsons, and it's pretty much like old times. But it isn't long before ...

Easter 2004: Mr. S announces to his family that he's being deployed to Iraq already, completely ruining Easter brunch in a very bad judgment call on his part. In a side note, we also get our picture taken with the Easter Bunny. Which seems like a fun idea, until I actually sit on the Easter Bunny's hard knee and remember that there's a man behind those mesh eyes, and get really really creeped out.

June-ish? 2004: Mr. S leaves for deployment training in Wisconsin. I drive up to see him often. He drives down to see me often. But we've already started the separation process. Later, we count and realize we only saw each other on about fifty separate days in 2004.

August 2004-March 2005: Mr. S leaves for Iraq. We choose to say goodbye at home, in private, making me one of the only (if not THE only) wives not in attendance at the farewell. Once we've said everything that needed to be said, I literally shove him away and out the door, in a hurry to just get this over with. I cry for all of five minutes before entering the Magical Land of Coping Mechanism Numbness. I spend the deployment months in a weird, numb, don't-look-down haze. I struggle with paying bills on time and shoveling snow and all the things Mr. S used to do, and my heart enters my mouth anytime there is a knock on the door, which fortunately isn't often. I manage to stay decently busy, and I actually even have some fun with friends and family, and I try to keep my anger in check when people ask idiot questions like, "Do you worry that he'll get hurt?" Mostly I just put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, day after day, knowing that it won't last forever, no matter what the bad feeling in my stomach says. Mr. S and I talk a lot on the phone, and even use webcams on a few occasions.** I spend our second anniversary alone, and once again Mr. S is gone for the holidays (last year it was boot camp). By the end of the deployment, I am institutionalized--so used to the deployment that Mr. S's homecoming makes me half joyous and half afraid of the shock his presence will bring. No one would understand this fear if I say anything, so I keep my mouth shut and try to act 100% happy that I am going to suddenly be living with someone again.



I wonder whether Mr. S will come back different. I worry about whether he'll be the same person. But I am reassured by photographic evidence that he has not changed a bit.



March 2005: Mr. S returns. I shock the crap out of him with a completely remodeled basement that includes a 92" movie theater, forever trapping us in movie theater dependency (there is just no going back). Mr. S and I go through a few months of readjustment, but nothing major, nothing as scary as what I expected. We are mostly just happy to be alive and together.

Fall 2005: Never content to just be happy married people who aren't kicking the crap out of our sweet, high-notes-on-a-harp marriage, Mr. S and I decide to move to STL. We commence selling our house, which is absolute hell. We also commence fighting, because Mr. S is the detail-oriented anal one, and I'm the one who is actually home day to day, not out flying planes. So I do the houseselling tasks, badly, because I'm disorganized, and Mr. S criticizes me, badly, because he could have done it better, had he been available to do so in the first place. We manage to sell our house without getting divorced.

December 2005-January 2006: We move to STL. Our relationship does not improve right away; we are too busy remodeling, which puts Mr. S in a very foul mood indeed. I am overwhelmed with living in a new place, to the point that I cannot concentrate on my editing at all, and get very little work done; we fight about this as well. I spend half my time getting used to my new city and half my time wishing we had never taken the risk of moving--and wondering if we will ever get along happily here, the way we did in our old house.

February 2006: I still feel stressed sometimes and am capable of crying a lot over really stupid things, but the light at the end of the tunnel has appeared. One day I wake up and realize that Mr. S and I are almost back to normal. He makes me laugh again, and I make him laugh again, and there are no angry silences, and no one is slamming dishes or arguing over shelving units--well, at least not most of the time. He is cooking me food and I am cleaning the house for him and suddenly everyone is working together, and grinning at each other, and teaching one another to butt-dance like the girls in the video. (Well, that was me teaching HIM, and he is HORRIBLE at it. But it's really funny to watch.) The focus on romance returns with a vengeance, and there are candles and learn-to-dance-salsa DVDs and provolone cheese, which is pretty romantic in my opinion.

March 2006: Everything dies down almost completely, and that harp o' love can be heard clearly once again. Mr. S and I look at each other and for once in our idiot lives, appreciate each other for all the hard work we've put into this life together. Goofy smiles appear. Midsections are squeezed. I am so glad we are home again. Let there now be a giant gap in this timeline. I am tired of timeline-worthy events. If you look the timeline over, perhaps you can see why.


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*This means the masthead version of me blew out her first birthday candles on Friday. Ah, masthead Schnozz. You're a year older and you haven't changed a bit. Not one new wrinkle! Which is why I like you so much.
**I will never think of webcams as silly stupid accessories again. It was so wonderful to see his face. On the days we got to use webcams to talk, I would positively be floating on air the rest of the day.

I didn't mean to get this serious. Blame South Dakota.

Well, I'm certainly on my soapbox lately, aren't I? I know best! Ha! Not really. But I like to think so sometimes. And will continue to think so. Just to warn you.

Here's the thing. Today was supposed to be lighthearted. There was a lighthearted picture planned and everything. Honest. You were going to laugh out loud. "That Schnozz," you would say. "What a kidder! What a sexy, sexy kidder!"

But it was not meant to be. Instead I am bringing out the inner hippie. Instead I am talking like so many of us college-educated 25-year-olds do. It's going to be pretentious. It's going to be angry. But I can't bring myself to apologize for caring about politics, and I can't bring myself to apologize for getting serious. I don't know whether you noticed, but life is often serious. I suppose it can't be helped.

Those who don't like politics, or would prefer not to listen to a young idiot with precious little life experience complain about politics, go ahead and close your browser now. Go on. We'll wait.

OK. Here we go.

This makes me want to cry. And it makes me feel afraid. Abortion is a tough issue, and not one I really ever wanted to discuss here, but sometimes you just feel compelled. And currently I feel very compelled.

I don't agree with most abortions, but rather than blame the mother (though she is responsible for her decisions and I do hold her somewhat accountable), I wonder what societal pressures may have made her feel she had no other choice. (Our country's dearth of affordable childcare and medical care, not to mention the cruel cultural stigma applied to young unwed mothers, are a nice start.) But let's not talk about that. You all have views on that, and I'm probably not going to change them.

All I will say on that issue is that I wish we devoted half the energy we devote to preventing abortion to something like, oh, say, taking care of the underprivileged kids who weren't aborted. Everyone loves an unborn fetus, but forget the eight-year-old with a bad home situation and no resources.* Many are willing to badmouth abortion or march in protest against it, but very few of us are willing to take a troubled foster kid into our home. That unaborted eight-year-old isn't perceived as a child needing to be saved; that child is just a social problem who annoys everyone and just needs some Ritalin already. Most of us just spend our time worrying aloud about how the kid is going to grow up and rob us later, or perhaps taint our sweet, overprivileged middle-class kid with his bad influence. Love the fetus, hate the child. Shame on all of us for that.

Throw a stone at those considering abortion**, and I have no choice but to call you to task on your many social failings, some of which are outlined above. But I just ranted about the people on Flickr, and I have threatened to stab far too many people in the you-know-where already (last time, I promise), so the above paragraph will have to suffice.

But before you put your support behind a law like this, I suggest you go read more about Potter's Syndrome, in which a baby is born without kidneys and dies within hours. Some parents, in a decision that breaks my heart, choose to carry their babies to term, just so they can meet their baby and spend those few precious hours with them before the child dies. You can never say what you would choose in that situation until you're there, but my feeling is that I would not be strong enough to carry that child to term. Can you imagine? Months of person after person asking you, "Oh! When are you due? You must be so excited!" and every time, that question prompts a wave of pain and your struggle to decide whether to explain to them that this baby is certain to die at birth. Nine months of sickness, the general medical risks that come with pregnancy, depression, and so on ... nine months that are certain to end with a dead baby. A pregnancy with no hope. And, incidentally, a pregnancy that does not qualify for abortion under the South Dakota law, because the mother's health is not technically endangered (though an argument for her psychological health could be made ... but when is that NOT true when a pregnancy is unwanted?).

When you're done with that, I recommend you go to Julia's and read her testimony about her own abortion experience. In her case, her son Thomas faced many grave health problems, prompting the hardest decision she had ever had to make.

These women are out there. No, they aren't the majority. But I don't care about that. I care about protecting their rights. I care about not worsening their pain in an already horrendous situation. I can't bear the thought of taking those rights away from them. I can't bear the thought of standing in their shoes without the right to terminate. That concept alone makes me automatically against the type of legislation proposed in South Dakota.

Get informed. Look at all sides of the issue. And instead of saying, "Shame on her for doing this this and this," maybe we should be saying, "What can I do to make things better?" Most of us just train our own middle-class replacements and consider that to be enough of a contribution. Well, in my opinion, it isn't, at least not in terms of promoting social change, but I understand if that's all you can do. I struggle to find time to contribute now, and I don't even have a child or two to take care of.

What I don't understand is choosing to spend any spare time you DO have on the effort to restrict other's rights--all too often, from the comfort of a 2500-square-foot house in the suburbs, with your two beautiful, healthy children, who have benefited from excellent medical care and a good educational system--and who were lucky enough to be born with both their kidneys right where they needed to be. Most of us have no idea what it is like to try to raise a child on a single income without a college degree. Most of us have no idea what it is like to give birth to a dying baby. No idea. How nice to have the luxury of judgment anyway. How nice to exist in the target voting demographic. Lucky us.

Give up the moral patrolling. If you're just so moved by the situation, roll up your sleeves and HELP a young expectant mother, or a young child. Advocate. Spend your time on something else. Anything else. Please. And maybe, if you get time, you can oppose this legislation in some small way. But if not, at least don't stand behind it without knowing the issues.

Forgive this harsh look into our reality. Believe me, I don't like it either. It's more fun to wake up every morning and say in the mirror, "Hello, good person! Your hair looks nice!" than to say, "You aren't doing enough on Social Issues A, B, and C. There is no real excuse." I am talking to myself here as much as anyone. But it had to be said.

Tomorrow: All about butts! And circus clowns! Or some other such nonsense.
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*I realize that not every woman considering abortion is sixteen years old, with no money and no prospects. But a lot of them are. I don't like stereotypes, and I understand that many many aborters are actually married and with plenty of money (yes, really), but from what I've read, I'm not under the impression that that's the norm.
**Note that there is a very, very big difference between opposing abortion in your own personal philosophy and taking action to prevent others from making their own decisions on this issue. I don't care if you oppose it. This post is not about that.

To kid or not to kid

Now that Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's are finally past, I have time to reflect on an interesting phenomenon that occurs all year, but hits most heavily around the holidays.

People ask this question:

"So, when are you going to have kids?"

It amazes me that anyone would ask anyone this question, for a variety of reasons.

First of all, this is an intensely personal question. Think about what you're really asking. "So, any plans to move from recreational sex to reproductive coitus? Any plans for Mr. Schnozz's sperm to fraternize with your eggs? Have you considered the life-changing choice of producing offspring lately? Any plans to manufacture a brand-new human soon, then take care of it for a sizable chunk of your life? Because, you know ... I was just wondering."

Mind you, I don't want to be one of those easily offended people whom everyone has to tiptoe around. That is not my intent at all. If, during this holiday season, you did make the social mistake of asking me when I planned to have kids, know that I undoubtedly immediately forgave you, as it is a social mistake almost everyone makes. I am not mad at you, I promise. I probably rolled my eyes at you to Mr. Schnozz behind your back, but come on, you can handle that, can't you? (If you can't, maybe you should stop asking people overly personal questions. Just a thought.)

To help you understand the difference between a personal question and a casual question, I have made a short list of each, for reference purposes.

APPROPRIATE CASUAL QUESTIONS
1. "So, how did that green paint turn out? Were you happy with it? I know you were worried it wouldn't match the chairs."
2. "Have you found any great shopping in St. Louis?"
3. "I love this song! Do you like country music?"
4. "Is Mr. Schnozz enjoying his short commute these days?"
5. "Did you guys do anything fun for New Year's?"

PERSONAL QUESTIONS
1. "I love being married. Speaking of marriage, how often do you and your husband have sex?"
2. "You look great! Say, are those implants?"
3. "I love Jesus. You do too, right? RIGHT?"
4. "So, when are you two going to get married?"*
5. "Wow, this theater is nice! How much did it cost?"**

I'm hoping the difference is clearer for you now. Keep in mind that the casual questions are questions that people I meet on the street could ask. And the personal questions are questions I would only accept from the closest of friends. (And even then, I reserve the right to refuse to answer, but I wouldn't be offended that they asked, seeing as we're close friends and all.) So it's a spectrum with lots of gray areas. I'm not saying NO ONE can ever ask about my religious beliefs or how much I spent on something. But from most people, I consider those questions to be over the line.

So, back to the kids question. Another reason I find this question dumbfounding is that many couples suffer from infertility. How painful must it be for them when you push them to have children, when having children is something they desperately want for themselves but are struggling to achieve? Do not assume you know a couple's fertility situation. Just because someone doesn't have kids doesn't mean they don't want them. And just because they can't have kids, that doesn't mean they're going to call you and say, "Bad news. We're infertile." Many infertile couples choose to suffer in silence for the sake of their privacy. (After all, if they announce their infertility, this will undoubtedly lead to lots of rude questions about uteruses or whose fault it is or if they've tried having sex standing on their heads or whatever, so I don't blame infertile couples for keeping quiet about it.)

Or maybe they aren't having sex at all and haven't for years. Maybe they're both gay. What do you even know about the situation, when you think about it? It's a crazy world, man. Who knows what they're doing. Your fifty-year-old neighbors could be crossdressing bondage-lovers who frequent S&M clubs. So try not to assume.

There is an enormous level of social pressure to have children. There are also a lot of horrible parents out there. I do not consider these two facts to be unrelated. I'm sure many people have kids for the same reason they got married: because it is simply What People Do. Not because they like kids, or because they're mature enough to spend Saturday night cleaning up baby vomit, but because it was what was encouraged and expected of them. (Though it does annoy me that society functions in this way, I am not exonerating these parents of the responsibility of their own decisions. They should have had the strength to think for themselves.)

Well, it's just not gonna work for me that way, guys. Sorry. No babies are forthcoming at this time. I'm not saying I don't feel a tug on my instincts when I see a cute baby or a little baby dress or something. But I've learned something from watching friends and family suffer through parenthood: Nature does not give a crap about me. My instincts do not give a crap about me. Nature just wants me to reproduce. As far as Nature is concerned, once I've popped out a few kids, I can then put a bullet in my head for all Nature cares, because my job as a human being is done.

Nature doesn't say, "Gee, do you think you can handle this responsibility? Will you be a good parent? Are you at risk for postpartum depression?" No. Nature says, "Have you made more humans yet? No? Why not? Hurry it up! Look over there! Cute baby! Wow! You should make one. Don't ask me why, I don't know why, don't think too hard about it, stop questioning me, just do it do it do it do it ..."

Does this mean I will never be a parent? Not at all. There's a lot of joy in kids. I love my three-year-old nephew. He cracks me up to no end. He is one of my favorite people in the world. When I watch the way he thinks and plays, I do remember a lot about life that I'd forgotten. On the flip side is his adulthood. Eventually, he will need his independence and friends his own age and all that, and we will drift apart. Can I handle that? Will I be able to be happy for him, or will I selfishly demand his attention whether it makes him happy or not? Am I strong enough to grant my own children their rights to independent happiness? These are things I need to discover about myself before I take on the responsibility of a child.

I often wonder if all the parents of five-year-olds who glowingly recommend parenting will feel the same way when that five-year-old grows up, marries a total bitch, and moves across the country. How many adults have healthy, happy relationships with their parents? Talk to a young mother about her kids and watch her light up about what a sweet little boy she has. Talk to a woman in a nursing home about her kids and you might hear about how her worthless son never calls her anymore. Is the good worth the potential bad? Maybe the answer is different for everyone.

We live in a universe of tradeoffs. Everything is a tradeoff. If you think there's a way to have it all, you are, in my respectful opinion, woefully delusional. Is parenting worth the cost to my marriage? Is that cost worth the gain to my marriage? Am I willing to roll the dice when I'm so happy now, in my life and in my marriage? But will I always be this happy, or will a void develop eventually? How can I tell?

I think there's a lot of joy to be found in parenting. But I also think society is involved in one big PR campaign that hides how hard parenting really is. Children are not your immortality. They do not validate your existence. They are not your little special angels. They are (usually) not the future president or the next mathematical genius. They are just children, with all of the joys and misery that entails, and I feel very sorry for you if you expected them to be anything else.

There's a lot of joy in parenting, yes: maybe a greater joy than you can find in anything else, if only because the hardest work often yields the greatest feeling of reward. But I do feel that parenting, at least if you're good at it, promises a level of heartbreak you won't suffer anywhere else. Many will say it's worth it. And for them, maybe it is. Maybe it will be worth it for me as well. Or maybe no one likes to look back and admit that parenting was a disappointing experience for them. Who wants to say that out loud about something they spent twenty years on?

I have a lot of questions to answer. So does Mr. Schnozz. First we have to answer those questions as best we can. Then we have to find out whether we both agree on the decision that should result. (Bombshell: So far, we don't, though I won't tell you who is on which side. What do you think about THAT, people-who-keep-asking-when-we'll-have-kids?)

Here's what I need to parent, none of which can be given up:
1. I must be a good parent, able to put my child's needs before my own.
2. I must be able to allow my child to be whomever they turn out to be--gay, straight, Christian, Buddhist, tattooed, whatever--and respect whatever they choose. I must have the strength to accept the outcome, whatever it may be.
3. I must feel I am bettering the world in some way, not simply adding another person to it. (Though I have nothing against just adding another person, because, hey! That's how I came to exist! But it's not what I want for myself.)***

So you can keep asking if you like. I'm not sure it's appropriate, but I am most certainly used to it. Just realize that no matter how many times you ask, I'm going to wait until I'm ready.

And if I'm never ready, so be it.

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*OUCH. I wince anytime I hear someone say this to a couple. Back off, will you? Considering the divorce rate, I would expect you to applaud them for taking their time. But no: We must rush everyone forward, no matter what, because when people don't do what we did, it makes us very nervous, because we are deeply insecure about our own lives. I mean, I was just teasing when I asked that!
**This one comes from my parents. They taught me as a child never to ask how much someone made, what something cost, etc. They consider it very rude to talk about money. I used to think this was a little weird, but now that I'm older, I see their point. I don't enjoy feeling compelled to justify the purchase price of a theater system to an aunt or something when they goggle disapprovingly at the cost, and I do find that I resent the question for that reason. So, go parents--you were totally right on that one.
***Pay close attention to number 3. Number 3 does not really point to a biological child, does it? Consider yourself warned. If you're a racist ass, you may want to start watching your mouth around me. Just a suggestion.

Dear Alf, Thanks for Everything

Hey there, Alf.

It's me -- your head.

You're probably feeling a little nervous right now, as the end approaches. You're probably wondering what lies ahead for you in the great beyond. I wish I could tell you, but the truth is, I don't really know myself. All I can say is, best of luck to you, and I'm so sorry that it has to end this way.

The dentists and specialists refer to you as Number Eight. "We need to get an x-ray on Number Eight," they say. None of them know why you are dying from the inside out. It is a senseless tragedy with unknown roots -- was it the braces when I was fifteen? The smack of the handlebars when I was ten? No one knows, but the end result is the same.

I want you to know that you are so much more to me than a number, Alf. And I'm sorry I named you Alf, by the way. What happened was that I was struggling to put my grief into words for a slightly unsympathetic husband. I was trying to express your importance and why it was so sad to lose you after all of these years. "It was a great tooth! My favorite! It even had a name!" I cried. This was, of course, a lie, but there was no going back at that point, so I used the first name that popped into my head. You deserve better than that, Alf. You deserve better than to be named after a hairy cat-eating puppet from another planet. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I would have named you something nice, like Marian or Alexander.

But there's no going back now. There is only forward, inevitably forward, to 9:45 a.m. Wednesday at the specialist's office across from the old-style shopping mall. I am bringing my mp3 player. I intend to see you out in style. I'm told that sound travels best through solids. If that is the case, I hope it is some consolation to you that when your existence winks out, you will be resonating to the tune of none less than Lori McKenna's* "What's One More Time." It is my hope that the quiet desperation of her mourning voice will give you comfort as you pass out of this world and into the next.

Or, if it suits you better, perhaps the dental assistant will oblige us in a reading of William Cullen Bryant's "Thanatopsis." I really don't know whether that poem was actually intended for teeth, but it applies just the same, do you agree?

Anyway, the point I was getting at is, you are not Number Eight. You are Number One, an honor you share with your twin, my other front tooth. You are the teeth I favor above all others. You are one of the two I most wished to keep. You are one of the rightful leaders of the tooth posse, and you will not be forgotten.

Admittedly, my motivation was more about vanity than anything else. I wanted to keep you, not because I loved you, but because other people enjoyed your presence much more than they would have enjoyed a gaping hole. It seems shallow now that the end is near, but the truth is, I didn't want to resemble a crack whore if it could possibly be helped.

But my desire to keep you is more than vanity, Alf, you have to believe that. You are part of me. You have been there through some very special times. You gleamed at my wedding, when my new husband said something wildly inappropriate and I threw my head back in a laugh, and light bounced off of you and you beamed it back at the world, inviting everything to share in the happiness that was mine. You hid behind my trembling lips when tears of grief coursed down my face when I burst into senseless hormonal crying over my dessert that one time at Panera. The truth is, I was being kind of silly and dramatic, but you respectfully hid yourself until it was over, a show of unity on your part that I greatly appreciate.

I have been smiling tragically into the mirror ever since I found out the end was near. We will be bleaching and keeping the front of you and filling in the rest. I'm sure you're not very impressed by that. That's like hearing your head is going to be stuffed and mounted in someone's smoking room. By which I mean it's better than nothing, but still a total consolation prize.

I will miss you, Alf. You're a little gray now; you sort of make me look like a Russian gymnast. You're not quite what you used to be. But you're still very special to me.

Rest in peace.
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*Lori McKenna also wrote and sang the original version of "Fireflies," which ended up on Faith Hill's latest album as the (much crappier) title song. But Faith Hill is way more famous than Lori McKenna, even though Faith Hill didn't even write the song, much less sing it properly, and even though Lori McKenna writes wonderful songs and sings her little heart out, which just proves there is no justice in this world. Two words, Faithie: Kitchen Tapes. Lori made that album in her KITCHEN, and she STILL sounds better than you do, and despite this achievement Amazon doesn't even give the poor woman a picture of her CD cover. I repeat: no justice.