the pieces of my life

I’ll be honest, I’m not really feeling the blog tonight. However, I can’t take another minute of watching Adam in his angsty rage over the Red Sox being behind the Yankees anymore, so here I am to report on the last weekend. It’s the oddest thing: a cross-country move, a year of HBS, an internship job hunt, the impending birth of our son; nothing, I mean nothing compares to the stress and rage he feels over the Red Sox losing to the Yankees. It’s a pitiful thing.

First a random question: How come when a hotel upgrades you, they put you in a room with two beds (two queen-sized beds in our case). I mean, if a couple is checking into a room, does two beds really qualify as better? Wouldn’t a nice couch and a mint on your pillow be a much better upgrade?

Anyway, last Friday was the Newport Ball at the Ocean Cliff Mansion in Newport, Rhode Island. Getting there was a pain. Actually, getting out of Boston was a pain; the rest of the ride went quickly. We checked in our hotel and had just enough time to throw on our formal clothes (including one panicked moment by me when I realized that I hadn’t tried on the bra that went with the dress since last formal and wonder of wonders, my rib cage has expanded) and hit the shuttle bus to the mansion. We missed the pre-party because HBS doesn’t seem to consider that most dates/partners do work for a living and even getting to Rhode Island by 8 p.m. is a challenge (we made the late shuttle, which left at about 8:30). The location was beautiful. Unfortunately, the weather was downright cold, so the two huge tents set up outside were absolutely empty and everyone was crammed inside the house. That meant that I ate my dinner standing by a dresser right outside the ladies’ room. But the food was good and I really stuck to my crowd and it made the evening a pleasant one. The only bad part was that I had told Adam he needed to drink my weight in alcohol to justify the price of the tickets, but he barely drank a twentieth of his own weight (which at this point is a good fifty pounds less than me). Adam did get to witness firsthand that amazing phenomenon that he had thought was an urban legend: the roaming hand. Apparently by simply walking around with a pregnant belly, I am inviting others to just lay their hands on my belly.

We went back to our lovely hotel room (with two queen-sized beds and an ocean view) on the first bus back because we were both quite beat. I think the Newport Ball was much mellower than Holidazzle because everyone was burnt out. The last final was on Thursday, so there was definitely the hungover crowd, but there was also the exhausted “we’re done and now we have to start working” look on people’s faces. So we weren’t alone on the bus ride back. The next morning Adam and I had breakfast together in Newport, which is a lovely town. Walked around for a bit. Just long enough really to make sure we got a parking ticket. We then met up with his section for a brunch on the beach at noon. Adam’s section–with the exception of two or three people–is made of folks I really like. It was a relaxing afternoon before we headed back to Arlington, so I could prepare for… formal number two!

This past weekend was reunion and commencement weekend for BU, and I had to cover a gala for a newsletter article. The gala was nice enough that I wished HBS events were more like it. But they never will be because the main draw was that there were about 150 people there and the Newport Ball had about 900 people. Makes for a more intimate evening. Everyone I met at the event was quite nice and I spent some time talking to a professor I had interviewed for a previous article. But I was just beat. And the wine looked so good. I was able to sneak out of there just after 11, which is good because the next day… Jenn and John came into town!

John was best man in a wedding not too far from here, so they arrived about one. Seeing them was a blast, but the trip was too short and I was a little tired. We took the requisite tour of the business school and wandered Harvard Square (after I insisted on stopping in Toscanini’s for ice cream) and then headed to the North End for a yummy dinner. There was so much more to talk about, but by 10 p.m., I was wiped out an in bed.

And so today? Well, today, I’m beat. And as I said, I don’t feel like blogging. But the louder Adam’s moans become the less I want to go back into the living room, so I guess I’ll find some other way to putz around in here. I hope your baseball team is doing better than his.

For about five minutes at the beginning of the school year, I regretted not following my former manager’s advice and applying to business school myself. After all, how tough was it? Adam was busy cutting out cards and drawing things. I could do Crimson Greetings. I could excel at Crimson Greetings. But the minute the school year started, that thought fled from my mind. Believe it or not, I actually read a couple of the cases that I thought were the more interesting ones. But over all, I just can’t get passionate like Adam can about making those numbers flow. As I read the cases, all I thought was, “These could be crafted much better. Arg, how can they have missed that comma there?” The feeling was validated when Adam was picking out his classes for next year. This boy agonized. He debated. He spent five—yes, five—hours merely making up a draft. So many wonderful courses to choose from, and he could only take a max of six (although he wisely decided that five was probably more advisable in the fall, given that we’ll have our hands rather full). And he can only rank his classes and then hope he gets his all of his first choice classes (it’s a complex system that sounds almost like a football draft). So I took a look at the list, wondering at the world of excitement that HBS has to offer. Do you know how many classes I thought looked interesting to take? Exactly one. That’s it. And can you guess what that class was? “Power and Influence.” A class, I might add, that seems to hold little interest to Adam. He’s much more interested in “Negotiating Complex Deals.” Which pretty much sums us both up right there. Although, I will confess, that neither one of us had any interest in “The Moral Leader,” which is probably why we get along so well.

Every now and then I’ll check my referral logs and see a new Web site is linking to me. If you have a link to my site, drop me an e-mail (I don’t check my logs very often) and I’ll add you to my links!

At 6:43 p.m. last night, Adam finished his final final of his first year at HBS. By 7:03, he was poking around the living room, where I was happily reading my first trashy book of the summer (what is it about summer that makes me crave mindless reads? Thank goodness that the library is well stocked with them. I wasn’t about to pay $22 for The Devil Wears Prada, which is, I’ll admit, kind of fun). He sat down, stood up, walked upstairs, came back down, went into the kitchen, came back out, sat down, got back up, before he finally announced, “I’m bored.” This is Day .025 of his first day of no assignments. Sigh. It could be a long summer.

I’ve been MIA. Sorry! Chalk it up to still getting over this bad cold, and really, not much happening. I’m pretty much sleepwalking through the days as I hack my way through the night with this cough. Wendy (whose son is now five weeks old) passed along her man-sized pillow (well, if your man happens to be unusually short—it’s probably about four feet long) to help support my belly and back while I sleep (we also got some adorable little outfits that her son has already outgrown). I think it’s been somewhat of a help, although I think Adam is beginning to resent this thing that has quite literally come between us. Anyway, priority one is to get better for this jam-packed weekend. Friday night is the Newport Ball, Saturday a work function (which is also black tie), and Sunday, out-of-town guests. I’d pay good money at this point for a decent night’s sleep to just get fully healthy again.

And for once, I’m not talking about me! I still have a terrible cold but figured I really needed to make the effort to go to lunch with Adam’s family. After all, it is mother’s day (and I got a lovely mother-to-be present from Adam and Brown Brown. It was quite wonderful). We were meeting them at a restaurant, only Adam couldn’t remember how to get to this restaurant, and his father conveniently turned his cell phone off. We’re driving around and around and around. We called information, but they couldn’t find what we were looking for: an Italian restaurant with the name Jiavelli or Giavelli or something like that in Chelsea. We’re driving and driving. Adam stops in a Dunkin Donuts to ask them (and get me a glazed donut, because by now I’m starving), but they’ve never heard of it. Finally, I end up calling my father in Miami Beach and have him get on the Web and find the place. He’s looking up all the “G” and “J” places in Chelsea. No luck. Adam’s certain it’s in Chelsea, but we have Peter check Revere. Nope. Everett? Not there. We are now 40 minutes late to a lunch that we had actually requested be held earlier (so Adam could study for this week’s finals and because I had dinner plans that were on the earlyish side), and we’re driving and driving and driving and Adam is getting crankier and crankier. I’ve had my sugar fix and I’m on Sudafed (one of the few pregnancy-approved drugs), so I’m actually in a fine mood. After about fifteen minutes, Peter hits on it: Jevalli’s in East Boston. By the time we show up, Adam’s fuming that his family didn’t call to check on us so we could get directions. Apparently, his father doesn’t have his cell phone number plugged into his phone. Adam stewed all through lunch, which is always comedy with his eighty-plus-year-old grandmother and his around-ninety-year-old uncle. Any little comment is sure to strike disbelief and much conversation. For instance, when discussing whether or not to take leftovers home (neither Adam nor I are fans of the food there), I said, “No point in us taking it home. Adam doesn’t eat leftovers.” His grandmother exclaims, “What?” so his father shouts to her, “Adam doesn’t eat leftovers!” “What? Did you say Adam doesn’t eat leftovers!” she says loudly in horror, and his father responds, “Yes, Adam doesn’t eat leftovers.” “Why doesn’t Adam eat leftovers?” she asks. The still-cranky Adam just shrugs and says, “I just don’t,” and his mother adds, “Adam’s never liked leftovers.” So his grandmother turns to the cousins at the other end of the table and says, “Adam doesn’t eat leftovers!” Of course, making conversation, they say, “He doesn’t?” and his grandmother replies, “No! He says he doesn’t like them! Adam just doesn’t eat leftovers!” What makes this even more amusing for me, is that we had almost the exact same conversation at Passover and at a party his parents’ held last summer. When I mention it at the next lunch, I’m guessing I’m in for a repeat. I find it all hilarious, and have problems keeping from giggling, but it just annoys Adam. Which only ensures that the next time we’re all together I’ll be sure to mention it.

Another entry that my parents probably shouldn’t read: The deed has been done. My first big sacrifice for the baby, and the first thing I have to lord over him when I want to pull the guilt out. The belly ring is out. (My, how things have changed since my parents had me. All my mother could use for guilt was the delay in her career. Nothing as good as “I gave up my beautiful belly ring for you!”). Tonight I met a group of friends in Harvard Square for dinner at Cambridge 1 and dessert at Finale’s (where dessert was twice as much as dinner and well worth it! Mmm, molten chocolate cake!). Before going, Adam and I evaluated the belly ring situation and decided, as my belly button is starting to become shallow and skin becoming more taut, it was time for the ring to come out. I had a whole belly ring removal ceremony planned (which involved a teddy bear to put the belly ring into to save for when Brown Brown is sixteen, so he can pierce his belly button with his mom’s belly ring. Oh, no “aws,” please. I know it’s a sweet and tender sentiment, but I’m not good with that gooey stuff), but as I was looking at the ring, I realized I hadn’t a clue as to how to remove it. I understand in theory, but when I tugged at it, it only pulled, and I didn’t want an ugly mess on my hands. A quick Web search by Adam showed that there was a body piercing place in Harvard Square, and as I rarely get to Harvard Square but would be headed there for dinner (it’s great place to hang out, but a bitch to park at), I decided to make a pit stop there on the way to meet my friends. The event was fairly anticlimactic. I walked in and a young guy in his early twenties, all in black and heavily pierced was there. I said to him, “When I was 25, I got a belly ring and I love it. But now I’m 35 and I’m pregnant and it needs to come out, but I haven’t any idea how to get it out.” He brought me right in. I told him I was pretty bummed it was coming out, half hoping he’d say, “Oh, you really don’t need to. Loads of women keep them in,” but he was instead quite validating and said very nicely, “Oh no, you have to take it out. The immune system is busy with the baby and doesn’t want to bother with this ring.” But he assured me that there’s a good chance that the pierce will remain open as I’ve had it for so long and if it doesn’t, it’s a simple matter to repierce. The piercing took a while and involved a lot of hand squeezing with a friend and tons of instructions. This took about three seconds. But he was extremely professional and he didn’t charge me for it, so I’d like for everyone in the Boston area who is planning on getting a pierce to please go to Chameleon. Adam asked me if it made me feel old, like a trying-to-be-trendy mom, but actually, it was kind of cool, like here I am embarking on a new part of my life. It made me feel hip in a different kind of way. Anyway, now I’m torn between saving the belly ring for Brown Brown and just putting it back in come the end of September (I know Adam prefers the latter. For one, he likes the belly ring on me, and for two, he’s not so crazy about the idea of our son getting pierced, but we’ll deal with that in sixteen years and four months). But we’ll always have the tattoo. We didn’t have it. We lost it until I took out the belly ring. We got it back tonight. (That’s verbatim from the movie, isn’t it?)

Why doesn’t Blogger’s spell-check recognize “blogger” as a word?

I received a phone call this afternoon from Adam. “I just want you to know,” he said, “that Eugenia brought her baby to class, and it just made me realize how excited I am to be a parent, and I can’t wait to have this baby with you,” to which, of course, the only reply I could think of was, “How drunk are you?” “Not that much,” he said. That’s what I thought. Last day of classes for HBSers is not all that different from last day of classes for high school seniors.

Apparently they spent their day drinking and reflecting on the past year. I have to say, the HBS reputation may be for arrogance and greed, but really, I haven’t seen so much of that. Self-congratulatory is more like it. Every event is a chance to celebrate the joy that is them, with songs and speeches and loud cheers. I’ll admit, I’ve grown fond of Adam’s section, although he asked me tonight if I felt like I was part of the section and the answer is a definite “no.” It’s been tough going getting to know them. I remember back to the beginning of the year when 99 percent of them would give me no more than a cursory “hello” and a once-over when they realized I wasn’t a student. I know that some of you out there reading this are just preparing to enter b-school and my warning to you guys would be be nice to the partners. You never know when one of them will be a blogger who will write nasty things about you.

Would I have done it again, had I the choice? Probably, but I would have come more prepared. Has it been fun? Sure. I’ve gotten more material from these guys this past year, and there’s still the Newport Ball and all of next year to come. Am I going to keep asking myself questions? Yeah, because Adam’s already passed out so there’s no one else for me to have a conversation with.

I am absolutely hurting, I want to go back to Seattle for Tatonka 2003 so badly. As the reigning female champion and the queen of all trash talking, I belong at that contest. But it’s a friggin’ midweek contest and I need every vacation day I can get for Brown Brown. What’s a wing eater to do? Must ponder this….