Results tagged “dating” from iVillage - This Fish
It wasn't exactly love at first sight. But then again, this isn't exactly the beginning of the story. So let's back up.
After taking what amounted to a long time to get over a short relationship1, and having had a very meaningless and ultimately regrettable fling2, I decided it was time to cut the crap. I knew that what I wanted out of life wouldn't simply arrive one day on my front step in a gift-wrapped parcel while I was sitting on my keister doing nothing. On October 9, 2008 I blogged,
I meant it. I wasn't sure what I was going to do about it, though, beyond toying with the idea of re-activating the old Match.com account that had brought me so many quality experiences with the opposite sex3. But in the middle of all my pondering, on October 9, 2008 at 1:50PM, a woman I'd never met left a comment, offering a fix-up.
I cannot say what it was about the comment that made me open up my gmail to message a complete stranger about going on a date with an even stranger stranger. Part of me made allowances for my capriciousness by saying what I always have about potentially awkward experiences: At least it will be something to write about! Part of me knew better - the same part that knows when someone is lying to me or when Something Big is about to happen. I wrote,
Emails were exchanged, photos were sent, and a double date arranged. And on October 29, just hours after my sweet nephew was born and I interviewed for my job (a very big day), Sara, her fiancé Jaime, the even stranger stranger and I met for burgers, beer and happily-ever-after. Well, mostly.
It wasn't exactly love at first sight. But there was this feeling - one I'll never be able to describe adequately without having an explanation for how it is that the universe bends just the right way, causing the chemicals in your body reorder themselves so that all the hairs stand up on your arms and your stomach flips, and simultaneously, you're filled with a perfectly warm comfort, like curling up in your dad's worn out corduroy recliner. See, if I could explain that, I'd really be in business. But as it was, while the universe was bending away, we sat, side by side, in a booth at Capitol Pub, eating, sipping beer and talking into the early hours of the next day.
And then he didn't call5.
It turns out, he had to be warmed up for such things (he'll tell you today that he only remembers being really, really intimidated. I'll smile and roll my eyes). Sara, undeterred by the boy's shyness, set up another date - a dinner party at her home one Friday night, to celebrate my return among the gainfully employed6.
.
We went out again on Tuesday. And since that Tuesday in November, I can count on my fingers the nights we've slept apart.
"In four words, tell us about this guy you're dating."
It was early December, at our company party in San Antonio. My boss was prying. It's what he does. I smiled and rolled my left hand into a fist.
"Going," I said, as I stuck out my thumb.
"To," Index finger - that was two.
"Marry," Middle finger. Three.
"Him," Ring finger equals four.
Eyebrows around the table went up. My boss's wife leaned forward in her chair.
"You don't seem like the kind of girl who would just say something like that."
"I'm not. I mean it. I'm going to marry him if he doesn't screw it up."
"Oh, Miss Hunter," my boss laughed, eyes squinted, head back in a roar. "He's a boy. He's going to screw it up A LOT!"
I waved him off. See, it was at that Friday night dinner when my feeling turned into a knowing, and I didn't care what anyone said. It goes a little something like this (and it's an awfully good thing I'm not the one responsible for official explanations of these sorts phenomena, because this one's not going to be any better than the previous, with its bending universe and arm hair and such): There are some things you know because handily, they come with back-up material. Facts. You can know what time it is, or how far it is to Denver or how many nines go into twenty-seven. But then there are the things you know just because. No facts, no back-up. Just knowing. Some people will tell you that's how they feel about god. As for me, I simply knew I was done looking. I'd found what I was waiting for.
.
And he doesn't just make his half of the bed; he makes the whole thing.
1 You can read about that here, here, here and... here.
2 You will probably never read about that. He was awful. The end.
3 You can read about that here (and don't skip the comments). I hope that guy goes to jail.
4 Fibbing about age: it's not just for celebrities! He turns 35 this year.
5 You can read about that here.
6 You can read about that here.
After taking what amounted to a long time to get over a short relationship1, and having had a very meaningless and ultimately regrettable fling2, I decided it was time to cut the crap. I knew that what I wanted out of life wouldn't simply arrive one day on my front step in a gift-wrapped parcel while I was sitting on my keister doing nothing. On October 9, 2008 I blogged,
...it's probably time to start dating again. You know, with the purpose of not spending the rest of my life thinking only about myself, and having someone else to make the other side of the bed (seriously, that's a lot of walking 'round and 'round). If you'll remember, I made a similar decision last fall, and then opted instead to wander around Europe for a couple months, making out with college boys on study abroad. Not bad work if you can get it, but you see how far that got me. I'm still taking out the garbage every week (minus) and enjoying sole possession of the remote control (plus). Anyway, if you are reasonably tall, funny and do not intend to take me too seriously ever (and I mean EVER), please start lining up at my door. I like irises and hiking trips and I laugh in my sleep. That's pretty much all you need to know.
I meant it. I wasn't sure what I was going to do about it, though, beyond toying with the idea of re-activating the old Match.com account that had brought me so many quality experiences with the opposite sex3. But in the middle of all my pondering, on October 9, 2008 at 1:50PM, a woman I'd never met left a comment, offering a fix-up.
Sara said,
I have the most amazing and sweet friend in the world. He is 324, attractive, athletic, smart and funny. He has a great job, lots of good family and friends and is over all a winner. I would lurve to set you up. I know he would love your sense of humor and I think you could learn to adore his silly jokes and sweet smile. Maybe that's weird, but if not, email me.
I cannot say what it was about the comment that made me open up my gmail to message a complete stranger about going on a date with an even stranger stranger. Part of me made allowances for my capriciousness by saying what I always have about potentially awkward experiences: At least it will be something to write about! Part of me knew better - the same part that knows when someone is lying to me or when Something Big is about to happen. I wrote,
Okay, are we being weird (you to suggest it, and me to consider it)? I don't even care. Tell me more about your friend!
Emails were exchanged, photos were sent, and a double date arranged. And on October 29, just hours after my sweet nephew was born and I interviewed for my job (a very big day), Sara, her fiancé Jaime, the even stranger stranger and I met for burgers, beer and happily-ever-after. Well, mostly.
It wasn't exactly love at first sight. But there was this feeling - one I'll never be able to describe adequately without having an explanation for how it is that the universe bends just the right way, causing the chemicals in your body reorder themselves so that all the hairs stand up on your arms and your stomach flips, and simultaneously, you're filled with a perfectly warm comfort, like curling up in your dad's worn out corduroy recliner. See, if I could explain that, I'd really be in business. But as it was, while the universe was bending away, we sat, side by side, in a booth at Capitol Pub, eating, sipping beer and talking into the early hours of the next day.
And then he didn't call5.
It turns out, he had to be warmed up for such things (he'll tell you today that he only remembers being really, really intimidated. I'll smile and roll my eyes). Sara, undeterred by the boy's shyness, set up another date - a dinner party at her home one Friday night, to celebrate my return among the gainfully employed6.
.
We went out again on Tuesday. And since that Tuesday in November, I can count on my fingers the nights we've slept apart.
"In four words, tell us about this guy you're dating."
It was early December, at our company party in San Antonio. My boss was prying. It's what he does. I smiled and rolled my left hand into a fist.
"Going," I said, as I stuck out my thumb.
"To," Index finger - that was two.
"Marry," Middle finger. Three.
"Him," Ring finger equals four.
Eyebrows around the table went up. My boss's wife leaned forward in her chair.
"You don't seem like the kind of girl who would just say something like that."
"I'm not. I mean it. I'm going to marry him if he doesn't screw it up."
"Oh, Miss Hunter," my boss laughed, eyes squinted, head back in a roar. "He's a boy. He's going to screw it up A LOT!"
I waved him off. See, it was at that Friday night dinner when my feeling turned into a knowing, and I didn't care what anyone said. It goes a little something like this (and it's an awfully good thing I'm not the one responsible for official explanations of these sorts phenomena, because this one's not going to be any better than the previous, with its bending universe and arm hair and such): There are some things you know because handily, they come with back-up material. Facts. You can know what time it is, or how far it is to Denver or how many nines go into twenty-seven. But then there are the things you know just because. No facts, no back-up. Just knowing. Some people will tell you that's how they feel about god. As for me, I simply knew I was done looking. I'd found what I was waiting for.
.
And he doesn't just make his half of the bed; he makes the whole thing.
1 You can read about that here, here, here and... here.
2 You will probably never read about that. He was awful. The end.
3 You can read about that here (and don't skip the comments). I hope that guy goes to jail.
4 Fibbing about age: it's not just for celebrities! He turns 35 this year.
5 You can read about that here.
6 You can read about that here.
It was one hundred and two degrees outside and the air conditioning at the San Antonio airport wasn't working. Every several minutes or so, I'd succumb to the heat and the long day of travel and meetings, nod off, jerk awake, and then scan the crowd to see if anyone had caught my latest performance. I am the picture of grace! But no one seemed to be paying any attention. The older, preppily-dressed couple to my right was bickering. It reminded me of my parents. The dark-haired woman to my left smelled so strongly of body odor and cigarette smoke, I thought I might choke, so I gave up my seat and limped toward the tiled corridor. I needed an ice cream cone pronto.
Oh, yeah, I limped. After what could have been as many as 75 trips down three flights of stairs and then UP three more flights of stairs, my quads and calves were a disaster, and after thirty minutes of not moving, they were pretty stubborn about getting going again. I promised them ice cream, and that seemed to do the trick.
En route to ice cream, I looked up at the boards and saw that my flight had been delayed again and set my jaw. I would not have at total breakdown at the airport. I just wouldn't. But oh, how I wanted to. I was tired, in pain, and the five-and-a-half-hour meeting I'd sat through earlier in the day wasn't what you'd call invigorating.
My boyfriend is better than your boyfriend.
Oh, yeah, I limped. After what could have been as many as 75 trips down three flights of stairs and then UP three more flights of stairs, my quads and calves were a disaster, and after thirty minutes of not moving, they were pretty stubborn about getting going again. I promised them ice cream, and that seemed to do the trick.
En route to ice cream, I looked up at the boards and saw that my flight had been delayed again and set my jaw. I would not have at total breakdown at the airport. I just wouldn't. But oh, how I wanted to. I was tired, in pain, and the five-and-a-half-hour meeting I'd sat through earlier in the day wasn't what you'd call invigorating.
Heather: I just want to come home.Aw, loving a man who loves fast food. I should have suspected I'd get absolutely zero sympathy for a diet based on red meat and fake cheese (to him, it's heaven in a foil lined wrapper). But that's what I wanted. Sympathy. And a hug. And to be home with climate control and my shoes off. By the time I climbed into my car at the Dallas airport and headed home, the Boy was already gone for the evening, off to watch the Stanley Cup Finals. I was a little disappointed - that hug would have done the trick. But when I walked through the apartment door, I saw that in his place, he'd left behind a dozen long stem red roses and I thought, Who needs a stinkin' hug, anyway?
Dork Lord: I know, baby.
Heather: Now they're saying there's a crew change. I'll never leave! I will have to live in the airport and eat McDonald's. FOREVER.
Dork Lord: That's not too bad!
My boyfriend is better than your boyfriend.
I've been waiting for June long enough that when I saw today's date, I almost did a back flip. Okay, no, not a back flip. I worked out hard and moved furniture this weekend. Getting out of my car is a uniquely torturous challenge, so back flips are decidedly out. But I'm excited. Mostly because in nine more days, The Dork Lord and I move into our bigger, yay-I-have-my-own-office apartment on the other side of the complex. We've been on a waiting list for this place since the fifth week we were dating. See? Sometimes you just know things. Like, how we knew our love wouldn't survive living in a one bedroom bachelor pad.
You'd think that with all this time we've had to wait and prepare, packing would be well underway. Oh, sillies. It's not even started. And we're going out of town this weekend. After packing up my own apartment five or six weeks ago, I have very little enthusiasm for more quality time with cardboard boxes and packing tape. In fact, the words dread and I'd rather stand in a pile of fire ants come to mind.The Boy, bless his heart, wasn't exactly the biggest contributor to the moving out experience (my mom, bless hers even more, was. Total. Effing. CHAMP), so my inner six year old is throwing a special little tantrum regarding fairness - or the lack thereof - at the prospect of another pack-up job. But love is love, and also I know that the more labor I do, the more unappetizing tasks I can ask him to do in exchange. Like, getting my car inspected. Also maybe washed and waxed and vacuumed. And that's all before I clean his oven.
Boy, didn't that sound like a euphemism for something dirty and awesome.
You'd think that with all this time we've had to wait and prepare, packing would be well underway. Oh, sillies. It's not even started. And we're going out of town this weekend. After packing up my own apartment five or six weeks ago, I have very little enthusiasm for more quality time with cardboard boxes and packing tape. In fact, the words dread and I'd rather stand in a pile of fire ants come to mind.The Boy, bless his heart, wasn't exactly the biggest contributor to the moving out experience (my mom, bless hers even more, was. Total. Effing. CHAMP), so my inner six year old is throwing a special little tantrum regarding fairness - or the lack thereof - at the prospect of another pack-up job. But love is love, and also I know that the more labor I do, the more unappetizing tasks I can ask him to do in exchange. Like, getting my car inspected. Also maybe washed and waxed and vacuumed. And that's all before I clean his oven.
Boy, didn't that sound like a euphemism for something dirty and awesome.
There's something about the prospect of a three-day weekend that restores my affection for humanity and my faith in possibility. And I could use a little restoration. It hasn't been the best week ever. Sunday was such a success (complete with a nice long jog in the sunshine), that by contrast, Monday was one of the circles of hell that Dante forgot to mention. And Tuesday, well Tuesday brought some unraveling and there I was, sitting on the steps in my running clothes, tears streaming down my face while my tense boyfriend looked on.
"Why are you crying?"
"I don't know."
I don't know, as unhelpful as it was, was so much easier - much prettier - than the truth. Because I'm not happy. Because I want to go home. That I was in our apartment made no difference. I wanted to go home. To retreat. And I didn't have anywhere to go. Because I remember when you used to like me. The nature of our disagreement had been so small, but also pretty fundamental to who we are and how different we can be. He was wrong and I was wrong. He was unhappy with me, and not ready to say it. But I felt it. In his coolness and the way he walked ahead of me, not stopping to check if the gate had shut in front of me. And I felt unwanted, unliked and terribly insecure. So I cried in the shower. I was over-sensitive and he was unaware. We were doing our best Venus and Mars.
Like we do, though, we sorted things out, kissed and made up. Tried a little harder. Laughed. And I was glad I kept the truth to myself, because what was true on Tuesday was a little less true on Wednesday and by Thursday, all but forgotten, because a new truth had taken its place.
"Why are you crying?"
"I don't know."
I don't know, as unhelpful as it was, was so much easier - much prettier - than the truth. Because I'm not happy. Because I want to go home. That I was in our apartment made no difference. I wanted to go home. To retreat. And I didn't have anywhere to go. Because I remember when you used to like me. The nature of our disagreement had been so small, but also pretty fundamental to who we are and how different we can be. He was wrong and I was wrong. He was unhappy with me, and not ready to say it. But I felt it. In his coolness and the way he walked ahead of me, not stopping to check if the gate had shut in front of me. And I felt unwanted, unliked and terribly insecure. So I cried in the shower. I was over-sensitive and he was unaware. We were doing our best Venus and Mars.
Like we do, though, we sorted things out, kissed and made up. Tried a little harder. Laughed. And I was glad I kept the truth to myself, because what was true on Tuesday was a little less true on Wednesday and by Thursday, all but forgotten, because a new truth had taken its place.
"Oh crap! Fire!"
Quick like a bunny, the Dork Lord rushed in from the living room to blow out the already dying flames while I stood next to the oven being useless in an emergency situation. Laughing. Not my finest hour. But to be fair, it wasn't a true emergency - I'd snapped the oven off, and the fire was contained to the cookie sheet. And besides, we have an arrangement: I cook, he cleans up. And if during cooking, I happen to get the yips and dump the cookies into the oven, touching the parchment paper to the heating coil and igniting a small fire, well, then the logical reaction falls under clean up. After his part was done, The Boy stood there shaking his head.
"What happened?"
"Yips."
His eyebrows went up, but he didn't challenge my diagnosis, being far more concerned with the cookie dough salvage operation going on in the bottom of the oven. I was pretty sure it was going to be one of those moments of grace that I'd never live down and be reminded of on a routine basis (like the Great Scrape of Oh-Nine). But once baking resumed and he'd had a mouthful or two of chocolate chip goodness, he forgot about the fire altogether. Me, I added a line item to my May budget for a fire extinguisher. I'm a danger to myself and others.
Apropos of nothing (except maybe fire), seriously, how friggin' great is Firefly? We spent a healthy (or un) portion of the weekend burning through the Boy's DVD set, and I'm experiencing a little bit of anxiety that there are only a dozen episodes. It's like going to PetSmart on pet adoption day and spending just a little too much time getting attached to sixteen kittens you won't be taking home. I mean, why god, why? The Hills is in its fortieth mind numbing season and brilliance like this only makes a handful of showings. I hate to be cliche, but the terrorists? They're winning.
Quick like a bunny, the Dork Lord rushed in from the living room to blow out the already dying flames while I stood next to the oven being useless in an emergency situation. Laughing. Not my finest hour. But to be fair, it wasn't a true emergency - I'd snapped the oven off, and the fire was contained to the cookie sheet. And besides, we have an arrangement: I cook, he cleans up. And if during cooking, I happen to get the yips and dump the cookies into the oven, touching the parchment paper to the heating coil and igniting a small fire, well, then the logical reaction falls under clean up. After his part was done, The Boy stood there shaking his head.
"What happened?"
"Yips."
His eyebrows went up, but he didn't challenge my diagnosis, being far more concerned with the cookie dough salvage operation going on in the bottom of the oven. I was pretty sure it was going to be one of those moments of grace that I'd never live down and be reminded of on a routine basis (like the Great Scrape of Oh-Nine). But once baking resumed and he'd had a mouthful or two of chocolate chip goodness, he forgot about the fire altogether. Me, I added a line item to my May budget for a fire extinguisher. I'm a danger to myself and others.
Apropos of nothing (except maybe fire), seriously, how friggin' great is Firefly? We spent a healthy (or un) portion of the weekend burning through the Boy's DVD set, and I'm experiencing a little bit of anxiety that there are only a dozen episodes. It's like going to PetSmart on pet adoption day and spending just a little too much time getting attached to sixteen kittens you won't be taking home. I mean, why god, why? The Hills is in its fortieth mind numbing season and brilliance like this only makes a handful of showings. I hate to be cliche, but the terrorists? They're winning.
First trip, first fight: they're the hallmarks everyone tells you will define your sparkly new relationship. The You Can't Possibly Know Your Mate Until... definitive. When the Dork Lord and I were a month or two into dating, my hairdresser, whose first trip anywhere was with her husband on their (stressful) cruise ship wedding, asked if we'd taken our first vacation together. We hadn't. But it wasn't something I was worried about. And Stephanie - whose battles with her equally stubborn partner are an integral part of their fiery dynamic - didn't ask if we'd had a fight, she insisted we needed to have one.
"I just know that you don't really know who someone is until the shit comes down."
I wasn't sure I agreed.
Of fights, we've had two arguments that I can recall. Did shit come down? Oh, I don't know. There were tears (I pretty much cry any time I'm frustrated or hurt. Or watching scary movies or reading stories about baby animals. So, it's not really an excellent indicator) and apologies. But no yelling. Never any yelling. We do have disagreements from time to time that lead one of us to declare, "We're in a fight." and the other to make a fart joke. It works for us.
Of trips, we've been to the Ranch for a weekend of total relaxation and zero responsibility. I packed the snacks. He drove. We made out a whole bunch. I'm not sure that it really counted as a vacation, and so this weekend will be our first. We leave on Thursday for a long weekend in Utah to celebrate my sisters' BYU graduations. There are connecting flights and family accommodations involved. It could get sticky. But! But I've already learned some pretty important Dork Lord characteristics that will (hopefully) make this experience low on stress. For instance, I know to tell the Boy that we need to be somewhere (the airport, graduation, dinner) a good thirty minutes before we're actually expected to show up. See? Prepared.
I've also laid the groundwork for the first meeting he'll have with my dad.
"Just tell them how much you love golf. Maybe they'll put me back in the will."
"I just know that you don't really know who someone is until the shit comes down."
I wasn't sure I agreed.
Of fights, we've had two arguments that I can recall. Did shit come down? Oh, I don't know. There were tears (I pretty much cry any time I'm frustrated or hurt. Or watching scary movies or reading stories about baby animals. So, it's not really an excellent indicator) and apologies. But no yelling. Never any yelling. We do have disagreements from time to time that lead one of us to declare, "We're in a fight." and the other to make a fart joke. It works for us.
Of trips, we've been to the Ranch for a weekend of total relaxation and zero responsibility. I packed the snacks. He drove. We made out a whole bunch. I'm not sure that it really counted as a vacation, and so this weekend will be our first. We leave on Thursday for a long weekend in Utah to celebrate my sisters' BYU graduations. There are connecting flights and family accommodations involved. It could get sticky. But! But I've already learned some pretty important Dork Lord characteristics that will (hopefully) make this experience low on stress. For instance, I know to tell the Boy that we need to be somewhere (the airport, graduation, dinner) a good thirty minutes before we're actually expected to show up. See? Prepared.
I've also laid the groundwork for the first meeting he'll have with my dad.
"Has he ever met any of your boyfriends before?"He looked so relieved, I went ahead and left out the part about my dad sleeping with a firearm under his pillow and occasionally hearing voices. And as for meeting my grandparents?
"In high school. But since then I've always lived far, far away."
"What's he going to think?"
"He's going to think that he loves his daughter something crazy and if this guy makes his daughter happy, then he's happy, too."
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
"Just tell them how much you love golf. Maybe they'll put me back in the will."
This weekend, we added an extra six inches to our bedroom life. And what do you know, I'm still not satisfied.
The dog, he likes to be on the bed. Not when we're on it, mind you, but on it just the same. And it wouldn't be such an issue - I could probably be convinced to look past the hair (my GOD, so much HAIR) - if he wasn't getting up there in years and all his body parts were functioning properly. First there was this gland thing. Which came with lots of licking and oozy juices and... skid marks. Are you feeling ill in your tummies? Yes? Good. Me, too. We sort of solved that by throwing a gigantic, thick blanket down before we leave. But then there was the day that either he was pissed (my GOD, so PISSED) or so out of control of his bowels that he took a gigantic 75-pound-dog dump on the bed, pushed the covers over the mess and LAID BACK DOWN on it. Have you ever had to scrape smooshed dog poo from the duvet cover because your sweet, loving boyfriend who would otherwise gladly have cleaned up the mess won't be home for several hours? No? Well. It's pretty much the exact opposite of awesome.
Me, I had a meltdown.
We weighed our preventative future meltdown options. Shutting the bedroom door. That one quickly got shot down - Sir Hal is not one to be where you want him to be at any given moment and say he was hiding under the bed when the door got shut. He'd be without food and litter box all day. Do not want. Baby gate was the next option considered, along with bed risers. Bed risers! That's perfect! The dog is old and has a hard time managing the bed as it is. Six extra inches would do the trick! So, off we went to Target and then an ungodly number of bed & bath places in search of extra long dust ruffles. Oh, so many miles we put on our feet and the car, but we were victorious.
The Boy went off to play with friends and I settled on the sofa with a copy of It Sucked and Then I Cried. And some Chubby Hubby. Because this is how we celebrate victories. After a while, the dog, who normally makes a very noisy production of gallumping up the stairs and heaving himself onto the bed, made his way up and soundlessly to sleep. I ASSUMED on his DOG BED. But I would be making an ass of you and me because when I went upstairs thirty minutes later, I found that dog, having sailed effortlessly onto the now very high bed, deep in a very drooly sleep. Mocking me.
First I frowned. Then I rolled my eyes and chuckled.
I firmly but kindly (I learned this skill from Frauline Maria) asked him to dismount - which he did - and then I petted him for a good long while and scratched his tummy because I'm training myself to love him so much I can't possibly resent all this bed shit I'm going through with him. Because sometimes, I really feel resentful. Like when I lie down at night in and imagine poop juices leaking onto my pillow. GAH. I'm trying so hard to see this from the Boy's point of view - that having a dog for twelve years and allowing him twelve whole years of unrestrained bed time is difficult to undo. But this is where I sleep. Not where I practice my veterinary skills. I want it to smell like fabric softener and the Boy's shampoo and not dog musk and gland gunk.
So, bed riser fail. I guess that leaves the baby gate. And I swear to god, if he pulls some spontaneously growing opposable thumb crap, I'm going to lose my mind entirely.
The dog, he likes to be on the bed. Not when we're on it, mind you, but on it just the same. And it wouldn't be such an issue - I could probably be convinced to look past the hair (my GOD, so much HAIR) - if he wasn't getting up there in years and all his body parts were functioning properly. First there was this gland thing. Which came with lots of licking and oozy juices and... skid marks. Are you feeling ill in your tummies? Yes? Good. Me, too. We sort of solved that by throwing a gigantic, thick blanket down before we leave. But then there was the day that either he was pissed (my GOD, so PISSED) or so out of control of his bowels that he took a gigantic 75-pound-dog dump on the bed, pushed the covers over the mess and LAID BACK DOWN on it. Have you ever had to scrape smooshed dog poo from the duvet cover because your sweet, loving boyfriend who would otherwise gladly have cleaned up the mess won't be home for several hours? No? Well. It's pretty much the exact opposite of awesome.
Me, I had a meltdown.
We weighed our preventative future meltdown options. Shutting the bedroom door. That one quickly got shot down - Sir Hal is not one to be where you want him to be at any given moment and say he was hiding under the bed when the door got shut. He'd be without food and litter box all day. Do not want. Baby gate was the next option considered, along with bed risers. Bed risers! That's perfect! The dog is old and has a hard time managing the bed as it is. Six extra inches would do the trick! So, off we went to Target and then an ungodly number of bed & bath places in search of extra long dust ruffles. Oh, so many miles we put on our feet and the car, but we were victorious.
The Boy went off to play with friends and I settled on the sofa with a copy of It Sucked and Then I Cried. And some Chubby Hubby. Because this is how we celebrate victories. After a while, the dog, who normally makes a very noisy production of gallumping up the stairs and heaving himself onto the bed, made his way up and soundlessly to sleep. I ASSUMED on his DOG BED. But I would be making an ass of you and me because when I went upstairs thirty minutes later, I found that dog, having sailed effortlessly onto the now very high bed, deep in a very drooly sleep. Mocking me.
First I frowned. Then I rolled my eyes and chuckled.
I firmly but kindly (I learned this skill from Frauline Maria) asked him to dismount - which he did - and then I petted him for a good long while and scratched his tummy because I'm training myself to love him so much I can't possibly resent all this bed shit I'm going through with him. Because sometimes, I really feel resentful. Like when I lie down at night in and imagine poop juices leaking onto my pillow. GAH. I'm trying so hard to see this from the Boy's point of view - that having a dog for twelve years and allowing him twelve whole years of unrestrained bed time is difficult to undo. But this is where I sleep. Not where I practice my veterinary skills. I want it to smell like fabric softener and the Boy's shampoo and not dog musk and gland gunk.
So, bed riser fail. I guess that leaves the baby gate. And I swear to god, if he pulls some spontaneously growing opposable thumb crap, I'm going to lose my mind entirely.
Things I Love About Shacking Up:
Saturday Mornings. So it's not cartoons, it's Battlestar on the DVR, but it's nice to lazy about with someone to warm your feet.
Dinner. Most every night, I put on my Betty Crocker apron and fix up a mess of vittles. And my darling, he licks his plate clean. It's all very satisfying. But one night a few weeks ago, while I was on my way home from the airport after a long day of meetings in Austin, the Boy was - as the kids say - blowing up my phone. Where are you? Where are you now? Something had fallen apart at work, he was running late, and I would probably beat him home. Um, okay, hyper-communicator. When I pulled into the parking lot several minutes later, there he was in my rear view mirror. We got out of our cars in unison and when I saw him there, dressed in shorts - not work attire - and carrying a pizza, I grinned. I didn't want you to feel like you had to cook. Long day? Meet awesome boyfriend.
Anytime Minutes. And I don't mean for phone callin'. Wink, wink.
Sharing bills and dish duty and grocery shopping. Cheaper and faster, and involves a whole lot more public ass slappin'.
Hearing the words, Do you have any whites that need washing? C'mere you.
Things I Love a Little Less About Shacking Up But Like My Daddy Says, Life Ain't Always Fair:
Picking up dog poo. For the love of god, it's STILL WARM.*Well, alone with His Excellency the Grand Duke of Bad Breath who, while good/obnoxious company, is not exactly a roommate.
So. Many. Rules! Before moving in with the Dork Lord, I lived alone* for approximately one thousand, seven hundred and ninety days. That is a lot of days. In fact, it is plenty of days to get very comfortable with things being a certain way. It's enough days to say, expect things to be a certain way. Like say, the shower. I expect it to be a mess of products. And the dishes? I expect that they will stay in the sink until I am ready to address them. So obviously, co-habitating with aneat freakvery tidy individual has been something of a growth experience.
Fart Jokes. Only because I know they signify proximity to actual farting as the comfort level increases. It's only a matter of time.
P.S. Here's Erin's Single-ish take on the same list!
When time permits, I try to read every comment you make the effort to leave (when it doesn't, I still scan - mostly to make sure no one says anything super naughty). There have been a few lately that have piqued my interest - a handful challenging my relevance as a love blogger because I *gasp* found love. Truthfully, I don't think this blog has changed one bit - the tone, the types of stories I tell and the way I look at life - it's all still me. I guess that little header way, way up there at the top (the one that says A blog that celebrates single life...) doesn't quite fit. But then, it never did. That label the has always struck me as odd and limiting. Pigeonholed. But that is neither here nor there.
Yesterday, Robin chimed in on a post about my recent co-habbing adventures and for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it. So, I thought I'd share it here, along with my response.
Thanks. I think.
*There was an incident with a game of Spades which may have involved a cross word or two. And entire a bottle of wine in one sitting.
A P.S.: For the record, I did not see Robin's comment as malicious. I saw it as honest. Who hasn't felt that way? Most of us just won't own up to it!
Yesterday, Robin chimed in on a post about my recent co-habbing adventures and for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it. So, I thought I'd share it here, along with my response.
"I'll have to admit, I came to your blog today hoping you and the Boy had split. Not because I enjoy the suffering of others (ok well maybe sometimes), but because I found some comfort in knowing there was someone else out there with the same relationship struggles."Hoo boy! I've been there more times than I care to admit. Yeah, misery loves company. Not that I'm saying you're miserable, but I'm right there with you in finding solace in the fact that other people are in the same lousy boat I am. Money, love, career. Whatever. And I've probably (okay, more than probably) cheered for someone's failure when they have something I don't. Mostly because if they've succeeded and I have not, there must be something wrong with me. At least, that's the conclusion I'm tempted to draw. Thankfully, there's an unlimited amount of happiness available in the Universe and it might just take the right set of circumstances to get your mitts on some. I will be the first to acknowledge that I simply got really, really lucky. And I knew it from moment one. When he walked in the door that night, something inside me said (quite loudly, too), "Oh, there you are." And that was that. Do not think that for one single second have I taken it for granted. Instead of wishing for the demise of a happy relationship, maybe you could see it as proof that good things are sure to come? Lucking into The Dork Lord has restored my faith in possibility. I'd like to pass a bit of that on, if I can.
"I'll agree to pop the pity party balloons for now, but only because I'm holding out hope that with cohabitation comes more life complications (and no the pillow incident really doesn't count)."Two words: honeymoon period. Complications are sure to rear their ugly heads down the road, but for right now, I think you can expect all of our issues to rate at about the same level of seriousness as the pillow*. I selfishly hope that you will be forced to keep up your hating for many, many moons on this matter. We're just happy to be together. On top of that, we agree on most major issues that could ultimately drive a wedge between people who otherwise like seeing each other naked. We're both committed to saving money and getting out of debt. Our views on god are spot on. Politics, same. Yeah true, I could use a little less of CNN's doom-and-gloom in my life, but if he notices the furrow in my brow getting too deep, he's quick to change the channel. To ESPN, sure, but He shoots! He misses! is so much more palatable than, Epic Economy Fail! over and over. I don't like that the dog is allowed on the bed. He doesn't like that I drape clothes on every available surface. There will always be things. But we tend to resolve them with wet willies.
"I suppose given your recent bout of bad luck on the work front you're entitled to some happiness. I just don't have to be happy about it."
Thanks. I think.
*There was an incident with a game of Spades which may have involved a cross word or two. And entire a bottle of wine in one sitting.
A P.S.: For the record, I did not see Robin's comment as malicious. I saw it as honest. Who hasn't felt that way? Most of us just won't own up to it!
My boyfriend is a pirate.
After work yesterday, I picked up some groceries for our dinner and then stopped by my apartment to grab a few essentials: the contents of my make-up drawer, a bottle of Grey Goose, and my pillow. Oh, hello old friend. It was pretty warm in the afternoon, so by the time I'd struggled up the three flights of stairs to our apartment with my loot, I had sweaty strands of hair plastered to my face, a trickle running down my back, and red, welted rings on my arms where the grocery bags hung.The very moment I stepped through the front door, StepDog was at my knees, blundering around in his lampshade (he has a licking problem, okay?), cutting just close enough to send me pitching forward, make-up compacts and heads of romaine lettuce flying.
Don't yell at the dog, I told myself. He doesn't know.
I set my pillow down, giving it a place of honor on the end table, and took Lampshade out for his afternoon constitutional. Then I started dinner. An hour and a half later, after we'd polished off our plates, I scooted upstairs for a quick shower. If the climb up the stairs hadn't undone me, a stupidly complicated meal over a hot stove and hotter oven finished the job. When I came down, fresh and clean and ready to finally relax with the DVR and Wednesday night's episode of LOST, there was my sweet fella, done with kitchen duty, crashed out on the couch watching a basketball game, his noggin resting peacefully...on my pillow.
Commence meltdown in five, four, three...
Don't yell at the boyfriend, I told myself. He doesn't know.
He doesn't know that in this entire apartment, one average-in-every-way, polka dotted pillow is about the only thing that is mine. I mean, unless I wanted to curl up with my hair dryer or the wok, that was it. My pillow. Mine. He also doesn't know that while he was at the Mavericks game the other night, and I sat at the apartment feeling misplaced and homesick (and silly for it), the only comfort I could think of was that damn pillow. Standing there, on the bottom stair, it took about three and a half seconds to degenerate into toddler mode. I felt like I was watching a sibling play with with one of my toys - and forget that there were heaps and heaps of toys in the toy box (and a bed full of pillows upstairs), I wanted that one. Because it was mine. But instead of cracking him over the head with a Tonka truck - like I'd have had no problem doing in my actual toddler days - I put some cookies on to bake, and then cuddled up next to him on the sofa.
I won't lie, I eyed that pillow like, the whole damn time.
But I said nothing. Because on the What's Really Important Here scale, I chose to rank the Boy over the pillow. The Boy, whom I love, who tries so hard to make me happy (and yes, who would have given me the pillow without hesitation, had I given in to my petty inclinations), and who sleeps so soundly that if he tried that shit at night and crossed the imaginary line down the middle of the bed, there wouldn't even be a pause his snoring when I yanked that pillow right out from under his pretty little pirate head.
Mine.
After work yesterday, I picked up some groceries for our dinner and then stopped by my apartment to grab a few essentials: the contents of my make-up drawer, a bottle of Grey Goose, and my pillow. Oh, hello old friend. It was pretty warm in the afternoon, so by the time I'd struggled up the three flights of stairs to our apartment with my loot, I had sweaty strands of hair plastered to my face, a trickle running down my back, and red, welted rings on my arms where the grocery bags hung.The very moment I stepped through the front door, StepDog was at my knees, blundering around in his lampshade (he has a licking problem, okay?), cutting just close enough to send me pitching forward, make-up compacts and heads of romaine lettuce flying.
Don't yell at the dog, I told myself. He doesn't know.
I set my pillow down, giving it a place of honor on the end table, and took Lampshade out for his afternoon constitutional. Then I started dinner. An hour and a half later, after we'd polished off our plates, I scooted upstairs for a quick shower. If the climb up the stairs hadn't undone me, a stupidly complicated meal over a hot stove and hotter oven finished the job. When I came down, fresh and clean and ready to finally relax with the DVR and Wednesday night's episode of LOST, there was my sweet fella, done with kitchen duty, crashed out on the couch watching a basketball game, his noggin resting peacefully...on my pillow.
Commence meltdown in five, four, three...
Don't yell at the boyfriend, I told myself. He doesn't know.
He doesn't know that in this entire apartment, one average-in-every-way, polka dotted pillow is about the only thing that is mine. I mean, unless I wanted to curl up with my hair dryer or the wok, that was it. My pillow. Mine. He also doesn't know that while he was at the Mavericks game the other night, and I sat at the apartment feeling misplaced and homesick (and silly for it), the only comfort I could think of was that damn pillow. Standing there, on the bottom stair, it took about three and a half seconds to degenerate into toddler mode. I felt like I was watching a sibling play with with one of my toys - and forget that there were heaps and heaps of toys in the toy box (and a bed full of pillows upstairs), I wanted that one. Because it was mine. But instead of cracking him over the head with a Tonka truck - like I'd have had no problem doing in my actual toddler days - I put some cookies on to bake, and then cuddled up next to him on the sofa.
I won't lie, I eyed that pillow like, the whole damn time.
But I said nothing. Because on the What's Really Important Here scale, I chose to rank the Boy over the pillow. The Boy, whom I love, who tries so hard to make me happy (and yes, who would have given me the pillow without hesitation, had I given in to my petty inclinations), and who sleeps so soundly that if he tried that shit at night and crossed the imaginary line down the middle of the bed, there wouldn't even be a pause his snoring when I yanked that pillow right out from under his pretty little pirate head.
Mine.
Irony or really, fiercely ugly coincidence? I suppose it's not unthinkable to be the victim of a crap economy three times in 18 months, so it's only coincidence that mere days after I post about employment woes, I'm in the middle of 'em. Again. Details later, but for the moment, I have a job. And for that I am grateful.
But with money being tighter (one hefty freelance gig has already dried up due to budget cuts), and with the fear that it will only become more constricted in the coming weeks, the Dork Lord and I put our moving-in plans into, how do they say, hyper drive. God, I'm so tempted right here to make some sort of nerdy Battlestar Galactica reference, but I'm not sure I have the frackin' lingo down quite yet. Anyway, on Monday, I closed up shop at my apartment - canceled what was left of the amenities (um, that would be Internet. Cable went away a month before), unplugged the appliances, scooped Hal up into his portable torture chamber (honestly, you'd think so by the way he hollers in that thing) and relocated to the Boy's apartment. Two months ahead of schedule.
It's a lot, really. True, we haven't spent a night apart since the second week we were dating. But for a girl who's been used to residential autonomy for the last five years, just getting over feeling like a visitor inhis our apartment is going to take some work. I worry about stressing him out, moving into too much of the closet all at once. Watching him box up nerd books to make room for my shoes. Saying silent prayers to feline deities that Hal doesn't turn his black leather sofa into a high end scratching post. It's like I'm on constantly.
Obviously, it's not all stress. One of the nicest things about us is how easy we are. Even playing the Yours or Mine game, which I think he's been letting me win, just to keep me from reaching stress levels ordinarily reserved stockbrokers, air traffic controllers and the cast of Grey's Anatomy. Your vacuum or mine? Your dishes or mine? Your rules about gigantic dogs on the bed or mine? We're like The Brady Bunch over here, only instead of little girls in curls we're melding things like salad spinners and living room sets. And as for stepchildren, mine's a 75 pound German Shepherd/Lab who doesn't listen to a word I say except when I'm holding meat. Yeah, I'm the Bacon Lady.
I'm also one lucky lady. The worry over losing my job in the near future is real. Very real. But being part of a "we" makes it somehow less scary. And adjustment periods or no, I know when he says that whatever happens, we'll be okay, it's true. We will.
Sure, it'd be even better if he were like, 87 years old, a millionaire, and wheezing his last breaths from an oxygen tank. But I'll take what I can get.
But with money being tighter (one hefty freelance gig has already dried up due to budget cuts), and with the fear that it will only become more constricted in the coming weeks, the Dork Lord and I put our moving-in plans into, how do they say, hyper drive. God, I'm so tempted right here to make some sort of nerdy Battlestar Galactica reference, but I'm not sure I have the frackin' lingo down quite yet. Anyway, on Monday, I closed up shop at my apartment - canceled what was left of the amenities (um, that would be Internet. Cable went away a month before), unplugged the appliances, scooped Hal up into his portable torture chamber (honestly, you'd think so by the way he hollers in that thing) and relocated to the Boy's apartment. Two months ahead of schedule.
It's a lot, really. True, we haven't spent a night apart since the second week we were dating. But for a girl who's been used to residential autonomy for the last five years, just getting over feeling like a visitor in
Obviously, it's not all stress. One of the nicest things about us is how easy we are. Even playing the Yours or Mine game, which I think he's been letting me win, just to keep me from reaching stress levels ordinarily reserved stockbrokers, air traffic controllers and the cast of Grey's Anatomy. Your vacuum or mine? Your dishes or mine? Your rules about gigantic dogs on the bed or mine? We're like The Brady Bunch over here, only instead of little girls in curls we're melding things like salad spinners and living room sets. And as for stepchildren, mine's a 75 pound German Shepherd/Lab who doesn't listen to a word I say except when I'm holding meat. Yeah, I'm the Bacon Lady.
I'm also one lucky lady. The worry over losing my job in the near future is real. Very real. But being part of a "we" makes it somehow less scary. And adjustment periods or no, I know when he says that whatever happens, we'll be okay, it's true. We will.
Sure, it'd be even better if he were like, 87 years old, a millionaire, and wheezing his last breaths from an oxygen tank. But I'll take what I can get.
The Dork Lord loves scary movies. And, predictably, really bad Sci-Fi. I once sat through Hell Boy II and came dangerously close to suffering tissue damage from rolling my eyes so far into the back of my head. Really, Selma Blair? REALLY? Rarely do his... tastes in film cause conflicts, though, because we're both quite happy to meet in the middle, somewhere between Vicky Christina Barcelona and Another Movie Where Cops Behave Badly. Sure, sometimes that middle is Eagle Eye (AKA, I, Robot, Want to Kill the President), but usually it's something like W and everyone comes out of the experience feeling informed and well pleased.
But the last few times we've wandered Blockbuster, and knowing full well my sensitivity to gore and violence, the Boy has asked to take home Quarantine.
No, and um, no.
"Why not? It's a heartwarming tale about..."
"Don't bother to read me the back. I see the cover. There's crazy zombie disease written all over it."
Sure, there was pleading in his sad, Sci-Fi loving eyes, but I held my ground. Until... well, until I realized yet again that I am a gigantic sucker. On my way home from work yesterday (and even before he called with upcoming root canal news), I decided to surprise him with the last DVD that I would ever watch while still in possession of my faculties. I mean, what says love like setting yourself up for weeks of nightmares? Nothing. Except for maybe a diamond. They're forever, you know.
Naturally, he was thrilled with his surprise. And eventually, so was I because my god, what a ridiculous farce of a horror film that was. I've had subway rides that filled me with more fear. Watching a small child with people rabies gnaw on her mother's neck not only didn't scare me, it plastered a big old grin right on my face. Because I had just gotten off so freaking easy.
Far, far easier than he will when I bring home Nights in Rodanthe. Insert evil laugh here.
But the last few times we've wandered Blockbuster, and knowing full well my sensitivity to gore and violence, the Boy has asked to take home Quarantine.
No, and um, no.
"Why not? It's a heartwarming tale about..."
"Don't bother to read me the back. I see the cover. There's crazy zombie disease written all over it."
Sure, there was pleading in his sad, Sci-Fi loving eyes, but I held my ground. Until... well, until I realized yet again that I am a gigantic sucker. On my way home from work yesterday (and even before he called with upcoming root canal news), I decided to surprise him with the last DVD that I would ever watch while still in possession of my faculties. I mean, what says love like setting yourself up for weeks of nightmares? Nothing. Except for maybe a diamond. They're forever, you know.
Naturally, he was thrilled with his surprise. And eventually, so was I because my god, what a ridiculous farce of a horror film that was. I've had subway rides that filled me with more fear. Watching a small child with people rabies gnaw on her mother's neck not only didn't scare me, it plastered a big old grin right on my face. Because I had just gotten off so freaking easy.
Far, far easier than he will when I bring home Nights in Rodanthe. Insert evil laugh here.
Last night we lay in bed reading, the boy with a gigantic programming tome propped up on his chest and I, curled up with a paperback of Diablo Cody's stripper memoir. I was wading through some pretty graphic descriptions of things I'd just as soon never have a first hand knowledge of when it occurred to me that my beloved was talking. I glanced up to see him looking at me, waiting for my answer.
"I'm sorry, hon. What did you say? I was reading about lap dances."
"Uh... well, I was reading about picking up chicks. So there."
"Oh, really? In what language?"
".... C Sharp."
"Mmm hmmm. I thought so."
I caught the bouquet. I did not leave with the bouquet, but I caught it, dammit. The seven-year-old ball of fury directly in front of me was up waaaay past her bedtime and having none of this leggy stranger getting her mitts on the loot. She burned into me with a look that said, "The fit I'd throw would be epic. EPIC." I handed it over immediately. The tiny diva was willing to part with the bouquet briefly when the bride asked if we might borrow it to take photos, but not one second after the photographer stopped snapping she planted herself in front of me and demanded I return it. I may have pushed my luck by asking her to say "Please give me back my flowers," but hey, it takes a village, right? I'd like to think her mother would have given her the same treatment - insisting on common courtesy while being obstinate and greedy - had she been present. True, her mother probably would not have savagely plucked off several petals out of sheer spite, but the village isn't done with me either. So there.
From what I understand, the after party also verged on epic (the Dork Lord poured himself into our hotel room sometime after 4AM, having suckled at the Jägermeister teat), but that is second hand information only. After tottering back to the hotel in borrowed socks (they came with the Boy's tux and therefore fair game for city sidewalk grates) at half past twelve, I decided to crawl into bed with some outrageously priced Peanut M&Ms from the minibar and watch American Idol. That I woke up with vicious heartburn should not be surprising.
Now that the week from hell is over and the Boy and I will be spending much more time in front of our computers (he, programming; me, catching up on people.com), blogging is back to its regularly scheduled programming. Some nutty shit went down last week, and if I can somewhow work out how to protect the privacy of those I love while still spilling my guts, I may just include it. If not, just know this: if I ever have to audition for Cops, I'm ready.
From what I understand, the after party also verged on epic (the Dork Lord poured himself into our hotel room sometime after 4AM, having suckled at the Jägermeister teat), but that is second hand information only. After tottering back to the hotel in borrowed socks (they came with the Boy's tux and therefore fair game for city sidewalk grates) at half past twelve, I decided to crawl into bed with some outrageously priced Peanut M&Ms from the minibar and watch American Idol. That I woke up with vicious heartburn should not be surprising.
Now that the week from hell is over and the Boy and I will be spending much more time in front of our computers (he, programming; me, catching up on people.com), blogging is back to its regularly scheduled programming. Some nutty shit went down last week, and if I can somewhow work out how to protect the privacy of those I love while still spilling my guts, I may just include it. If not, just know this: if I ever have to audition for Cops, I'm ready.
"So, does he like cars?"
My boss and I were heading to one of those marketing events where we'd stand around for three hours, drink too much wine, and try very hard not to be perverse in front of potential clients. I was driving. Car time is downtime and downtime with my boss usually means being re-interviewed. This time about The Boy.
"Yes, yes he does. In particular, he likes - no, loves - his car."
I talked horsepower and engine liters and other things I no clue about, save what The Dork Lord has told me. All I know is that 400 horsepower makes driving ridiculously fun and it guzzles a metric sh!t ton of gas. That's all the information I need.
"Does he let you drive it?"
"Yep."
"Then this must be the real thing."
"I think you're right."
Aw, love. Granted, I'd never asked The Boy which he loved more - me or the car - because frankly, I was afraid he might hesitate before answering. But how could I feel anything but secure and happy knowing that my honey digs me enough to trust me with his most prized possession? I gave him a key to my apartment; he handed me the keys to his car. It was all very warm and fuzzy. Until Friday night. Because on Friday night, after the nicest of date nights, I scraped his beloved car while pulling it into the garage.
"Oh my god. Baby."
Drunk though he was, he leaped from that passenger seat with the agility and speed of an Olympic ribbon dancer. Me, I sat gripping the steering wheel, white-faced with my stomach climbing steadily toward my throat. I found myself wishing I was anything but perfectly sober. Man, I have really got to learn to like whiskey.
"Baby. Baby. Baby. You have to be careful with this garage!"
Finally, I climbed out to see for myself. And at the sight of two-foot swirl of gnarly white paint on his otherwise pristine car, I did what came naturally. I burst into tears. He stared at me.
"Noooooo."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Nooooo. Do not cry. I'm sorry. You're what's important. Not this. This is just metal. Understand?"
Well, you know me. A little bit of sympathy and the waterworks go from drippy faucet to open fire hydrant. I cried harder. Of course, had I known then that there was not one tiny bit of damage to the car's paint, that the next morning, a high end car wash complete with buff and wax would take away all my sins, I'd have marched right upstairs and enjoyed (with gusto) the spoils of our 2AM Jack in The Box visit. But as it was, that Oreo shake a total waste.
My boss and I were heading to one of those marketing events where we'd stand around for three hours, drink too much wine, and try very hard not to be perverse in front of potential clients. I was driving. Car time is downtime and downtime with my boss usually means being re-interviewed. This time about The Boy.
"Yes, yes he does. In particular, he likes - no, loves - his car."
I talked horsepower and engine liters and other things I no clue about, save what The Dork Lord has told me. All I know is that 400 horsepower makes driving ridiculously fun and it guzzles a metric sh!t ton of gas. That's all the information I need.
"Does he let you drive it?"
"Yep."
"Then this must be the real thing."
"I think you're right."
Aw, love. Granted, I'd never asked The Boy which he loved more - me or the car - because frankly, I was afraid he might hesitate before answering. But how could I feel anything but secure and happy knowing that my honey digs me enough to trust me with his most prized possession? I gave him a key to my apartment; he handed me the keys to his car. It was all very warm and fuzzy. Until Friday night. Because on Friday night, after the nicest of date nights, I scraped his beloved car while pulling it into the garage.
"Oh my god. Baby."
Drunk though he was, he leaped from that passenger seat with the agility and speed of an Olympic ribbon dancer. Me, I sat gripping the steering wheel, white-faced with my stomach climbing steadily toward my throat. I found myself wishing I was anything but perfectly sober. Man, I have really got to learn to like whiskey.
"Baby. Baby. Baby. You have to be careful with this garage!"
Finally, I climbed out to see for myself. And at the sight of two-foot swirl of gnarly white paint on his otherwise pristine car, I did what came naturally. I burst into tears. He stared at me.
"Noooooo."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Nooooo. Do not cry. I'm sorry. You're what's important. Not this. This is just metal. Understand?"
Well, you know me. A little bit of sympathy and the waterworks go from drippy faucet to open fire hydrant. I cried harder. Of course, had I known then that there was not one tiny bit of damage to the car's paint, that the next morning, a high end car wash complete with buff and wax would take away all my sins, I'd have marched right upstairs and enjoyed (with gusto) the spoils of our 2AM Jack in The Box visit. But as it was, that Oreo shake a total waste.
Time, it has gotten away from me! Yesterday, I grabbed a hoodie, set off for a walk and by the time I got back, there was a flurry of phone calls and silly errands and before I knew it I was about to be late for my movie date with Laura (credit card rewards points for free movie tickets = best thing that ever happened to unemployment. Next to Gilmore Girls reruns, I mean). I was worn out and asleep by 8:30.
Before I put it off any longer, let me sum up the Blind Date/Friend Date for you: the Date was personable, funny, and attractive in the way which I prefer above all others - nothing lacking, nothing overwhelming. Real. Solid. The Friend, she was pretty much AWESOME and along with her fiance and the Date, we gabbed our faces off for about 5 1/2 hours before realizing hey, staying out til 1:30 on a school night is sort of asking for an ass kicking, and wrapped it up. Now, the Date is either playing it really (really) cool, or was not all that interested after hearing my tale of Kevin the Five-Year-Old Who Thought He Was a Tyranosaurus Rex (I snort a LOT when I tell that one), because I haven't hear a peep. And the Friend, well, we still spend a good five hours a week gabbing our fingers off over email, so that was a solid win.
In other news, tomorrow is the Really Big Shoe. I'm off in the morning to San Antonio for a final interview and I have every hope that the love will be mutual and I'll be back in the workforce lickedy split. Perhaps I didn't realize how much I need to work in order to feel...normal and happy, because as hard as I've tried to maintain a schedule, be productive, set goals and whatnot, I have missed working tremendously. Yeah, the house is clean, the laundry's done, but it just doesn't kick out the same kind of satisfaction I get from doing a job I'm really, really good at. And this particular job, well, the idea of going to work every day with the people I have met makes me pretty excited. So, here's to hopin'. Actually, here's to a little more than hope, because I already canceled the other interview I had this week. Balls to the wall, people.
*** UPDATE ***
New nephew, new president, new job. This is about as good as it gets. I start Monday! P.S. the job is not in San Antonio - that's just where the final interview was held.
Before I put it off any longer, let me sum up the Blind Date/Friend Date for you: the Date was personable, funny, and attractive in the way which I prefer above all others - nothing lacking, nothing overwhelming. Real. Solid. The Friend, she was pretty much AWESOME and along with her fiance and the Date, we gabbed our faces off for about 5 1/2 hours before realizing hey, staying out til 1:30 on a school night is sort of asking for an ass kicking, and wrapped it up. Now, the Date is either playing it really (really) cool, or was not all that interested after hearing my tale of Kevin the Five-Year-Old Who Thought He Was a Tyranosaurus Rex (I snort a LOT when I tell that one), because I haven't hear a peep. And the Friend, well, we still spend a good five hours a week gabbing our fingers off over email, so that was a solid win.
In other news, tomorrow is the Really Big Shoe. I'm off in the morning to San Antonio for a final interview and I have every hope that the love will be mutual and I'll be back in the workforce lickedy split. Perhaps I didn't realize how much I need to work in order to feel...normal and happy, because as hard as I've tried to maintain a schedule, be productive, set goals and whatnot, I have missed working tremendously. Yeah, the house is clean, the laundry's done, but it just doesn't kick out the same kind of satisfaction I get from doing a job I'm really, really good at. And this particular job, well, the idea of going to work every day with the people I have met makes me pretty excited. So, here's to hopin'. Actually, here's to a little more than hope, because I already canceled the other interview I had this week. Balls to the wall, people.
*** UPDATE ***
New nephew, new president, new job. This is about as good as it gets. I start Monday! P.S. the job is not in San Antonio - that's just where the final interview was held.
You know me. When it comes to politics, I tend to stay pretty mum. But I will say this much: as Obama was Sir Hal's candidate, there was quite a bit of excitement going on in this apartment last night. What was that Hal? Yes, yes we did. Don't get him started on Proposition 8, though. He's still got his hackles up about that one.
I was just about to start in on The Blind Date Thing, but lo, the apartment folks are here to do a property inspection and I feel a little weird about sitting around, sans proper foundation garment (ahem) while they study baseboards and window sills. So, as the kids say, BRB. I'm gonna take a walk. The tale of excitement continues upon my return.
I was just about to start in on The Blind Date Thing, but lo, the apartment folks are here to do a property inspection and I feel a little weird about sitting around, sans proper foundation garment (ahem) while they study baseboards and window sills. So, as the kids say, BRB. I'm gonna take a walk. The tale of excitement continues upon my return.
It was in January, shortly after I fell to pieces over my Richard/Monica situation* and I was doing what I thought I was supposed to do: getting right back on the horse. We met watching a college basketball game, flirted over too many cocktails and then, in true post Gen X fashion, got to know each other better in the most intimate of intimate settings. MySpace.
This URL is listed on my profile. Naturally. I've been writing this site for six years come July and it's as much a part of me as where I live or my phone number. Only, more so, because unlike my zip code, it doesn't change every few years.
As he read up on my (mis)adventures, part of me couldn't help but cringe. What a time to meet me! I was still, in my heart of hearts, convinced that I would never be happy again, despite a very sincere determination to try. It's worth noting that I was up front about all of that when we met; I don't believe in false advertising. The lesson he took away from his reading, however was not exactly what I'd expected. He did express concern over his bad timing, but then he said something unexpected. He asked if I'd ever intended for any of the relationships I wrote about to work out.
Kapow!
I'm pretty certain that punching me in the chops would have achieved the same effect. First, shock, then came some form of anger (indignation, maybe?), but then I cooled off, telling myself that he couldn't know. All he saw was a girl who put her love life (no matter how finely edited) out on the Internet for... entertainment.
"That's a fair question," I told him, finally. "And yes, of course I sincerely wanted them to work."
He took me at my word. Not everyone is willing to do that.
It crosses my mind, every once in a while, to retire the blog. I worry what it says about me to people who don't know me. I can understand how it looks reckless -- crazy, even -- and attention hungry. At one point, it probably was. But it stopped being any of those things many years ago. I worry that when I don't write clearly enough, it's hard to see that, even as a truly accomplished smart-ass, I am (with some notable exceptions) thoughtful, careful and well-intentioned. Or I try to be. Oh, the things I hold back! I don't (intentionally) exploit the people I love for a good story. I don't even rat out the rattiest of the rat bastards until long after their stars have faded and I can't remember having ever dialed their numbers.
But that isn't always how it appears. And lately, I've been wondering more and more if having a public life doesn't present a very real threat to my private one.
(Don't worry: I'm not going anywhere at the moment; just ruminating.)
*If you don't describe all your life events in terms of Friends episodes (weirdo), this scenario is best described as a younger female, dating an older, basically perfect-for-her male, until he announces he absolutely does not ever, not ever ever, want children. So, the romance terminates in a tragic stalemate, she cries herself to sleep (and awake) and eats way too much Ben & Jerry products. The end.
This URL is listed on my profile. Naturally. I've been writing this site for six years come July and it's as much a part of me as where I live or my phone number. Only, more so, because unlike my zip code, it doesn't change every few years.
As he read up on my (mis)adventures, part of me couldn't help but cringe. What a time to meet me! I was still, in my heart of hearts, convinced that I would never be happy again, despite a very sincere determination to try. It's worth noting that I was up front about all of that when we met; I don't believe in false advertising. The lesson he took away from his reading, however was not exactly what I'd expected. He did express concern over his bad timing, but then he said something unexpected. He asked if I'd ever intended for any of the relationships I wrote about to work out.
Kapow!
I'm pretty certain that punching me in the chops would have achieved the same effect. First, shock, then came some form of anger (indignation, maybe?), but then I cooled off, telling myself that he couldn't know. All he saw was a girl who put her love life (no matter how finely edited) out on the Internet for... entertainment.
"That's a fair question," I told him, finally. "And yes, of course I sincerely wanted them to work."
He took me at my word. Not everyone is willing to do that.
It crosses my mind, every once in a while, to retire the blog. I worry what it says about me to people who don't know me. I can understand how it looks reckless -- crazy, even -- and attention hungry. At one point, it probably was. But it stopped being any of those things many years ago. I worry that when I don't write clearly enough, it's hard to see that, even as a truly accomplished smart-ass, I am (with some notable exceptions) thoughtful, careful and well-intentioned. Or I try to be. Oh, the things I hold back! I don't (intentionally) exploit the people I love for a good story. I don't even rat out the rattiest of the rat bastards until long after their stars have faded and I can't remember having ever dialed their numbers.
But that isn't always how it appears. And lately, I've been wondering more and more if having a public life doesn't present a very real threat to my private one.
(Don't worry: I'm not going anywhere at the moment; just ruminating.)
*If you don't describe all your life events in terms of Friends episodes (weirdo), this scenario is best described as a younger female, dating an older, basically perfect-for-her male, until he announces he absolutely does not ever, not ever ever, want children. So, the romance terminates in a tragic stalemate, she cries herself to sleep (and awake) and eats way too much Ben & Jerry products. The end.
Embarrassed, I thought somehow I'd managed to have too much to drink. At a wine bar, where the pour is decidedly stingy. But suddenly I was dizzy, hot and all apologies about being such a lightweight. Who gets wasted on a couple glasses of wine? Back at his apartment, he fetched me a pair of his socks and a glass of water, opened the patio doors to make me more comfortable. He lit some candles, and I... made a mad sprint for the bathroom. Where I spent the next hour projectile vomiting.
Thirteen hours later, a nurse plunged a needle into my ass and finally stopped me begging for death. By then, Jamie and my mother looked a little nauseated by suggestion and my adorable doctor looked disappointed that it wasn't some exotic stomach virus. Only food poisoning. Only.
I know, didn't I just get food poisoning? Yes, yes I did. I'm pretty proud that this time, I've managed to step it up a notch and spew all over a boy's bathroom at the end of a perfectly good date. So romantic, right?
I did it, of course, to test his mettle. How's a girl to know what kind of caliber of man she's dealing with if she doesn't get violently ill on him? Well, this one drove me the twenty-some miles home and then had to be pushed out my door, because as sweet as it is for him to want to take care of me, I did not need a fella hanging around to listen to the Symphony of Gag coming from my bathroom. Clearly, this one is not easily daunted. In fact, he was brave enough to suggest dinner tonight - a do-over for Saturday's misadventures in gastroenteritis.
I'm thinking that maybe I should cook. You know, just to be safe.
Thirteen hours later, a nurse plunged a needle into my ass and finally stopped me begging for death. By then, Jamie and my mother looked a little nauseated by suggestion and my adorable doctor looked disappointed that it wasn't some exotic stomach virus. Only food poisoning. Only.
I know, didn't I just get food poisoning? Yes, yes I did. I'm pretty proud that this time, I've managed to step it up a notch and spew all over a boy's bathroom at the end of a perfectly good date. So romantic, right?
I did it, of course, to test his mettle. How's a girl to know what kind of caliber of man she's dealing with if she doesn't get violently ill on him? Well, this one drove me the twenty-some miles home and then had to be pushed out my door, because as sweet as it is for him to want to take care of me, I did not need a fella hanging around to listen to the Symphony of Gag coming from my bathroom. Clearly, this one is not easily daunted. In fact, he was brave enough to suggest dinner tonight - a do-over for Saturday's misadventures in gastroenteritis.
I'm thinking that maybe I should cook. You know, just to be safe.
I thought, at first, he was just being obtuse when he emailed on Monday, asking about my plans for the week. Uh, Romeo? Thursday is Valentine's Day. But I said nothing and instead waited for him to step up his game. You know, or not. He called the next night.
"What are your thoughts on Valentine's Day?"
"Pro," I said.
"Huh?"
"Pro. You asked me what I think about Valentine's Day and I'm for it. If you're asking if I have plans for Valentine's Day..."
"See, the thing is, I already made plans with friends a long time ago."
I laughed. "Why didn't you just say that?"
"I was worried you might be offended or think I wasn't into you. Which isn't the case. I didn't want to hurt your feelings."
I laughed again. "I remain unoffended."
Having never spent a Valentine's Day spoiled by flowers and dinner and candles and such, I was sure I could live through another one without it. Especially after hearing how much he resented his past experiences with the holiday - being pressured into meeting over-the-top expectations.
"Uch. I'd probably hate it, too."
"You sure you're not upset or anything?"
"Silly, of course not! Wait, should I be?"
"I... no. It's just, well, I guess I've been dating the wrong girls."
"Sounds like it."
I couldn't think of anything I'd want less than for a man to do something seemingly sweet and romantic for me out of obligation. Gross. I want you to open my door and send me flowers and leave me sappy messages on my voicemail because you want to. Because it makes you happy to think I'm happy and not because you're afraid I'll be upset if you don't. Simple as that.
"So, what about Saturday?"
"Pro," I said.
"Saturday it is."
"What are your thoughts on Valentine's Day?"
"Pro," I said.
"Huh?"
"Pro. You asked me what I think about Valentine's Day and I'm for it. If you're asking if I have plans for Valentine's Day..."
"See, the thing is, I already made plans with friends a long time ago."
I laughed. "Why didn't you just say that?"
"I was worried you might be offended or think I wasn't into you. Which isn't the case. I didn't want to hurt your feelings."
I laughed again. "I remain unoffended."
Having never spent a Valentine's Day spoiled by flowers and dinner and candles and such, I was sure I could live through another one without it. Especially after hearing how much he resented his past experiences with the holiday - being pressured into meeting over-the-top expectations.
"Uch. I'd probably hate it, too."
"You sure you're not upset or anything?"
"Silly, of course not! Wait, should I be?"
"I... no. It's just, well, I guess I've been dating the wrong girls."
"Sounds like it."
I couldn't think of anything I'd want less than for a man to do something seemingly sweet and romantic for me out of obligation. Gross. I want you to open my door and send me flowers and leave me sappy messages on my voicemail because you want to. Because it makes you happy to think I'm happy and not because you're afraid I'll be upset if you don't. Simple as that.
"So, what about Saturday?"
"Pro," I said.
"Saturday it is."
