011705I pulled the phone away from my ear and gently closed it. Glancing at the time on the front, I realized we�d been talking for almost two hours, not unusual. As a Keith Urban melody drifted from my computer speakers, I stared at my monitor, but I wasn�t reading the words on the screen. I couldn�t concentrate. I crossed my right leg over my left, resting my arm on it and holding my chin in the palm of my hand. My eyes traced the lines in the wood of my desk as my thoughts drifted from topic to topic. But I kept coming back to the same one. Usually, at this point in time, I become obsessed labels and definitions. What is he? What am I? What are we? Label it. Define it. Back it into a corner and demand an answer. But for the first time in my life, I�m not acting that way. Just go with it. I can honestly say I am 100 percent comfortable with the way things are. And while some time has passed since hearing the sound of his Xterra pull into my parent�s driveway on Dec. 23 as my palms began to sweat, I�m not worrying about it. For the first time, I�m not throwing my relationship-loving self on a guy. Things are perfect the way they are. Is he seeing other people? I don�t know. Am I seeing other people? No, and I don�t intend to either. But that doesn�t mean anything. Sure, I�d be hurt if he came to me tomorrow and told me he was going to pursue other options. However, I couldn�t be mad if that�s what it came to. We�re not a couple. I�m not sure if we ever will be. That�s okay. I�m trying to keep myself detached. Trust me, it�s not as bad as it sounds. The only thing that matters right now is I�m happy. I�m not afraid to say he makes me happy. My mood instantly brightens each time I look at my ringing phone and see his name on the caller ID. My lips curl into a smile whenever an e-mail from Integrity pops into my inbox. I enjoy the time we spend together. He makes me feel cared for and appreciated. I�m determined to not rush into things. In my six years of dating, I�ve never taken it slow. So guess what? I�m taking it slow! I�m willing to see where this goes, good or bad. He seems worth it. After all, he makes his bed every day, saves his movie ticket stubs and orders peking chicken when he gets Chinese. I take that back. He definitely seems worth it. 011605Is it your eyes?
- Diamond Rio 011205Taken from the Jan. 3, 2005, Ragan Report: Once again, The Washington Post�s Style Invitational asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are this year�s winners: Sarchasm (n.): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn�t get it. 011005I reached down to grab my purse, knowing I�d have a small window of time to whip out my card, beating him to the punch. �What are you doing?� Tim asked me. I smiled sweetly and opened my fake Louis Vitton wallet, holding up my TCF check card. �I�m paying and you can�t stop me,� I retorted. �Put that away,� he said sternly. Not afraid of a challenge, I crossed my arms and stared straight into his eyes. I hoped if I looked long enough, I�d be able to read into the mysteriousness of his ever-present chivalry. Coming up empty, I simply shrugged and maintained the vice grip on my card. �I�m not kidding,� he said. �You�re going to piss me off.� The smiled instantly faded from his face. I�d only known him for a couple of weeks, but his expression frightened me. I had yet to see this side of Tim. His look alone made me want to admit defeat, but being the inquisitive journalist I am, I persisted. �Why won�t you let me pay?� I asked. �You paid for your hot dog at the game,� he answered. I rolled my eyes and groaned. �That�s not the same,� I shot at him. �I make money, too. Let me pay for something, dammit!� My sentence was punctuated with our server approaching the table. Before I could react, Tim had his hand waiting and grabbed the bill. His smile meant only one thing: in my face. I wanted to punch him. �I�m paying next time,� I said as I threw my purse over my shoulder and grabbed my take-out bag from the table. �No, you�re not,� he answered. I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow as I walked past. �Thanks for buying dinner, Tim,� he said in a mock girl tone. �Oh f you,� I answered. I gritted my teeth and pushed the door with all my might, unleashing my frustrations on a TGI Friday�s hugging interstate 394. 010505Dedicated to my fantastic co-leader of 3 � years and counting� I narrowed my eyes and sized up the competition to my left. We both stood facing Kelly in a slightly crouched position; Jenny swayed from side to side while I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. We were ready to rumble. �You�re going down, Kentala,� she said in a menacing tone. I glanced to the side and snorted at my opponent. �Bring it, Delzer.� We turned to face Kelly and waited for the category. �Mir-a�klace?� she said slowly, looking up at us with a puzzled expression. Jenny shrugged and I bent down to help. Kelly turned the card towards me, her tiny hand covering the answers at the bottom. �Oh! It�s �miracles,�� I said. �I knew that,� she said bashfully and yanked the card from my hand. Resuming my position next to Jenny, we waited for Kelly to go on. �Okay, this is what you put in a car�you know, to help it run,� she said. My eyes darted to the floor as I pursed my lips, deep in thought. I began spouting off any words I could think of. �Gas,� I guessed. Kelly shook her head. �Gasoline?� Still wrong. �Fluid,� Jenny said. Bailey popped her head over Kelly�s shoulder and giggled at the answer. �You use it in cooking, too,� she contributed. �OIL!� shouted Asia, looking up from her drawing on the white board. Jenny and I both turned to chide her for ruining our game, but she already knew. Her free hand flew over her mouth and her face turned beet red. �Sorry!� she yelled in her trademark high-pitched tone. She turned back towards her artwork. �Asia, marker down,� I scolded. �Back away from the white board.� She gingerly placed the purple dry erase marker in the tray and held up her hands as if surrendering, turning towards me with a pout etched on her face. �Don�t give me that look,� I said. �You know the rules.� In my short absence, I found our game of biblical Catch Phrase disbanded and Jenny hand-in-hand with Bailey, dancing to a KS95 song blaring from the tiny CD player speakers. She spun Bailey to the right, then the left, causing the girl to shriek with excitement. A flash of blonde hair flew past me and grabbed onto the back of my shirt. �She�s got glitter on her hands!� screamed Joanna as Rachel came at her, her hands awash in blue, green and silver flecks. �Hey, glitter monster, go wash that off,� I said to a now-giggling Rachel. I opened the door for her and she scooted under my arm, running off into the church hallway. Sugar Ray�s �Fly� came on the radio and two girls shouted out, �I love this song!� Jenny and I burst out laughing. �Wasn�t this popular when we were their age?� she asked me. I rolled my eyes and grinned as nine fourth graders attempted to sing along, with no inclination to get any of the lyrics correct. I surveyed the chaos that engulfed our meeting room. Holiday cards lay strewn about the table, with piles of glitter creating a mountainous table topography. Three girls crammed onto a tiny piano bench belonging to a tiny piano in the back corner of the room, pounding out nothing more than noise. Broken Pringles from snack time littered the floor and someone�s coat had slipped of their chair, now home to two large footprints on the right sleeve. They�re loud, messy and outspoken, but they�re ours. We are 2040. 010305As he shut the door, I smiled and waved, fumbling to get my keys in the ignition and heat flowing into my vehicle as quickly as possible. I rubbed my hands together to keep warm, then turned to see him dodge ice patches on the driveway as he skidded back indoors. I laughed at the absurdity of his attire: a long-sleeved shirt, khaki shorts and black dress shoes. His decency to walk me out to my car scored major points, especially when dressed, in January, like it�s a warm summer night. I switched on my iPod and pushed buttons until my �Songs of the Moment� playlist hit my ears in the dated, light blue Oldsmobile. I threw my cell phone into the coin try beneath the CD player and stuck my half-consumed bottle of water between my legs. Shifting the car into drive, I turned around in the cul-de-sac and began the long drive home. His voice still rang in my ears: �Call me when you get to Blockbuster.� It was a sweet gesture to show he cared about my safety. Though the roads had long been cleared of any remaining ice and snow, a tired college co-ed hurtling along at 55 miles per hour in a 15-year-old automobile was reason to make anyone worry. I pulled up to the video rental locale�s main doors at 15 minutes past 1 a.m. After popping �Wicker Park� and �Dodgeball� into the drop box, I returned to my now-aptly-heated car and flipped open my phone to make the call. I thanked him for his concern and tried to convince him to hit the sack; it was well past his bedtime. He persisted, insisting I call once I get home. I agreed and promised I�d talk to him in 20 minutes, the standard Burnsville-to-downtown driving time for a quazi-lead-footed maniac like myself. �I was starting to get worried,� were the first words out of his mouth when I called from my backyard in Minneapolis. �It took you 35 minutes.� I pulled my phone from my ear and looked at the time in disbelief. �Wow, I must have been driving really slow or something!� I said, the shock evident in my voice. As I tiptoed my way to the back door, it hit me how genuinely thoughtful he was. Here was someone I had kept from much-needed sleep, finally dragging myself from his house well after my proposed leaving time of midnight. And despite having departed from his presence almost an hour ago, he was still awake - still awake and still talking to me over the phone. I sat down on my bed and made a joke about needing to return to my unlocked car in the backyard for fear of some Como-area vandals looting my clean laundry and bag of skiing gear. �If you�re ever in trouble, call me and I�ll be there in seven minutes,� he said sternly. I knew it was a gross exaggeration, but it was cute in an �I�m the guy, I�ll protect you� kind of way. I told him I�d program his number in my phone after 911. �After?� he jokingly questioned, punctuating the sentence with a light laugh. When I finally coerced him into hanging up, I immediately went to my computer and plopped down in the black leather chair. It was so very late for someone waking up at 6:15 a.m., but I was far from sleep. A friend on AIM saw I�d come back from being idle and messaged me. As I typed my reply, I turned my speakers up slightly as to not wake my slumbering roommate and opened iTunes to scan for the right song. My eyes landed on Diamond Rio and I paused to think of the lyrics. I smiled at their irony and double-clicked, softly singing along as I unpacked from my weekend with the family. I go to work and I look tired
What a beautiful mess,
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