The road to purgatory

J and I had the distinct and scary experience of meeting the priest who will marry us this weekend. We're not going to be married by some priest who's known one of us since birth, but instead by a complete stranger who runs the show at Our Lady of Sorrows (Yes, that's correct. Quite an uplifting name for a church in which one gets married, right?). Since we were spending the weekend at the bay, we took a trip down the lovely country roads out there last Saturday morning at 9:30 a.m. First of all, upon hearing that time suggested by the priest, I got immediately nervous. 9:30 a.m. on our annual President's Day get together with college friends? But who's going to say no to a priest? He's given up nearly everything to serve the Lord and is letting us get married in his vessel of holiness even though we are, undoubtedly, sinners. 9:30 it would be. So we left our friends snug in bed after a night of beer drinking, took early showers and tried to look presentable, and then settled in for the car ride during which we went over our story.

There were important details to discuss: where each of us lived, where we went to church, how often we attended and whatnot. J, I soon found, was much more nervous than me about stretching the truth to this man of God. I, instead, viewed it as a burden we were not putting on him, and therefore, doing him a favor. Does this guy want to lecture us? Probably not, I thought. Let's give him the easy way out.

When it was all said and done, things went fine. We met our priest, his two adorable dogs, and finally saw the inside of Our Lady, which contrary to the name, is a cheerful, old, adorable church. We went back home with our copy of "A Life Together" complete with 70's-style pictures of couples holding hands and presumably waiting until wedding night to hit it. They're happy, we're happy. We rejoined the weekend get together, opened up some beers and told everyone about our morning. We said maybe we'd even so go Sunday mass the next day. When the time came, however, there were baseball games to play and bars to check out. But I'm pretty sure we will be forgiven.

I'd like to know more about that soda pop

As I've mentioned, due to the cable package we have here at the house, I watch a lot of Food TV. Not that I'm complaining - it's become my favorite, which is, yes, a little embarrassing. Not as embarrassing, however, as some of the "professions" or "hobbies" I've seen adults voluntarily admit to Food TV with no shame or concern for their reputations. It's quite the contrary - they revel in their boundless knowledge on subjects such as fruitcakes, or hard candy. I was just watching a show where the opinion of a "frozen novelty specialist" was provided. There he stood, blabbering on about the merits of sherbert. Really. How in the name of God does one become a "frozen novelty specialist" is what I'd like to know. I'm sure the guy has a day job, just like the "Victorian era cake expert," but I still wonder how one gets to be such a reknowned expert of sorts that a network finds them and then puts them on the air. I'd like to know. I'd also like to know how one gains the confidence to become such an expert while retaining a sense of cool. "1950's bubble gum you say? Sit down. Have I got some information for you, have I got some information," - totally assured that anyone wants to hear that crap. Food TV "experts", I admire you.

Now we are upper-twenties

In preparation for the annual President's Day get together my college friends partake in each year, I just dragged out my photo album from those four, unforgettable years and, once again, shuffled through the pages. When creating that photo album, really the only one I've ever taken the time to work on, I taped a piece of white paper, torn at the edges, on the cover. "I love college" is written in black marker - happy, careless handwriting. Surely it was a decoration from our door, room 410 Loretto Hall, freshman year. Erin and I had the thing plastered with everything from clip art drawings we'd made on my computer to a call-girl type ad from the yellow pages..."Ladies of Distinction." Ah, college.

But besides rooting through those memories - the Halloween party where we drank my homemade harvest punch down to the last drop and I wore my orange dress and a crown - the Head of the Charles on a perfect, sunny, brisk day - the days when Priya and my dorm in Danielson was accidentally hooked up with two phone lines instead of one, in the same room, and we could talk at the same time, to each other, if we wanted - my burnt letter of rejection from the Oxford program in the sink - I suppose I was interested in looking at the album because, lately, I've been thinking a lot about twenty-seven.

I'm not going to spew off thoughts about how I'm "old" because I'm not, or about how times have changed, which naturally, they have (would it be healthy if they hadn't?). I will say this, however: I've been wondering lately how I spent my youth - not that it's over, just that, well, I'll be getting married soon, moving someplace new someday and I've been asking myself questions about what I did, and do, with my time. Everything from, Did I have a different style years ago? to, Did I watch too much television? What hobbies have I kept up with? and Am I a good friend?

I don't think this sort of intense self-reflection is necessarily bad if practiced only once in while. And the thing is, tonight it made me feel good. It made me feel good about being twenty-seven. Certainly I've made some close friends since college, some of my best friends in fact. But there on those pages, in between little notations I'd written ("The Back Bay Ball," Junior year - London," "Priya's 21st," and of course, "Halloween Party") are these faces, some of whom I'll see in just a few days, who are crucial participants in these memories of such fun and interesting things. The questions I ask myself don't really matter as much while looking back and realizing that, oh yes, I've certainly had a good time. It's been an important, emotional, eventful, hysterical, and sometimes difficult time since leaving high school (a different period which I've already established in the annals of my mind as as full of amazingly poignant memories) and launching into the Adult Life.

Now I am twenty-seven and a picture of Rochelle staring at the camera through an empty paper towel roll or of Natalia, Brian and I laughing hysterically on the tiny bed at Silver Sands motel in Jamaica because Slavomir had just stuck his head in the ceiling fan while taking our picture is enough to remind me that these years have been worth telling stories about and still are.

Happy wine drinking!

It's one of the most miserable weather situations we see here in North Carolina, but there are chocolate displays at the grocery store, and the men are lining up to buy flowers. I mean, these men are running through the rain, shielding their heads from the deluge, and into the store to buy flowers. Romance.

J and I are going to make dinner together tonight, which is sure to be as amusing as it is full of Valentine's Day bliss. We're going to open one of the expensive bottles of wine that my father gave us, warning "save this for a special occasion," and we've been left to wonder what, exactly, in our lives, would warrant that term. We...finally cleaned those clothes that had been piling up for, literally, months off the closet floor! Special occasion?

Of course, I already indulged in a little pre-holiday celebrating when I was finally able to exit the household last night, and, glory be to Jesus Christ, eat pizza with - get this - cheese all on it and actually got excited about having a glass of wine. Trouble is, where we were the bottles were half price and suddenly those bottles were being ordered by our little foursome of girls at a rather alarming rate. Before I knew it I was rhapsodizing to our new friend Kelly (who was born on the same day near the same time in the same region of the United States of America as me) about my philsophy regarding life in your twenties. Because, you know, all that wine - that made our minds ever so clear and ready to talk about life, heavy, heavy life.

But it did the trick, getting out and just living it, because I think had I continued to nurse myself back to health, as I could have gotten really into (TV in bed? In February? oh yeah) and thus entered into a rather dull existence well, it could have stuck for a while. Instead, as I explained last night in really, exquisitely high brow language while waving that wine glass around the table, "when else are you going to do this?" When else, indeed? Probably tonight.

And another thing

Naturally, since being struck down by the devil, I haven't been much of a pet owner. Cecilia and I had been taking pretty regular walks in the creek lately and since I've been spending the latter part of this week feeling sorry for myself in bed, all she's gotten are a few chances to rush outside and do her business before I have to shout, "Dog! Get inside! I'm SICK!" and she slinks back up the stairs like the humble, submissive creature that she is. So when she's sitting by my bed all this afternoon, crying and making these half-howling noises that, I swear, are both excruiatingly adorable and unbearable at the same time, I'm thinking that the selfish animal wants a walk. "You're crying??" I'm thinking. "YOU? Let me tell you something, I should be crying. Me. But I'm stronger than that." Soon afterwards I head out to the kitchen to take some of the dozens of glasses and mugs that have been lining up on the bedside table to the sink and notice that the water bowl is entirely empty. Cecilia starts licking it's empty inside, and giving me little shy, loving looks as though she's saying, "Ho hum, if only there were something in here." I fill it up and all three animals go rushing over as though they've been playing beach volleyball for several hours and man, do they need some refreshment. They should be able to talk by now, dogs.

An exciting improvement

I am excited about eating soup for lunch today. On my half an hour drive to work this morning, leaning my head back as far back on the head rest as I could while still managing to see, in order to make the experience as much like sleeping as possible, I started to feel, oh I don't know, a little ethereal, as though I was floating above the situation. Do a couple of saltines and a piece of toast not cut it for two days worth of sustenance after your body has been completely and violently emptied? I'm guessing - not exactly.

A night of catharsis

At roughly 2 a.m. last night, the bathroom floor had become a place of solace. Lying on the cool, hard floor, stairing up at the ceiling, a heat vent by my side making the chills just bearable, and the loud fan above, this is where I began to realize that things would probably work out.

When I was living with my roommates in Kelly Court, a few years ago, I had an attack of food poisoning so intense that the three of us still bring it up. Brought on by what Justin figured out must of been a bad oyster (I had "classic Norwalk virus symptoms," he said) I started a tally on the dry erase board that hung from the fridge, racking up an astonishing 13 seperate runs to the bathroom to puke, before that got old, and I started to pray to the Lord to just take me.

Last night, I think, beat that Norwalk-induced night of misery.

Things started out fine - I met friends for just a couple beers, but on the way home my stomach began talking to me. "You'd better drive faster," it said. Upon arriving at home I yelled out a hello to J, who I'd already called, warning him of the potential disaster, and ran to the upstairs bathroom, of course wanting to be as far away from my fiancee as possible, in order to spare him hearing the wrenching noises caused by me puking up the entire contents of my stomach, including what seemed like some vital organs, my lungs, perhaps, my gall bladder.

I felt better afterwards - this was a deceptive tactic of the spiteful little bacteria or whatever that had entered my system (I still don't know how). Not even twenty minutes later began the cycle that encompassed most of my night until 4 in the morning. It involved lying curled up trying to rid myself of the sharp pains in my stomach and lower abdomen, and of course running to the bathroom every ten to 20 minutes so that my body could attempt to rid itself of everything that have ever entered it EVER until I couldn't believe that my 5'2 frame was capable of holding so many disposable contents.

In between my sessions lying on the bathroom floor, I'd come back to the bedroom, cringe at the happy people on television, and try, selfishly, to wake J up, just so I wouldn't have to be alone. Feeble attempts like "Hey, I'm not going to make it. I'm going to die," only served to ellict a slight stirring and trail of nonsense words from my boy, until I really got serious at one point and made it absolutely clear that I was going to DIE and he woke up, got the computer, and looked up food poisoning on the internet, including diffrent kinds of bacteria, their symptoms, and when to seek emergency medical attention. As it turned out, nothing was bleeding, I finally started keeping water down after drinking it at a tortuously slow rate, and I didn't have a fever, so J proclaimed I was not going to die, and that if I was, he would, of course, take me to the hospital.

It is amazing how much having him awake with me for that hour and a half or so made me feel so much better. It's morning now, and I still feel awful - my mouth has never been so dry, my stomach is still going through spasms of pain - but certainly, I will be alright. Furthermore, I realize one bout of food poisoning is nothing to complain about when things could go so much worse, but I'm telling you, lying there last night, on the cold, hardwood floor, all I could think was to offer up some sort of prayer to whatever spirit reigns above. "I'm sorry," I thought, "for whatever I have done. Please, I feel I have been punished enough."

During the night I watched a wide range of late night programming, including the beginnings of infomercials, sexy shows about dating, but really about one-night stands, and one particularly ridiculous game show, in which the contestants were so ebulliently cheerful, I couldn't help but smile a little. One of the questions on this movie-based episode was to fill in a quote from the tragically sad "Love Story."

"Love means never having to say you're ________," asked the host, and the contestants knew their stuff - "sorry!" they screamed. But I think there is more to it. Love means never having to worry that telling someone the specific, grusome, details of what just exited your body will be grounds for them leaving you. That's the stuff that matters.

The truth

I woke up tired this morning, after a night of worrying about J's parents and mine finally meeting at the end of this month and all the events surrounding that momentous occasion. We've decided to try and plan an engagement party - we, meaning my mother and I, who, in a particularly rowdy mood at the stationary store in Old Town, Alexandria, bought adorable party invitations on a whim, that MUST be used. Things are getting complicated, I thought. Suddenly "party" meant venue, addresses, money, and perfection and I just couldn't get it all together on my own. I shared these thoughts with J as he got ready for work. I don't want this to be stressful, I told him, I always said that. He took me in his arms, made me feel alright, and then said, "But Cara, it's only going to get worse."