We met on the internet, like perverts.

Four years ago today, I sent a *wink* across the internets to n.o.c. He replied with The Lamest Line Ever, so it's remarkable that there's more to this story. He redeemed himself by composing the most wonderful bits of correspondence I've ever received, and then I met him, and he was just like his emails, except taller and cuter and possessed of snakeskin cowboy boots.

Soapbox: Meeting someone on the internet has a skeezy reputation, but it's actually the perfect medium for courting if you appreciate a witty turn of phrase and good grammar. I highly recommend.

I like this anniversary because it's not as schmaltzy as a wedding anniversary; it's a little bit seedy, just like us. It reminds me of the hours I spent translating Sanskrit and Tibetan and Pali, hating my program and wishing that I had a different life. It reminds me of trips to the farmer's market when I could only afford seven Barhi dates. It reminds me of how I used to be nervous and brittle and prone to lapses in judgment. It reminds me of the decision I made to leave all of that, and how, just when I was trying to gather myself up to do something terrifying and depressing, I unexpectedly found something fantastic. It reminds me of the summer that n.o.c. and I spent being so improbably but wholly in love (and drinking gallons of mango margaritas).

Anyhoo, I have hit my maudlin threshold, and I'm sure that you have too. I'm also sure that n.o.c. is mortified. This is what comes of being around a school-full of graduating senior girls. This dithering, blubbering, nonsensical emoting has cracked my iron facade and exposed me for what I really am - a Rufus Wainwright-listening, life-affirming, tree-hugging, starry-eyed, soft-hearted p*ssy.

I couldn't make this up if I tried

My mother and I were sitting in the OR waiting room today, quietly reading and minding our own business in general. The situation was awkward enough without talking to anyone else, since those of us who were prepped for surgery were wearing hideous gowns and paper caps and had been swaddled in heated blankets (the hospital wisely keeps the waiting room at a fresh 58 degrees). We'd been waiting for about an hour, when in came a sixty-ish woman, similarly attired but with an enormous nimbus of hair that completely filled her paper cap. She plopped down in an upholstered chair and promptly inquired what the rest of us were "in for" - like one might do in prision. I demured; I'd been reading Emily Post's biography and felt sure that Emily would caution against sharing such information. The woman to my left was in for a bum knee. The man across the way remained silent, broodingly pulling at the too-short hem of his robe. Undaunted, the woman continued, "Well, I'm here to get my vagina cysts removed, and they ain't putting me to sleep, neither."