with the mostest

I want this skirt.  It's new at Talbot's and is called the Hostess Skirt.  Got that right!  Isn't it lovely?  Can't you just see Grace Kelly wearing something like this in High Society or To Catch a Thief?  And by that I mean, can't you see me waltzing around our little Cypriot home dusting and ironing, then sitting at an easel painting for hours?

No?

Well I can, and it's a lovely, lovely daydream.

how the czechoslovakian got his name

I have been getting many a question about the Czechoslovakian's name. Before you read any further, I must warn you that his name has everything to do with three silly college-age girls and absolutely nothing to do with his ancestry.

He's Irish.

Before we started dating, my two girlfriends and I had every wish to sit around and gossip about him. But he was always around, so we couldn't very well use his name in front of him. There had to be some sort of codename, something ingenious he would never figure out. There were only two ideas tossed around. First, Chewbacca, as in the big, hairy Wookie from the Star Wars movies. I couldn't bring myself to calling him that. No good reason beyond I would laugh too hard every time I tried to use the name.

Then without a moment's hesitation, my two friends simultaneously exulted, "The Czechoslovakian!" And it just fit. For no good reason what so ever. And so he has been known as such ever since.

woah-man

The following is a brief example of what stress, moving, a crazy work schedule, and hormones will do to a girl. Maybe not any girl, but definitely this one.

This morning I woke up feeling less calm and resigned to the world than usual. It took me longer to get ready and I very nearly missed breakfast at McDonald's. (I'm moving, I don't have food...) With a few minutes to spare I pulled into the drive-thru and asked if I had missed the most important meal of the day.

"No," came the voice through the intercom, "But they ran out of breakfast early today."

Bummer, but I could handle that. There was still coke. And fries. So that's what I ordered. (Feel free to attack me for being the most unhealthy person on the planet, I deserve it.)

But the fries hadn't been salted and tasted repulsive. And then...

my coke splotched on me. Not spilled, just splotched. But still! Coke and I have this overwhelming bond! How could my coke splotch on me in my delicate emotional state? It just didn't feel right or normal or safe anymore with coke splotching on me.

Needing solace in my disheveled condition, I turned on the radio and hoped for a halfway decent song that would distract me. What came on?

ONLY MY HAPPY SONG! No, truly. It's my happy song. To the point that I play it as I leave the temple because it's the only thing that encapsulates how happy the temple makes me. What song is this? Well, let me show you...



Yes, that's Chris Brown. Yes, he beat up Rihanna. But it's my happy song! Like, makes me happy when coke and the Czechoslovakian can't kind of happy song!

Except for today. When instead of rocking out and smiling like I usually do, I started to weep. Because I truly felt like Heavenly Father took pity on me and played Forever on the radio just to make me feel better and I was overwhelmed. And wept. Lame.

Stupid hormones.

marian

Due to aforementioned reasons, the past couple of days have been rather hard on me. Thanks to an abundance of phone calls, a lovely (and ever so helpful) visit from my dad, The Tall Guy, I was able to go to work today. Because of this, I have a funny story to share.

Backstory. I have always been a geek, and I've loved every minute of it. I was shy and quiet and not very sure of myself. It has only been in the past year or so that I've a) really started liking myself, and b) started thinking well of myself. This includes regarding myself as attractive. (I'm not begging for compliments here, people, I'm just tellin' it how it is.)

That said, when I got to work there were these two teenage girls here. Honestly, if I were sixteen, we'd probably be friends. A little quirky, bookish, but fun. They kept asking me for help with the locations of various odd books and I felt solidified in the idea that me and these girls were cosmically connected.

Included in their posse was this boy. Shaggy blond hair, fitted tan corduroy jacket, eccentric shoes. If I were in high school, this would be my Pedestal Crush. You know, the guy that you think is too cool for you but you worship from afar? That was most definitely him. I got a fiendish delight in such thoughts.

Then he came up to me to introduce himself. He gave me his name, mentioned that he was the girls' math tutor, wanted to know if I was single, etc, etc. I wanted to burst out laughing. This was my iconic Pedestal Crush and here he was, shuffling from foot to foot trying to muster up the guts to talk to me. I was supposed to be the awkward one, not the cute one that makes the situation apparently unbearable for the approaching party. I let him down gently, knowing what it felt like to be in his shoes, never thinking I'd ever be approached in such a way.

And then? Then I smiled like the high schooler I felt like inside. The cool guy thinks I'm cute! I'm pretty? I'm pretty! I'm the pretty librarian! This officially takes care of about six dreams I've always had for myself, all in one night. I freaking love working at the library!

scarier than the undertaker, we are meeting the matchmaker

This has happened at least three times since I've moved to Columbus. About three different people.

Me: Something witty, intelligent, or totally off the wall. Probably about gnomes.
Person: Speaking of such and such, do you know Guy?
Me: Yes...
Person: What do you think of him?
Me: I don't think of him.
Person: Do you think he's cute?
Me: Why?
Person: I just think you two would be good together. I'm just sayin'..
Me: Okay. Thanks?

This is verbatim how it happens every time. Different guys being recommended. Different matchmakers. Same questions. Same awkward feelings on my part. And it always ends with "I'm just sayin'." What in the name of all that is good and holy does that mean? "I'm just sayin'." I'm not a mind reader. My estrogen card hasn't come in the mail. Please, please explain what that means! Am I supposed to go and pursue all of these guys now? Is it my responsibility to do so because you not-so-subtley name dropped them to me? Am I so pathetic when it comes to dating that I now need all of Columbus looking out for me? I don't get it. I'm just sayin'...

because I love you

Over the past month, the topic of mammography has been frequenting the headlines and political agendas of the media at large. This is coming at the same time as Health Reform is coming under heated debate. I am not here to give my opinion on the bill up for vote, rather, I would like to share a few thoughts on breast cancer prevention.

This has never been an easy topic for me, but grew increasingly more burdensome nearly eight years ago when my own mother was diagnosed. Since then I have been overly sensitive to the topic. A recent study resulted in new guidelines for mammography in the United States. The base age was pushed back to the age of 50 from 40 where annual screenings would be replaced with biannual ones.

My initial reaction to this news was nothing short of outrage. The radio report I heard explained that the reasoning behind this was that annual screenings were too much of an inconvenience for the patient. Discomfort, undue worry, things like that. Knowing my mother's experience, several explicatives came to mind about these cop-out reasons. Women, in my mind, need to be screened. Period. Screw the discomfort and "undue" worry. My mum would not be here without them.

Thanks to my good friend The Nurse, I have been given additional information, including the report in full, which I am in the process of reading. Because of this research, I now know the following. These guidelines are for the average case, meaning that the rate of screening for most women will really not change. Women with higher risks, such as myself, will still have access to annual screenings beginning at an earlier age. Mammograms are not being eradicated, but in a sense, being made available to more women by changing the standards.

Here's what I see to be the problem. Not enough women get checked. Lack of insurance, fear of the boob-vice, far reaching communities; any number of these things prevent a vast percentage of American women from getting screenings.

Here is my plea. Sisters, girls, cousins, aunts,daughters, grandmothers, mothers, friends, women-get checked. Find out what your risk level is. Speak to your physician about the matter. Know what options are available to you. There are too many options out there to not take advantage of them. While the nature of health care is changing, access to mammograms is still available. There are ways to beat this vicious disease, as these reports are proving. Use them. And if you can't get to a doctor for some reason, use the old-fashioned method and feel your boobies.

With all my heart,

the boob-loving engquist

why I always have a tissue on hand

In the 1993 film Sleepless in Seattle, there's a scene where Rita Wilson sits at a table with Victor Garber and Tom Hanks. She recounts the closing moments of the film An Affair to Remember. This part has always been particularly amusing to me as she begins weeping as she explains how the story pans out. Her voice gets squeaky and incomprehensible. This sort of reaction is something I never fully understood, so I found it humorous. Until recently that is.

I'm turning into one of those women who cries over Hallmark commercials. No joke. Lately, all it takes is a bit of news on the radio to set me off and I start crying. Sometimes it's just a delicate drop. But then, then there are my Rita Wilson moments when I full-on get emotionally involved in something for no good reason at all. Tears. Big. Fatty. Gushing-down-my-cheeks sort of tears.

What am I reacting to? The other day I began weeping over the new standards for mammograms as issued by an independent agency last week. Pushing the base age for mammograms to fifty was apparently a travesty in my life, because I all out wept while listening to the NPR report. Then there are songs like this, which make me weep no matter how many times I listen to them.

Sundays tend to be brutal for me. If I am somehow able to catch Music and the Spoken Word, the chance that I'll make it through the day without tears disintegrates into a pile of nothingness. Today I made it through my dad, the Tall Guy, being asked to speak in church on the spur of the moment. He offered his humble testimony of his knowledge of the life of Jesus Christ. I only made it through that without tears because, well, I didn't look at him through the whole thing. I just couldn't do it. Follow this up with several amazing lessons, stimulating conversation, a couple cheesy Hallmark Christmas movies, and this, and I've been crying off and on most of the day. What the heck?