Yeah Yeah Yeah: This Is a Modern Romance

Mr. Sweetypants not only threw me a fabulous birthday party, he commissioned the above painting (non-watermarked image TK) and gave me a karaoke machine (that adjusts for vocal pitch!) and a smattering of singalong cds.

The sweetiest, pantsiest thing he did, though, was surprise me at work with a dozen red roses. To stealthily do this, he e-mailed three of my work buddies to make sure at least one of them would be available to buzz him up to the 14th floor of our secure building. Seeing Steve with flowers was the last thing I was expecting as I sat out a slow moment reading Gawker. And I was dumbstruck.

I emailed him the following:

From: me
Sent: Monday, July 28, 2008 2:22 PM
To: Steve

Subject: Awwwwwwwwww!
You are the sweetest ever! All my colleagues agree. :)

I scheduled our eye appointments for Friday at 10 and 10:15.

xoxoxo

He replied:

From: Steve
Sent: Mon 7/28/2008 2:42 PM
To: Me
Subject: RE: Awwwwwwwwww!
*blushes, puts down slice of microwaveable pizza and replies to message*

Eye appointments. There's nothing says romance like ophthalmology.
____________________________________

How sweet is my Mr. Sweetypants? I dedicated this column in today's Raleigh News and Observer to him. (Sorry about the line breaks; the link went dead and I can't be bothered to retype the whole thing.)

Some born to travel

News & Observer, The (Raleigh, NC) - Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Author: Leigh Ann Frink, Correspondent

When I tell friends and co-workers where my husband's job is dispatching him off to
next, they always ask if I'm going with him. When I tell them I'm not, I usually cite the
weakness of the dollar making everything horribly expensive. As in too expensive for us
to hire a private nurse to keep me sedated and hydrated while applying fresh nicotine
patches every hour.

I'm not afraid of flying by any means. I'll take off to New York to eat, drink and shop in a
heartbeat. But New York is an hour and 15 minutes away. Otherwise, I am a terrible,
bratty traveler who loses oxygen on trips outside the Beltline.

Steve's trip to Australia last time was a nightmare. His itinerary called for a flight from
Raleigh to New York, New York to Hong Kong, Hong Kong to Perth. During Pacific
typhoon season.

The Hong Kong flight was diverted to Taiwan. The plane landed for refueling, but none
of the passengers could get off because none of them had Taiwanese visas. After a
couple of hours, they headed for Hong Kong and circled the airport before the pilots
decided to make a very daring landing.

After being on the same plane for 22 hours, Steve had long since missed his connection
and had to spend the night in Hong Kong. He got to Australia three days ahead of his
luggage. "Nipped off to the Australian version of Wal-Mart for jocks-n-socks," he wrote
me.

The crazy part is that he loves these adventures. I theorize it's because he's English and
the desire to explore and conquer is in his blood. You could probably go to deepest
Borneo or the remotest part of Antarctica and be greeted by a Brit offering you a cup of
tea.

When we were kids, the same age but 4,000 miles apart, as I was practicing my shuffle-
skate moves under our carport to the tunes of Donna Summer, Steve was lying on his
stomach in his bedroom, poring over atlases and maps, planning his imaginary
adventures. Now, (cough) years later, his job takes him all over the world to places most
people will never see.

When I let our family know Steve had made it safely to Perth, my mother replied, "Make
sure he sends Joshua a map. He loves maps!"

I relayed the message to Steve, and he nearly squealed with delight. He's always pulling
out the atlas and trying to teach me things. I can focus only briefly before my mind
wanders back to celebrity gossip. But now, Uncle Steve has a protege! A mind to mold
with the wonders of the world and share his passion for maps and geography!

Steve excitedly e-mailed Joshua about his travels, promising to bring maps back. Being
a good uncle, he wrote my sister and asked her what Joshua's little brother was
interested in so he could bring him presents, too. Jill e-mailed him back: "Banyan's really
into the Pogues."

The Pogues? The melancholy, hard-partying, post-punk, traditional English/Irish folk
band of the '80s? He's 7.

So now I have an image in my head of 9-year-old Joshua lying on his stomach in his
bedroom, poring over atlases and maps, planning his imaginary adventures. In the same
room, the already world-weary Banyan slumps in his chair, crooning:
"It was Christmas Eve babe, in the drunk tank..."

But it gives me hope. Joshua and Uncle Steve can jet off to Papua New Guinea 20
years from now. Banyan and I will sit in a pub, drinking stouts and pondering what to do
should we fall from grace.








(Leigh Ann Frink can be reached at frinkink@@gmail.com)

Edition: Final

Section: Life

Page: D1

Column: Ourlives

Record Number: k4r4t189

Copyright 2008 by The News & Observer Pub. Co.

Why I'm not as prolific as some of my fellow bloggers

I present Exhibit A:

Miss Eudora Thunderkiss, Goddess of Sweet Cosmic Bliss.


I rest my case.


Manager Mom presented a fabulous call for entries for fellow keyboard jockeys to show off their workspaces. Give her some love.

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Full disclosure, there are two girls and two boys in our house, and we have formed gender alliances. So while Eudora and I are working on our plan to rule the world, Dave and Mr. Sweetypants are doing what they do best.

So, how was your Monday?

You probably had to go to work today and weren't able to keep up with minute-by-minute news reports. Never fear! I'm here to tell you everything reported on CNN today.

I was, you see, in a waiting room at the Department of Homeland Security for several hours today to testify as the official sponsor of my English husband's green card application. It gave me flashbacks to sitting in a jury pool room several months ago, except this room was full of shrieking children. Never fails, any time I'm required to sit patiently, whether it's at the doctor's office or at the airport, screaming children are never further than three feet from me. It's not that I don't like children just because their wails give me a splitting headache; it's because they're allowed to whine, cry and display their overall displeasure while I have to sit quietly. Not fair. Fail.

Anyhoo, my seat in the waiting room was directly beneath the wall-mounted television blaring CNN at man-volume.

In the name of public service, I'll recap today's headlines for those of you stranded at the workplace:

* Bad things happened in other countries.

* John McCain gave a meh speech on jobs.

* A family of, well, bless their hearts (that's what we say in the South if the truth could sound ugly) got booted off a Southwest Airlines flight.

* Barack Obama's flight to Charlotte got diverted to Missouri, so he called the audience.

* After two years of pregnancy, Nicole Kidman had a baby girl.

But the main story they were promoting every 15 minutes was an i-Report feature on how to "recession-proof your life." Highlighted, groundbreaking nuggets included using CFL bulbs, spending less, driving less and trading in SUVs for hybrids or economy cars. For nearly three hours, they teased a story about "hypermilers" and how one man was getting 50 mpg out of a normal Accord. Every time the teaser came on, I thought they were really about to show it and perked up.

As the clock on the wall approached the four-hours-after-our-official-appointment time, I started to get anxious that our names would be called and I might not see the hypermiler piece and could potentially miss his secret to helping me preserve gas on my daily eight-mile-round-trip commute.

Hallelujah! We saw the piece! The nice man from Illinois let a CNN reporter ride along with him as he gave his car rolling pop-starts, coasted through stop signs in neutral and drafted along behind big rigs on the highway. After it aired, the talking heads in the newsroom explained how all these techniques were illegal. Sure, I was disappointed at wasting a couple of hours of my life for useless information, but my heart sank for the poor dude in Illinois who's about to get tailed every time he leaves his house.

Not long after that, Steve's name was called. We were led with no fanfare past a secured door to a nondescript office. At first, before we raised our right hands and took an oath, I was offended that the interviewer neither shook our hands nor introduced herself. Then it occurred to me! She was being bashful, as a quick IMDB search would have turned up her name as the inspiration for the Angela character on the American version of "The Office." Wow. I don't have any pull with Emmy committee members in LA, but if you do, gentle reader, please nominate that actress! She nailed the appearance, carriage and demeanor of her muse at the DHS in North Carolina!

I was nervous. I couldn't sleep well last night and, as a result of my insomnia, had a twitchy right eye. I can pull my bangs down on that side, but it wasn't a bother, as the interviewer never looked at either one of us as she went through her paperwork, asking the standard questions. I'd practiced my responses to the questions I figured would bring the most scrutiny, especially Steve's job description (I'm an English major and never took chemistry, dammit!) and why I hadn't changed my last name when we got married. I was fully prepared to respond that by the time we married, I'd established myself in the creative underclass as Leigh Ann Frink. My standard answer to that question is, "My daddy didn't cough up the requisite goat and two chickens, so I'm technically still his property, not Steve's."

She asked us how we'd met. "Match dot com," I replied truthfully. "How long were you friends before you decided to get married?," she asked. "Six months," we replied in unison, realizing at the same moment how sketchy that sounded. "What sort of things did you do when you were friends?" was the next question. "We saw a lot of movies," I replied. "We went to a lot of bars," Steve added. "Nooooo! That sounds bad!" I telepathed to Steve through my clenched teeth.

From there we went to financial questions, including whether I'd transferred joint ownership of the house to Steve (um, no, never got around to it) and if we had proof of joint checking accounts (whoops). Steve and I were in our mid-to-late 30s when we got married (first time for us both), and on top of that, we're from the two most stereotypically demure cultures (I'm Southern, he's English) in the Western Hemisphere, so we don't discuss money. We just handle the bills politely and separately, without ever asking too many questions. We do have a joint credit card account and we're both covered on the car insurance (I had to run outside to get proof and was unable to get back in for 15 panic-stricken minutes, which I spent freaking out over what she was asking Steve in my absence).

Finally, the interviewer asked for copies of my 2007 tax returns and W2s. "Excuse me?" "Your most recent, we only have 2004-2006." I clenched my teeth hard and looked at Steve, as I had asked him last night and again this morning if we had everything from the list mailed to him. "It said we only had to bring copies of tax forms from the last three calendar years," Steve pointed out. "Yes," stern blonde bureaucrat lady responded, "and you haven't submitted those." To be fair, we started this process two years ago and it was kind of a trick question, but we got it wrong and there was no point arguing or reasoning with a form-stamper.

She made a phone call for us to have a follow-up appointment to present the rest of our documents. We were told to appear at 8 a.m. on August 26, smack in the middle of our yearly vacation wherein we pool our resources with our seven best friends and flop around an MTV Cribs-without-the-bling-encrusted-or-dollar-shaped-furnishings house at the beach.

"I'm sorry, but is that date set in stone?," Steve politely asked. "Well, it is kind of important," she sneered, as if to say, "Well, if you don't want to be deported." We did determine that my work there was done, she believed my testimony, and only Steve's presence, along with my documentation, would be required at the next meeting.

As we started driving back to Raleigh, Steve was talking a hundred miles an hour. "If it hadn't been that paperwork, it would have been something else..." I was still irritated over the paperwork, imagining how I could have put all the interviewer's doubts of us being a real couple to rest by screaming at Steve, "I thought you read the (expletive redacted) letter!"

"My head hurts, honey," I said. "You just close your eyes," Steve assured me as we merged onto Wade Avenue, "We'll be home soon."

Then I heard a screeching of tires. I opened my eyes and saw Steve looking in the rearview mirror, then screaming, "Holy (expletive)!" I turned around in my passenger seat and saw a black BMW bounce across three lanes (it's a miracle nobody was in its path), roll over a couple of times, then come to rest upside-down off the sidewalk in front of the one undeveloped lot on Wade Avenue.

A burgundy SUV that had been behind us as well cut across traffic and came to a screeching halt beside the wrecked BMW. Steve tore Judy Jetta to a stop on the next side street, then leapt out as I was grabbing for my cell phone, saying that he had to see if anyone was hurt. As he dashed across four lanes of traffic, I punched in 9-1-1 and the phone rang over and over, much like it does in my nightmares. I disconnected the call and called again, just as I saw Steve dash back across traffic. The dispatcher picked up as Steve yelled to me, "It's a gang fight, get back in the car!"

As we raced out of there, I explained as best I could our location and what had happened, frantically asking Steve for details. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and told me to tell the dispatcher that the drivers of the two cars were about to fight.

I hung up with the dispatcher as we drove away. Steve's adrenaline rush was by then turning into post-adrenaline panic. "When I went up to the cars to see if anyone needed to be pulled out and asked if they were okay, the guy from the SUV said, 'Yeah, they're okay, but they just took my money and I'm about to (expletive) these kids up.'" "Oh, my God, honey, should I call the dispatcher back and tell them?" I screamed. Then I realized that Steve was truly freaked out. He said, "I wasn't thinking, I had to make sure nobody was dying and get you out of there."

As I reassured him over and over again that he had done the right thing and that I was so incredibly proud of him, I realized that just minutes before, I was ill as hell at him over a stupid form. Just a stupid form.

We took the Glenwood Avenue exit and got stuck in traffic for a minute. The local and national news vans were parked at the big Baptist church on our corner, where our illustrious former Senator Jesse Helms is lying in repose. Bless his heart.

Littles and limeys

My nephews rounded out their North Carolina tour with a trip to Raleigh to see Aunt Lee Lee and Uncle Steve. I've been kinda bummed that they're growing up without Southern accents, but it's awesome to hear them mimic Uncle Steve.

Speaking of Uncle Steve, we're going for our green card interview tomorrow. I called my mother-in-law and stepfather-in-law for reassurance this morning. I know Steve and I are a real married couple and have nothing to hide, but still, after all these years together, I really still glaze over when Steve talks about his job in science... They're going to ask me about that.

Send us good vibes at 1:30 EST tomorrow!

I'd like to think I pulled an Adrien Brody

And swept Alice up in a suave, passionate embrace when I took the stage before my acceptance speech when she so graciously bestowed this on me:

The rules of this award are whatever you want them to be. It would be nice if you linked back to the originator of the award and to give it for the reason he created it:

.

This award is "dedicated to many who nourish and enrich the spirit and creativity. They see dedication, creativity, camaraderie, joy and above all, ART - much art. I wish that this prize is entertaining to all bloggers who share this space and enrich it a little more each day." ~ Arte Y Pico

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Alas, I was completely dumbstruck. When my name was called, Mr. Sweetypants nudged me and said, "Get up there!"

So I staggered, apelike, to the stage on the heels that look cute with my dress but were killing me, as I have ridiculously flat feet and never learned to walk in heels. I got to the podium and realized my bra strap was falling down, and as I fidgeted to pull it up, my "just-in-case" stack of notecards fell on the floor. I was too embarrassed to bend down and pick them up, so I tried, though I am the world's worst public speaker, to ad lib.

"Wow. Hey, y'all..."

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I'm handing this award right back to Alice at elegantthimble. She's fierce, fearless and never fails to make me laugh out loud.

My girl at A Different Kind of Girl is my Midwestern Wonder Twin. Her sarcasm and grasp of pop culture leave me speechless.

And there's my Cara, my first blogger friend, who's been missing in action for a while. Come back, sweetie, your sly and gentle humor makes the world a better place.

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I left the stage, flabbergasted, flushed and flustered, with only my love of alliteration to keep me in check through the after-party at Denny's. Then I fell down.

Best night of my life.