serious is a relative concept

It seemed sort of serious when he let me help him with his Netflix queue. We decided to watch all the Harry Potter movies in order, interspersed with Mad Men. It took us three installments to get through the first Harry Potter because I kept falling asleep, so we’ve managed to plan our couch time for at least the next few months.

“Oh! Can we add Grey Gardens?
“That’s a girl movie”
“You don’t have to add it.”
“I’ll add it, but I’m also adding this one where Jessica Alba is a stripper.”

This from the boy for whom Netflix recommends the category “Gay & Lesbian Action & Adventure”, which seems pretty specific.

Yeah, planning what movies we are going to watch seemed serious.

He has Torah portions in his calendar along with work obligations and parties.

“Is it ever going to matter that I’m not Jewish?”

He ‘s across the room when I ask; he comes close to answer. He doesn’t say anything I don’t know.

My hands find his chest, fingers up his tee shirt sleeves. He explains, things I knew without asking: It’s important to him, he’d never expect anything from me, it would matter if there were kids.

And this is where we are and my tears are fat and falling and his are more sideways and shiny. And I need to know need to know need to know now. Can we do this? Will we do this? How do we do this?

Can you believe we're really here? Talking about babies?

“I need to know now. I can’t waste time. I need to know now. I don’t want to be old and alone.”
“You won’t be old and alone. You’re loveable. You’d find someone.”

Fatter, fallier tears. Because finding someone to love me is not a problem. Don’t you see? Don’t you see I want you? Lie to me. I promise I’ll believe. Don’t you know? I’ve wished for you over 312 smoky birthday candles, sent the hope of you up into 143 dark night skies toward that first prick of starlight, kissed my necklace clasp every time it falls to the middle with a secret thought of this, and fallen asleep 5840 nights, hoping to dream you into my reality. Don’t you see? Don’t you see how lucky you are? I want to choose you.

But, please, don’t leave.

I have his shirt clutched in my fist.

“No. No. You can’t want me to be with someone else.”

He’s back.

“You’re right. You’re going to be with me. We’ll figure the rest out.”

He picks me up, tosses me on his bed.

The rest we’ll figure out. Every day, we’ll figure out. This part, we know. This is good.

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trauma or i . . . ah. . . um. . . fell down the stairs

My first thought, after the initial shock, was that I was going to have two black eyes and that was going to be hard to explain. And my second thought was that we’d definitely have to have separate interviews at the emergency room.

He doesn’t just do jazz hands when he tells a story about an crisis, he really does it when he’s panicking.

He got me ice, which was thoughtful, considering he’d just woken me with a full-force headbutt. There was no blood, and I wasn’t so worried that I had a concussion that I couldn’t go back to sleep.


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his baby cousin

We were getting our coats on, which involved hugs and teasing and goodbyes and a crowd gathered around the front door, when a skinny, sweatered, 11-year-old arm threw itself around me from behind.

This isn’t the way I’ve ever celebrated this holiday. Except for the turkey, not a single food on the table was the same. I have my own little cousins who greet me with forceful, running-start hugs. This isn’t my family.

This cousin-- She’s brilliant and talkative, and sometimes it’s easy to forget that she’s really only eleven. But this hug was the unencumbered sort that you only get from little kids. Sitting on the passenger’s side, I realized that as much as I like her, if I let myself be completely honest, letting go of caution, I could flat-out love her like I’d always had her.

I like these people, even if they have mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving.

This feels like a Thing to me.

And I think the glisten, highlighted by his parents’ taillights, on Ted’s cheeks might mean I’m right.


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the night with the magic daiquiris or what if nobody wants to marry me before i'm 36

Almost seven years ago, I met Harper’s brother, we fell in love, and he proposed.

It was Mardi Gras, and he arrived at our house one night after we’d had 32-ounce daiquiris (and also some beer from a weimaraner and his boy until the boy’s girlfriend disallowed him from talking to me). I couldn’t feel my face, and Harper’s brother looked like Tom Cruise. He bought me a slice of pizza, I dropped it on the sidewalk, and he bought me another one. He made sure I didn’t walk in the street. He was perfect.

What should have been one magical (and hangover-free) night, became something more on the internet. He became my backup boyfriend, someone to be around when I came home alone, a sort of safety net. And we made one of those pacts: if we aren’t married by a certain time, we’ll just marry each other.

Harper’s brother got engaged. . . to some other girl. And there goes my safety net.


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I wonder if there will ever be a time when he will be so busy [planning a vacation, reading a bedtime story, writing the novella that is going to finance our apartment purchase] and I will be so busy [finalizing a dinner party menu, walking the dog, starting a non-profit arts program for girls in youth detention centers] that a moment will pass and I will forget how lucky I am and I won’t feel the need to tell him every ten minutes that I love him.

I wonder if there will ever come a time when I am so accustomed to this having someone [laughing at my jokes, thinking I’m pretty, indulging my fear of copyshops and champagne bottles, letting me warm my feet on his tummy, using my own reasoning to talk me out of bangs. . . again] that I will take all this for granted.


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perfect strangers

It suddenly occurred to me that just because they are two of my favorite people doesn’t mean that they want to spend this much time with each other. Dinner followed directly by brunch the next morning might have been a bit much to ask of near strangers.

The thought dawns as my mom and I approach Ted on the sidewalk in front of one of Ted’s and my favorite brunch places (the name of which I will omit only because I dread the day we have to wait for a table).

But they laugh and smile and this all seems too easy. I’m not used to caring much, but this seems to matter, and I’m not even nervous. Wow, I love french toast.

He walked us to the train, and I even held his hand.


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yeah. . . and. . . the dog ate my homework

I am embarrassed to have to ask for another extension, but here goes.

In addition to it being a busy time of year full of family parties and planning my Yule Log and finishing homemade gifts and going shopping with my dad, I passed out at the doctors office today. I was out cold, finally recovered on the floor. Luckily, he’s hot. Oh, and I should mention he’s an eye doctor. I passed out during an eye exam.

I hope you’ll forgive me. It’s always something.


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don't get too excited

Blog thing from DSS, trying to be a participator, not a lot of time, nothing written for today.

Ten things I love:

Doing ballet in front of mirrors when I think no one is watching and when I think someone doesn’t think
I think they are watching

Handbell choirs


Jam, especially with cream cheese, and especially always

Making gifts for people. And finishing them.

Starting projects

Cutting things, mostly with scissors

Party dresses (for all occasions)

Waking up early or sleeping late, whichever I didn’t do that day

Saying, “Don’t slip!” whenever I see a banana peel on the ground

I’ll have something good by Monday. I promise.


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The first time my bathtub broke, I wrote this:

The first springtime thunderstorm and a broken bathtub: can anything make you want a boyfriend more?

Maybe that anxiety attack that’s lurking just below your ribcage.

It was before I ever saw his face. Or heard his voice. Or fell asleep, cheek to forehead and hand to bicep and toes tucked under calf.

And he told me he liked the image of anxiety lurking, but he’d take the “that’s” out of the second part. He was right, of course, and I should have known we’d fall in love.

The second time my bathtub broke was yesterday, and getting it fixed is looking to be another debacle. The second time my bathtub broke, I had a great place to shower. The next morning, someone even drove me to work.


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You know, Internet, I don’t have to tell you everything. Some things I get to keep. I’ll share with him maybe.

I’ll keep what he said when he was leaning against that tree. And the way his eyes looked, leaking a little. The blend of hopefulness and desperation in his voice-- I’m not going to try to describe it, just to remember it.

I’ll tell you this: we went for a walk in Chinatown, and we saw a goldfish that cost $1800.


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like, seriously, i had too much coffee

I make lists.

Things to tell Ted when this boring concert is over:
-I think I need a cello. I’d learn to play it.
-What if I’m too busy to hang out with my mom if she comes to visit??
-What if I drew you a bunch of things on brown paper bags? Wait. I already did that.
-Can we get cheesecake?
-I think I drank too much coffee.

Things to remember:
-Not all spices have shaker tops.
-Sometimes bicycles go backwards down one-way streets.
-I shouldn’t buy raisin bread unless I want to eat the whole loaf in two days and feel guilty.
-I am very lucky.

Things to learn to cook well:
-pizza crust
-pot pie
-something that isn’t carbs


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I went shopping with Sam, and he bought a jacket and fell in love.

The salesboy had Williamsburg glasses and a Minnesota face, and he was extra helpful. Then, after he handed Sam back his credit card, he said:

“We’re all night! I mean. . . We’re all set. . . . Have a good night.”

And of course Sam was smitten, but didn’t realize it until after we left the store, so we had to find out the boy’s name from the receipt.

Now he keeps pretending the store is on his way home and walking past it. There’s been a fair amount of plotting and scheming how to make something happen.

If I had to wager, I’d bet he never talks to the boy again. After all, it’s much easier to keep loving someone you never know.


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on why you should just say what you mean

The first time I said it I meant it.

“I’m going to wash the dishes.”

But my arms were so heavy, and it was hard to get up. I tried, but I just slumped further into the sofa.

“Ugh. I guess I need to wash the dishes.”

The second time I was thinking that I worked as long as he did and went to the grocery store and made him dinner and brought him second helpings.

I pulled my feet up on the couch, and laid my head on his shoulder.

By the third time, my head was in his lap, and I didn’t mean it at all.

“I guess I really should wash those dishes.”

I didn’t take my eyes off the television. Besides , I was uninvolved in the dirtying of the rest of the sink full of dishes in there.

My strategy didn’t work.

“Will you just wash the dishes?”

And he did.

The end.


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apologies and math and a sappy thought on snacks

i have so many things to tell you, but just not enough time. i'll get on with the story soon, but for now, just math:

if you work 13 hours, and since you worked 13 hours, want to sleep 7 hours, and need an hour to get ready for work and get there and another hour to get home, that's 22 hours of your day spent, leaving only two for things like showering and updating the internet on your personal life.

it's days like this one that make me wish i just lived with this boy, if only because he always keeps ice cream in the freezer.


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so. . . here we are

Nothing makes me feel old and boring like when he gets out of bed and goes to the living room to read on the couch.

I feel like. . . my parents.


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