the most wonderful time of the year

Do you think one day we’ll say, Remember that time we bought a menorah and a Christmas tree?

It’s one first for each of us.

He got tinsel, colored lights, and a Mets ornament. I arranged the candles so they alternate, blue and white.

Happy Holidays, guys.

I go with C-h-a-n-u-k-a-h, to emphasize the CHHHHHHH.

Yeah. . . if you aren’t Jewish, spelling it with the C can look a little pretentious. But I guess I can learn to spell it your way; I have a menorah.



what you give and what you get

It was a sad story. Really tragic, I thought when the show was over.

The cool, calm voice of my mother, embedded in my head, replied, It wasn’t a sad story. She went back to her husband and her life. She went back to her family. She did what she should do.

Years after it happened, my mom told me that one day she put my four-year-old self and my baby brother in our old brown station wagon and drove away. My dad was working, either at his regular job or the rapidly failing business that once-friends had abandoned to him. She left forever, but she had no cash and knew the credit cards wouldn’t work. She was running out of gas and didn’t want to end up, embarrassed and un-pitied, at her parents’. She didn’t know where else to go, so she went back home.

It’s the stuff Oprah’s Book Club is made of.

I don’t remember it.

It’s not a sad story, it turns out. It’s a story about responsibility and obligation and enduring.

My parents have been at the coast, odd for the middle of the week. My mom took a nap on a friend’s yacht and my dad caught the biggest fish she’s ever seen. She had to get off the phone so she could get back to shopping for beach houses before dinner.

It’s a story about rewards.



fall, and why maybe i'll write again

We’ve had weeks (months?) of take out containers and piles of laundry and I’ll-be-home-soons that turned into I’ll-be-home-in-time-to-fall-asleep-and-if-we’re-lucky-make-it-out-the-door-tomorrows. The run-downs turned into some sort of cold that started with a sore throat and ended with three days of intense nausea, which would have seemed unbelievable as a sickness if we hadn’t had identical symptoms. Thursdays have really been feeling like Fridays, and I’ve felt so threadbare as to be invisible enough for an automatic door at the grocery store close on me (literally-- it hit me in the shoulder) and to have strangers sit on me on the subway even more than usual.

Last weekend, we both had the same day off for the first time in ages, and after a day of apple picking with friends and watching movies in bed, I realized that, as much as I love his reassuring presence and the way the garbage disappears and clean laundry appears, I’d missed talking to him.

My busy season ended today; Ted’s is just getting starting. I left work at 3; he should be home before 8. I feel like celebrating being able to be a good girlfriend again along with the chill in the air.

I bought a six-pound butternut squash.



about sex and chores and other big news

He came home and took off his clothes and pressed against me.

I said, “What’s that?”, and he said,

“I’m reaching out to you.”

I said, “We can have sex if you wash the dishes after, while I wash my hair.” but he just kept searching my face with his lips.

And I dodged those lips and asked if he promised until he promised.

I came out the winner all-around.

We found a new apartment, ready in a few months around the same time we are. We’ve been faxing a lot of things, but cross your fingers that the prize for all the paperwork is a washer and dryer and some walls.


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a snippet-- fill-in-the-blanks

A few weeks ago, over a 3-hour ham(and chicken- and veggi-)burger dinner with Ted and my cousin and his wife:

“. . . at our wedding.”
“Wait, so when is your brother getting married?”
“The 25th.”
“What? Of July? Of this month?”
“Yeah. They got a package at a bed and breakfast for nine people.”
“Wow. I would never be able to do that.”
“Oh, no. At our wedding we had people we just had to invite. . . .”
“Did you know that Dunkin’ Donuts has ninety-nine cent iced tea now?”
“Did you just try to change the subject?”

I’ll let you figure out who said what.


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i am so happy for you!

My hobbies are cake, flowers, party dresses, etiquette, and paper products. And my job is full of fancy parties. I could pretend that I don’t love weddings, but no one would believe me.

And when I invited myself over to Harrington’s roof on Saturday night he said it would be perfect because I could give his wedding invite list (for a party 14 months away) a once over. . . and see YouTube videos of the cocktail-hour band. . . and see the photographer’s work.

And Cooper let me know he was proposing to his girl the next day.

And Prince Charming casually mentioned that he has been engaged for a month.

And that was going to be my blog post for today-- about how everyone is getting married and how it’s obviously a race and I’m losing and how I keep just accidentally Googling wedding dresses.

And then.

And then. . . .

Ted texted me to let me know that his brother. . . his little brother. . . is engaged. It happened last night.

And that’s it. If Simon calls to say he’s getting married, I will throw up.


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two people in a studio is kinda nice, now that i think about it

Ted’s out of town all weekend, and I have the house to myself for two nights and three days.

I can do whatever I want.

I can eat baguette with tomato and hard-boiled eggs and mayonnaise for dinner. . . again. . . without worrying that someone else will be tired of that. And I can eat almost an entire bag of chocolate cookies and watch that movie about childbirth that everyone else has seen. . . but not at the same time because Ricki Lake, naked in a bathtub, isn’t exactly appetizing. I can get up whenever I want and watch So You Think You Can Dance in fastforward and Father of the Bride and In Her Shoes (again) and drink coffee and call my mom from bed. I can braid my hair and unbraid my hair and braid my hair. . . until my arms are tired. I could even give in to my compulsion to cut hair. . . and I still might. I can Google diamonds and what kind of house we could buy if we moved where my parents live. I can leave magazines and bobby pins and chip clips and the remote in bed. I can take as long as I want to get dressed; I don’t have to get dressed until 5:30 if that’s what I want to do.

I guess there are trade-offs.

No one will turn off the lights when I fall asleep reading, and I’ll wake up at 4:38 with the lamp on. And no one will have park breakfast with me by the Peter Pan statue, and if I went alone, no one would protect me from the persistent squirrels. And I won’t have a dance party partner except for my reflection in the television. And I might even have to take the trash out myself.


p.s. i cut my hair. um, kind of a lot. i had my scissor privileges revoked regularly when i was a child.


wedding of the century

Ted caught the bouquet. To keep if from hitting the floor, he says. With an outstretched arm and a measure of decisiveness, I say.

Maybe it was just a matter of perspective.

Boys can catch the bouquet, by the way, in Connecticut, where Grandmas can also marry their girlfriends in sweet ceremonies where the justice of the peace cries and the kids, grownups for all appearances, sneak rice from the restaurant kitchen in two coffee cups, to ensure a proper send-off.

We brought the cake and got in a fight in the car. We fight like my parents. That’s disturbing, but not altogether uncomfortable.

It feels familiar.

We made up after the party started. There were quick kisses and whispered apologies. It was a celebration of love, after all.

Then there was toasting and lunch and Ted clobbered his cousins so he could snatch that bouquet.




"Are you really going to do this?"
"What else are boyfriends for?"

Sleep-faced and slow-talking, I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him cradle airlift me to bed.

I could wake up. And this could all be a dream.


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“Wait. Doesn’t Ted care that you are out with me?”
“That would be hypocritical. And I’m with you. And. . . and we live in a studio. We’d go crazy if we didn’t leave once in a while.”

I had escaped with Pete into the well-air-conditioned world of an electronics showroom with comfortable sofas in Columbus Circle after a quick bite of Whole Foods sushi on what was not just the hottest day of the year, but the hottest day in six years. We were both sporting electric 3D glasses and settled in for a past-due chat about his recent write-up in a big publication and his current status with his (crazy) girlfriend and other Important Things.

“Well. . . No. . . . You wouldn’t worry about that.”
“About what?”
“You don’t worry about ending up with someone just because it’s there and you think you owe it to them.”
“I used to, but not anymore.”

The afternoon before was spent with John, who was in town for a few days and soon introduced to the oasis of the Temple of Dendur which, located inside the Met and with a view of the park, is the best place on the Upper East Side to spend an unrelentingly hot day.

Ted would have joined us, but let me go alone to catch up with an old friend when I decided that would probably be better. He went to the zoo and kept cool at the movies.

I love him and he knows. And I know that love is better when it’s more about trusting than about possessing. And we both know that you can’t keep love if you squeeze it too tight.



i haven't cleaned up the aftermath of the sink being fixed, so we are ordering in

"What are you gonna get?"
"Vegetable biryani."
"Isn't that what you got last time?"
"You love getting the same thing."
"Remember that time I got something new and it tasted like a bathroom air freshener?"



We had to change laundries because it seemed like the strange frilly knickers we were getting back might somehow correlate to my sudden shortage of underpants.

Our savings account earned three cents, but is seeming more real this months as it is now four digits.

We go for walks and watch Hell’s Kitchen.

And the sink is broken. It was draining slow, then not at all, then working again. And finally it began silently regurgitating filthy brown water. The super’s number, stored in my phone, usually a direct line to a crabby wife, is being answered by a woman named Susan. My landlord answered one email and has since been MIA.

The dirty dishes are piling up, but it’s too hot to cook anyway.


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My mom said, “Well that’s what happens when you have a boyfriend.”

I stepped on a scale at Bed, Bath, & Beyond. The number shocked me, and in the nanosecond of terror, my handbag and two bathmats ejected from my sides in an effort to get it under control. My first thought was, Why didn’t anyone tell me?

“Remember after Aunt Stacy married Mac and she woke up one morning and instead of getting on her treadmill, she thought, I don’t have to do this anymore, and she got back in bed?”

The scale was broken. I didn’t actually gain thirty pounds without noticing and with my clothes still fitting.

I’ve gained 7 pounds in the year-and-a-half I’ve known Ted, along with a general, all-over softness. I’m weighing in at a whopping 112 pounds, and I like to think I’ve earned my jiggle.


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count 'em

This makes six, I think. Not counting the implied intent of starry-eyed and slightly delusional boyfriends or bums.

There was one hand-written on three-lined paper, circa 1986. Three that one wild month junior year of college. One on an airport shuttle about five years ago.

“When are you getting married?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my boyfriend.”
“You can get married whenever you want.”
“You want to get married, you let me know. You can get married whenever you want.”

One sesame bagel, toasted, with veggie cream cheese and a side of self-esteem, thanks.


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this morning, it was easy

“Love is a choice. You have to wake up every day and decide to do it.”

Hugo’s going through a breakup and waxing philosophical to his only ex who’s not still too angry to listen.

He’s right, though.

This week Ted and I chose to not fight about the electricity bill. We chose to watch a lot of t.v. on the couch. I chose to cook dinner; he chose to do some dishes. We chose to go for a walk, but it started raining, so we re-chose to watch more t.v.



7 days out of 28

I thought maybe if I just didn’t say anything he wouldn’t notice what time it was and I could just lie around on the couch and watch Definitely, Maybe and eat chocolate chips. It didn’t work.

And just as he was about to call for the car*, I decided to try to talk him out of it (between fistfuls of chocolate).

“It’s just so hot and I ate too much Indian food and we were away all last weekend and we’ll be gone this weekend and I’ll only know one person there and. . . I’m just so PMS-y. I just want to eat junk food and watch this movie and look at pictures of babies in costumes. I want to google pictures of puppies in baskets.”

So we didn’t go. And he cuddled up on the couch with me.

And yesterday while he was watching baseball with his dad, I looked up baby names on the Social Security website and wedding venues and pictures of the party in the 1954 version of Sabrina.

It is a good thing every week isn’t the blank pill week in the DialPac.

* We got a garage, and it makes even going to Bay Ridge sound like a fancy event.


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back. and mostly the same

“Oh, well, I keep in touch with her. She was in my wedding-- my first wedding. I was married before this. I dated Justin Hornell all through high school, you know, and then I met my first husband and we got married real quick. And then this. Are y’all married? Oh, well, we lived together first, too. And let me tell you -- if y’all ever do get married-- we got married and got pregnant in three months. It can happen. And I don’t know if you want to know this. . . but then, after I stopped breastfeeding my little girl, we got pregnant again like that. . . .”

I went to my ten year high school reunion. I must have known this Heather at some point, but by this point I was glad she went to get some food, because I did not need any more details. And I’m pretty sure you can’t get pregnant from getting married. . . pretty sure.

When we got there, I was greeted by the lunch table where I didn’t sit in high school. Everyone had the exact same haircuts.


I’ve been away for a few weeks, and some things have changed. My boy moved in. We’ve fought, like twice, but I don’t really see any reason for this not to work out. Work got busy, then calm, because things are easy with me and Sam in charge. Ted and I went to this reunion and to see my parents. We travel well together as long as I stay away from coffee. Next weekend we’re going to the beach with Julianna and Ed.

At dinner a few nights ago, sitting at the little table we’ve borrowed from his parents, I told Ted that I knew how the movie of my life would start:

It opens with I am a Rock by Simon and Garfunkel playing. I’d walk out of the subway, coming home from work. I’d nod shyly to a doorman, wait for the light and cross the street, I’d get to my shabby building, and there’d be no mail when I checked. In my little apartment with no furniture, I’d change clothes and fluff my hair. Then the music would stop-- silence-- and the scene would cut to me sitting across two huge plates from and average looking guy in a trendy restaurant. I’d say something inappropriate.

“Then what?”
“That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

So I guess things have changed. Three years ago I’d take weekends off Facebook because the engagements were overwhelming. Memorial Day Weekend, four of my Facebook friends had babies. (One was cute; three were not.) I live with a boy. Today I came home from work and baked cookies so he could take them to poker night with the guys. I’m sure that pretty soon he’s going to start closing the shower curtain after he’s taken a shower.

’Cause even though some never do, people can change.



for real though

summer is my busy season, professionally and personally. and the boy is moving here saturday, and there's not really room for him yet. and i had two birthday parties saturday and a friend in town and worked all day sunday and my back hurts and. . . yeah. . . i'll be back. . . soon.


something to worry about

i touch my computer, it breaks, stops responding, etc. ted turns it on, and it works. i guess there's a reason i keep him around. you can thank him for this lovely post about t.v. and my period.


I mean. . . I probably shouldn’t be getting sex ed. information from Mad Men.

“That’s not a thing, right? I mean, that doesn’t mean you’re pregnant. I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been pregnant.”
“Well, that happened to me. . . and. . . I think that’s not a thing. It’s not a thing, right? Right?”
“I don’t want to tell you it’s not a thing if it is a thing.”

My cousin is two years older than me and has been trying to get pregnant for at least five years with no luck at all, only teary spells from the hormones. And what if I wasted my fertility on frat parties and hangovers and waking up in strange beds? And even worse, what if I had a baby? Where would I put it in my studio? In a suitcase? The top kitchen shelf I have to stand on a chair to reach? Or worse than worse, what if I’m not a cute mom with outfits, but one of those old ones with the saggy eyes??

It’s hard enough on regular days, thinking about it, even without Betty Draper with her perfect hair and her perfect skin and her perfect waist teaching us this lesson via Netflix.

So Ted Googled it. And of course it’s a thing because everything is a symptom of pregnancy. And when everything is a symptom, I have them all.

And that was something to worry about.

“What would we do?”
“I don’t know. It would make things harder, but I guess we’d deal with it. But let’s not worry about it until it’s a thing.”

I don’t know what I wanted him to say. (“Love it.”? That would be a little cliché and a little more insincere.)

In a book of short stories, I once read an interesting thought about how we spend our twenties trying not to get pregnant and our thirties trying to have babies. I wish I could remember the sentence, the author, the book. . . .

I worried ‘til I fell asleep, didn’t have to worry long after I woke up.

About that.

There’s always something to worry about.


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important update

i thought she was just being finicky-- but the spazziness and panic attacks just grew more frequent, and my computer finally flatlined on friday night. the boy says he's buying a new macbook soon, so now i really have an incentive to let him move in. posting might be spotty for a bit, but remember that i love you. or at least that i love that you love me.

in other news:

-i'm not too old for concerts, and i am an amazing dancer. and if the bass player for weezer is interested, i want to have your babies.

-free hugs tee shirts, etc. are stupid. if you are paying for your hugs, you are doing something wrong.


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A Story about a Boy and a Girl, Who are Not Us (Obviously) : A Play in 2 Acts


Scene: Small, untidy, sparsely-furnished city studio apartment. Upstage, a closet spills laundry onto the floor. There is a small kitchenette with dishes stacked haphazardly. A discarded cookie bag sticks out of a trashcan. Stage right is a closed door that opens into an unseen hallway or stairwell. Stage left is an unmade bed and windows that filter in late-afternoon sunlight.

SHE stands, fussing with a back zipper in a non-descript sun dress. It catches, and she sighs. She pinches at the fat of her abdomen; there’s not much, but what is there seems to disgust her. She tries the zipper again, and it goes up. The dress fits. She tests the jiggliness of her arms, first by waving one, then my flexing it and stabbing at it with her finger. When she flexes, there is no jiggle. She poses and examines herself before unzipping the dress. The zipper catches again in the same place before going down, and she removes one arm.

There is the loud. sound of a key in the deadbolt, and SHE clutches the dress back to her chest. HE enters, dressed in work clothes, tie loosened and shirt partially untucked. There is a magazine, folded, in his back pocket.

SHE [dropping the dress to the floor, stands in panties, arms outstretched]: I’ll be ready soon, I promise. I hate all my clothes.

HE: You do not hate all your clothes. [He pats her thigh and kisses her on the temple.] Hi.

SHE: Hi. [She kisses him then slings the sundress away with her foot.] There are things here I’ve never even seen before. [She motions abstractly at the closet.] I’ve never seen them, but I hate them. [Holding up a blue halter-top.] Like this.

HE: Well, wear that.
SHE: It’s not true. I have seen that. [She flings the shirt away.] It has an unflattering neck-line.
HE: You like that blue cardigan and that orange shirt that’s kind of bohemian. You wear those a lot.
SHE: I wear them a lot, so I don’t like them.
HE: What about those new things? Those dresses and things. . . .
SHE: I hate those, too. That’s not true, but I don’t want to wear them today.

HE stretches out on the bed, looks at his phone, flips through the magazine. SHE contemplates the pile of laundry, then leans over and lifts an armful of it before dropping it again. She does this several times.

SHE: [whining] I hate it all.
HE: Did you eat anything?
SHE: Well. . . a snack. Some strawberries and some cheese and some of those chocolate cookies. [She glances quickly at the trash can toward HE before slumping over again, this time contemplating her naked belly.] Which I shouldn’t have done. I’m so fat.
HE: I am pretty sure you are not fat.
SHE: I am! I’m so fat.
HE: Hmm.
SHE: My stomach spills over my pants. And I have thunder thighs.
HE: Yeah. . . and birthing hips. . . .
SHE: [Standing up straight and looks at him, possibly for the first time.] What?
HE: Um. . . [He stands up and takes a few steps in her direction before stopping.]
SHE: Don’t say that! I’m sensitive about my hips. Do you really think I have wide hips?
HE: Um. . . Ah. . . .
SHE: Say I have the sort of hips that will require C-sections. Say my hips are too narrow to allow the passage of a baby’s head!
HE: That sounds. . . unhealthy.
SHE: Unhealthy is good! Unhealthy is pretty. Do you really think I have birthing hips?
HE: I don’t know. I mean, I don’t really pay attention to hips. I’d have to have a lineup of the spectrum of hips. . . .
SHE: Don’t say that! Say you love my hips, they’re prefect hips, they’re the only hips you like. How long do we have? I guess I’ll wear what I was already wearing today.

The lights dim as SHE takes a bra from the pile on the floor and puts it on.


It is nighttime. HE and SHE are on a downtown corner. They are standing on the sidewalk in front of a graffiti-ed brick wall and a deli/bodega.

HE: What do you want to eat?
SHE: Well, obviously I want something big and bad for me, like spaghetti.
HE: I think I have pasta at home.
SHE: I don’t really want that. What about pizza? [She motions into the distance.]
HE: This might be the most unmanly thing I’ve ever said, but that might be a little heavy for me.
SHE: Oh. . . .
HE: What else?
SHE: I’m not really hungry. I’m kind of queasy.
HE: I know what that means. . . You need to eat.
SHE: [defensively] You do not know everything about me. . . .
HE: Maybe not, but I know enough, and I know this.
SHE: How about tacos?
HE: Done.

Holding hands, they exit stage left.



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364 days


We had falafel sandwiches in the same place where we first met each other. I made a mess, same as the first time. We call it our first date, start counting from that day, divide our lives into Before Falafel and After. I don’t know where we’d be if we hadn’t met each other.

“I’d probably still be trying to bang every girl on the Lower East Side.”
“And I’d probably be dating a banker.”
“But you wouldn’t be happy.”
“That is probably true.”

It wasn’t a glamorous day, just a really, really good one. They’re mostly good, lately.


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an experiment in judaism

Don’t tell him, but I could have cried at the silent prayer time, and it wasn’t because I felt at home or the presence of God, but the rabbi said pray about things you are thankful for and hopeful about and there were just so many things.


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thoughts on the way to work

“Remember when that pigeon was pecking that other pigeon?”
“Um. . . yeah. . . .”
“Well, first he was walking around on the dead pigeon then he started eating him. . . .”
“Yeah, that was pretty gross.”


I sidestepped a furry patch on the pavement. It was a rat, most likely, before an unfortunate moment-- minutes or hours ago-- in the street where Clinton meets Houston.

I heard a long, loud list of angry obscenities across Spring, but didn’t turn my head, concentrating on Jack Johnson’s and Cat Stevens’ brilliant scoring of my walk to work.

Last night I saw a naked man roller-skate onto a stage-- more of a circus ring, really-- and my first thought was just, If I’d ever taken time to try to imagine a naked man roller-skating, that, I think, is what it would have looked like. . . . the physics, at least, if not the mohawk.

I’m just a drop sometimes, part of an underground stream capable of running up stairs before spewing onto the dirty sidewalk, eyes down-cast in order to avoid dead rats and dog poop, but, when happening to glance up, desensitized to the postcard skyline.

I don’t get asked for directions as often as I used to, but when I do, I can usually give them.

I’m not a New Yorker, I want to shout at the tourists in ugly sneakers, the bums, the F train, the three-hundred-dollar tee shirts, myself. I’m just a little girl from Georgia: witness to shooting stars so bright they must have landed just on the other side of the azalea hedge, where we should probably check in the morning; possessor of black soles, unable to recall the last time she wore shoes; creator of potent perfumes, made with the finest combination of macerated petals, sticks, dirt, and plastic-hose-water; explorer of magnolias, with rooms, big like houses; beneficiary of the night-time lullaby of frogs and crickets and the occasional train whistle.

I could be a New Yorker, most days.

I can believe it until I hear the whine of a 4- or 5-year-old child, sharp and whining, demanding of a parent or nanny that they not walk, but take a cab to their destination.

It’s a voice you’ll hear again in 15 or 20 years. It will be walking in front of you, having an indiscreet mobile conversation about an ex-best-friend’s recently acquired STD or at the next table over, discussing a mother’s most recent rehab attempt and failure. It will sound angry, even when it’s not.

It’s a voice I feel sorry for, making me wonder, In a place with no dirt driveways, where do you learn to ride a bike?




I want to flip through books of paint chips. I want to sew long, straight curtain seams and hang botanical prints and photos we took on vacation. I want to reupholster.

I need a two-tiered, wire bin for onions and potatoes and a magnet strip to hold my knives. I need a bench for the foot of the bed and a four-story shoe rack and a shag rug. I need an immersion blender, a stand mixer, and a set of All-Clad (sans Teflon, please). . . a waffle iron, a mandoline. . . an assortment of Le Creuset (I haven’t decided on a color). . . .

I want to make tiny brioche buns for tiny hamburgers, so we’ll need a tiny barbeque grill on a tiny balcony, overlooking a tiny garden (if you don’t mind). I’ll need a big tray to serve them and several pretty pitchers for offering refills. And I will probably need a crinolined-dress and an apron that was never meant to get dirty. . . .

We went to Crate and Barrel. And maybe I’ve been watching too much Mad Men.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to nest. That’s a thing, right?

I got the most adorable little lidded casserole. It will be so perfect for baked dips and maybe pasta for two and this strawberry clafoutis recipe I’m dying to try.

Hesitant at first, Ted then spent the next twenty minutes deciding on high-ball glasses. And we got some tiny martini glasses, because, even though Ted insists that I never drink, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have lived without them.

These are our first together-things, full of happiness and hope and potential.

Now we just need to buy some plants. . . and a muffin tin. . . and a new duvet. . . .


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the chorus

I keep wishing the blossoms back on the trees.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long.

That Beach Boys’ song came on today at work. I don’t think Brian Wilson* ever sang about the excitement of maybe starting a savings account together. Or apprehension at the possibility of your boyfriend getting a really amazing job in Philadelphia. Or worrying that you’ll never get your place on 6th street or 9th street and that everyone in Philadelphia will hate you and that all the jobs will be in cubicles.

. . . Maybe we could liiiiiiiive together. . . Oh, wouldn’t it beee niiiiice. . .

Sam says it’s the ultimate goal.
“What is?”
“Two people, one bedroom.”

They don’t even mention the part where you have to clear out some of your stuff so your boyfriend’s stuff will have a spot . Or how nice it will be to have both of your wardrobes in a central location. Or how all the logistics will be easier and whoever gets home first can start dinner. . . .

The Beach Boys are old now-- like Beach Grandpas****. In the late autumns of their lives, they probably aren’t wishing to be older, but instead wishing friends back into lives, lovers back into beds, babies back into play-pens, hair back onto heads, blossoms back onto trees.

I just want to be here for a while.

*not to be confused with my lover, and anchor of the NBC Nightly News, Brian Williams**

**not to be confused with my boyfriend, and MSNBC personality, Carl Quintanina***

***I have a thing for newsmen

****Wouldn’t it be nice if they were older and could live together in the same assisted living community?


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we're always ok


He didn’t hear me, so I went back into the bathroom.


He was still shouting ’cause he was in the shower.

“When we move in together, I promise, that if I use your soap, I’ll put it back in the same place so you can find it.”
“Thanks. Maybe I should be promising that I won’t move your soap?”
“How many minutes do I have?”
“Zero. Zero minutes. I’m hungry.”
“Well, you can have some cereal.”
“Can I put it in a bag?”
“Yes. You are like a baby in the park.”

“Except then it would be Cheerios.” We said that part together.

I never worry about what would happen if this didn’t work out. I worry about not worrying about what would happen if this didn’t work out, but that is different, I think.

Maybe I should worry. Do you think you get points for trying not to cry?

’Cause I tried last night, but I was just so hungry and so tired and my feet hurt. And when he walked away in front of me, I thought about David and how wrong something can be even when you think it’s pretty ok.

I tried.

“Hey hey hey. Come here come here come here. I love you.”

I think there is nothing wrong with this. Nothing that a hug and a sandwich won’t fix.


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this easter. . .

We ate matzo for breakfast then went to church-- mostly to see my cousins.

I helped him find the verses in the Bible, then prayed that the pastor wouldn’t say anything embarrassing. God doesn’t answer every prayer.

It’s Easter, but sushi is half-price every Sunday.


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when all else fails. . . .

When the weather changes in New York City, there are days when you remember that there are children in your neighborhood, and there are days when you realize that there are a lot of dogs here. Then there are days when you wonder if everyone has a really pretentious camera.

The sun was shining and the sky was blue, which made the chill seem even crueler.

“You sent her a plant?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you sent her an anonymous break-up plant? . . . What kind of plant was it?”
“You know. . . a nice plant.”

Pete and Pamela broke up, which was, unfortunately, a relief. Obviously, I’d be on his side no matter what, but I’m pretty sure Pamela wasn’t really a nice girl.

“I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be that hard. . . . Hey, you want something to cheer you up?”

There was the cutest baby bulldog ever in Madison Square Park. Not just the cutest baby bulldog, the cutest dog, the cutest animal, the cutest thing I have ever seen.

“So when are you getting married?”
“I don’t know. You want to come?”


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this might take some getting used to AND i'm not sure i'm willing to claim the napkin holder just yet

“I’m pretty sure you’re my person. I decided.”
“Yeah. . . I hope so. . . . Otherwise I’m not going to let you move in to my apartment.”


At brunch, he was listening to me talk talk talk about what I might buy at Crate and Barrel with the coupon I have.

“And I need a sugar canister. My sugar keeps getting wet, somehow. But I want a fun one.”
“Like one that’s a frog?”
“Why would I want one that’s a frog?”
“To match our napkin holder.”
“Oh. . . . That sounds so funny, ‘Our napkin holder’.”
“I know. I was just trying it out.”


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the most beautiful day

I guess it was only about a week ago that my boss quit. Well, he quit on Friday and then got fired on Monday. That. . . doesn’t even make sense anywhere else.

I’m starting to feel like myself again.

Turns out I like myself.

And I told my mom about Ted moving in. That felt good.

And I’m glad he’s moving in. It feels good to think about a future with someone without panicking at the direness of it all.

I love him and I love every street I’m walking down, but I love that one in particular. Maybe we can move there next.

I love my hypothetical apartment on 6th street. It has a garden.

And I love New York. I walked through Thompson Square Park by myself, and all the aggressive homeless men have been replaced by laughing children and well-behaved dogs. And the sun is at the most perfect angle to reflect off the windows and on the other side the daffodils are blooming. When did this even happen? Maybe I should take a picture.

But when I look back at where I came from, the shadows aren’t as nice. I’ll just remember.

We have dinner plans with friends. Oh, and I got a raise today.

I like where this is going.


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“I heard a rumor that you and Ted might be moving in together.”

I was on the train out of the city with Ted’s cousin when I realized that the only thing more exhausting than a family might be two families.

We went to Princeton for his family’s Seder, and after the meal I could hear Ted’s dad from the other end of the table. Palms flat on the table, he was explaining to Ted’s old cousins:

“Well, Ted’s lease is up in June, but Beatrix’s isn’t up until the end of the year. . . .”

So, you know, I guess it was a thing. A thing about which my parents should probably be informed.

My mom had a hard time explaining how she felt. Which I understood:

“You sound exactly like we do when we talk about it.”

She told me:

“I think it will be fine. I think it makes sense for you.”

I never expected glowing excitement over the living-in-sin thing. So, I’ll take it.


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movies are not real life

WARNING: Don’t watch Away We Go with your boyfriend unless you want to spend the rest of the weekend talking about if you are in the right place and where you should live and what it will be like to have babies together.

DISCLAIMER: It might be time for you to talk about these things even if you don’t watch the movie.

ADVICE: Watch the movie, because it is good. And the New York Times has a list of things to talk about before you get married, if you find you might need one of those.

WARNING: Number 9 might be really hard.

DISCLAIMER: If Number 9 is so hard, you should probably be trying to figure it out anyway.

ADVICE: Take a deep breath. Relax. Enjoy this part. And order in.


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once upon a time

I met up with Fred who was in town to visit Mateo who I never see even though he lives 4 blocks from Ted. Mateo got married, I remembered, recently. And his wife was there, too.

And I wondered, like I always do, why things are so awkward between me and Mateo.

Then I remembered, like I usually do. There was that time we were all hanging out and drunk and getting asked politely to please go home so they could close the bar and we all said we should go watch belly dancing soon. And then Mateo called to ask if I wanted to go watch flamenco dancing at that same restaurant, and when I asked him who was coming, he said Paul and some people. But he showed up alone in Fred’s borrowed car and he paid and it was supposed to be a date.

So I pretended I was busy for a while then dated his room mate.

Ten million years ago. So easy to forget. I bet his wife doesn’t know that story.


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how's it gonna be

“I feel better.” Even though it was just a sip of coffee.

“I have got to remember to feed you when you get crabby.”


I am hot and ironing his work clothes on Saturday afternoon and he farts and laughs.

I think, Is this how it’s going to be?

He says he loves my face and puts his arms around me from behind and I stop ironing because these pants are at least better than they were before.

Is this how it’s going to be?

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don't look back

We said we’d have a berry farm in the mountains.

We would have had kids who ran around with too-long hair and never any shoes. They’d be olive like him and good swimmers. We’d have nights on porches with all the stars we ever wanted and sunshine mornings with wildflowers and sweet potato pancakes.

He answered the phone, “Hee-ey there, pretty girl.” I learned that Eagle Scouts aren’t always prepared.

It was one month, and beautiful the way something can be when it is purely hypothetical-- like communism and vegan baked goods.

We both cried, sitting on the trunk of his Blazer with the rusty top. Nine days, I’d begged. Let’s just have these last nine days.

We graduated. We never said I love you. When my brother met a whole bunch of my exes at a single graduation party, he said he didn’t like Fred. He asked if I thought Hugo would help me move.

Fred’s an accountant now. He has tidy hair and shirts with buttons and proper shoes and no piercings.

“How long have you been waiting for me to do that?” There was that sweaty weekend and that night in that hotel. Even when Eagle Scouts grow up to be accountants, they aren’t always prepared.

He doesn’t answer his phone the same way anymore, which probably makes sense. I’d forgotten about the mole on his right cheek.

Fred’s a pile of what-if. What if we’d figured it out sooner. What if I hadn’t moved when I’d graduated. What if he’d gotten this job instead of that one.

What if he’d ever fought for it.


p.s. i hope you click the link and remember how this used to be a dating blog.

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being angry makes me tired OR word salad

I feel like a vegetable. I could be a carrot or a head of cabbage, if carrots and heads of cabbage were capable of a blood-boiling rage induced by subway performers.

I am broccoli. I have no face.

I want to move like acorn squash.

I could be jicama if a jicama pushed her smiling boyfriend away on Saturday morning (normally jicama’s favorite part of the week), rolled over, fell asleep for two more hours, then pretended to sleep for an hour more, all the while wishing he’d smile while he brought her some cereal.

I’m a potato.


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bumps in the road

“We are walking so leisurely.”
“I’m just. . . tired.”

Things had degenerated rapidly, and Sam looked like I felt: bedraggled, exhausted, confused, caught-in-headlights-then-hit-by-a-bus.

What if we just never went back to that job ever again?

“Too bad I’m not pregnant,” Sam said.

That would be some trick of science, and he’d have to buy all new clothes.

But when we sat down on a SoHo stoop, everyone who didn’t have a stroller had a convex bellybutton straining at their knitwear.

Does it say something about your job when cleaning up poop is starting to sound more pleasant?

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the synopsis:

One meal blended into the next and we ate until we couldn’t eat any more, then we had dessert.

I came from early-morning shopping with my mom to find my brother and Ted at a breakfast table covered with cereal boxes, laptops, and newspaper, laughing and watching ESPN. I decided we might be on to something.

My dad took us for a drive, we stopped at a sporting goods store, and while Ted and I looked at elliptical machines, my dad bought a shotgun. Seriously. A shotgun.

Welcome home.


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maybe because it's easier to imagine bad things than good ones

I gripped his wrist. I had a vision: wind ripping a wing off, the plane falling out of the sky in the tight spiral of a pinecone seed. We were hours late, and the ride was too bumpy for anyone to even bring us drinks.

I should have been terrified.

We were going to visit my family. Ted was going to meet my dad and my brother for the first time.

It might already be springtime there.

At Christmas my brother and I get out of bed while it is still dark and go climb in our parents’ bed to wake them up. We have three-hour breakfasts that sometimes include performances and end with clean-up dance parties. Clockwise, we sit: dad, sister, mom, brother. Unless we are in the car: dad, mom, brother, sister. We’ve spent decades just the four of us, and in this system of inside jokes and assigned seats, I’ve never been able to imagine how someone new will fit.

I should be terrified. I should be at least anxious.

“Remind me not to let you drink coffee at the airport,” he’d told me when I just could not stop talking.

But I was excited and I am excited and I’m pretty sure everything will be fine as long as this plane can land wheels first.


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it seemed like a plan

When I got what was presumably a work-related text that was hurtful and quietly accusatory and passive-aggressive and, worst of all, completely predictable, I was very upset and fat tears fell and I didn’t even have time to stop the words:

“Can I just quit my job and have babies??”

And I’m pretty sure he said that would be just fine.

I’m, like, 80% sure that’s what he said.


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sob story

The thing is. . . I don’t mind so much when he turns away from me in his sleep. It’s a new sensation-- not feeling neglect or anger or why-doesn’t-anyone-ever-love-me when I wake up to face a back. But this. . . this feels. . . good.

I used to think maybe I’d never be able to make something like this work. The more I liked a boy, the crazier I’d act, and the faster it would blow up in my face. I just wanted to find a boy who made me a person I liked.

It turns out crazy-girl is sort of my natural state of being, but maybe that’s not the worst way to be.

I’m not a pretty crier. My skin gets even paler and contrasts my black eyebrows and soggy eyelashes; the white parts of my eyes turn red which makes the irises look sickly light; and this night my nose was pink and my eyelids were swelling closed because this had been going on for hours.

I was having a tough day/week/life, you know? But I was also just being a brat.

“You’ll have to try harder than this,” he said, all matter-of-fact, “if you want me to run away.”


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general update

For those of you interested, I bought an entire bunch of asparagus this week. And also a copy of Martha Stewart Weddings, but that was for work-related research.


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so. . . sorry. esp. about that salad dressing

I’m sorry I

-Cried when I had to walk to work in the snow
-Took an hour and half to get dressed because I was angry at my wardrobe
-Insisted that I had a staph infection on my face even though it was obviously just a pimple
-Fed you a vinaigrette I made with expired mustard
-Told you the mustard was expired but didn’t tell you it was expired by more than a year and a half
-Wasn’t fun at that birthday party and am so old that the sounds in clubs give me headaches
-Apologize, even at inappropriate times.


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Sam says, “Aww.” when I mention it to him.

Logan and Laurie say whatever I do don’t do it.

Jules says people kept telling her that the first year would be the hardest, but that moving in with Ed was the easiest thing ever.

My brother says my parents might not mind as much as I think they will.

And Ted’s mom says that if it turns out having too little space and not enough walls is an issue, he can move back with her and his dad until we can get a place with doors.

We have a month to decide.


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it's hard to be a girl OR yes, i do always talk to myself in the second person

“I feel fat.”
“You aren’t fat.”
“But I feel fat. I wish I wasn’t wearing pants.”
“You can’t weigh 107 pounds and be fat.”
“Yes you can. Look.”
“Ok. You look a little fat.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You aren’t hungry.”
“No really. My stomach is growling.”
“It’s only 9:35.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re too fat to eat.”
“What if I’m pregnant?”
“You aren’t pregnant.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. And the pill works.”
“Not always.”
“It’s only Monday. And you usually start on Tuesday. Or Wednesday or Thursday.”
“So I could be pregnant.”
“So I can have a snack.”
“So if I’m pregnant. . . .”
“It would be born in November.”
“January would have been more convenient.”
“Well, none of this is convenient.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not pregnant.”
“What if I can’t get pregnant?!”
“Can’t you think about something else?”
“Like what?”
“How about weddings?”
“Was that it?”
“Well what are you going to think about now?”
“How about brownies?”
“Mmmm. Ok. Brownies.”
“Hey look. I’m not pregnant.”
“That’s good.”
“Well, I knew I wasn’t pregnant.”
“I feel like there was something else on the list.”
“Fruit? Vegetables?”
“Cheese was definitely not on the list.”
“Brie. It’s on the list now.”
“Your basket is embarrassing.”
“I’m going to have brie for an appetizer and brownies for dessert.”
“You can’t have brie for an appetizer and brownies for dessert.”
“Then I’m going to have brie for dinner and brownies for dessert.”
“I think you might regret this decision.”
“I feel fat.”

~beatrix (& beatrix)

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a big thing, but not with capital letters

My dad was slightly concerned that we were coming to visit because of a Big Thing.

But my mom assured him that the two of us had cooked up this plan and Ted didn’t even know anything about it yet.

We-- my mom and I-- decided it was time, and I told Ted to free up a weekend. He’s going to Georgia.

I realized later that I’d sprung it on him rather suddenly, but I’m too excited to care. And anyway, he deserves it.


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scheduling conflicts

I might have spent a good part of the day doing math, and finally asked, before he fell asleep.

“That crazy thing you said today in the car. . . . Did you mean by the time you are thirty? Or while you are thirty?”

“If I said while I’m thirty, would you feel better?”


When he said that thing in the car, my first thought was “Impossible”. “At least half joking,” he’d tempered it. He’ll have the birthday in three and a half years, almost to the day. He’s right. It’s not impossible.

“I’ve just always thought my parents were 30, and I turned out fine,” he told me in bed, “And, you know, your parents were younger, and you turned out fine. It just seems like 30 would be a good time to at least think about it.”

I am glad I was so sleepy. Sleepy enough to let go of the numbers, the adding and subtracting, enough to worry about it later, enough to fall asleep in that cozy spot between his bony shoulders and his rib cage, between excited and terrified.


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as far as i can tell, the good kind of what ifs

Maybe what I mean when we talk about the finances of it all and buying furniture and the groceries and if it will matter for seven months if there is no wall and how maybe a garage will be necessary because parking uptown is a nuisance. . . is that if I buy an immersion blender or a sofa I want it to be ours and not mine. . . and that I don’t really want to be your room mate, exactly. . . . Maybe I wouldn’t mind if our lives got jumbled up along with our things. . . . Maybe what I mean is that I might like to build my life with yours.


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the bad kind of what-ifs

Ted has a lifetime of acquaintances in this city, and I think he’s better at looking up when he walks than I am. And being with him makes the East Village feel like an actual neighborhood. We run into people.

Ted asked if he was going our way, and the answer told everything without a detail. ’Cause if he’s going uptown, he’s not going to the girl whose name, with his, has become such an easy pair.

His skin was transparent, his face bonier than I remembered. Jumpy, unfocused, he has the wide, empty eyes of a stray dog who distrusts human contact as much as he craves it.

He’s going uptown, and I forgot the M is even a train. Walking away, I wished I’d given him a more honest hug, and I wished I’d given him the trail mix out of my bag. I don’t know if he’s going home, but he’s going somewhere to sleep, and Queens is a long way from here.

My boy and I laughed at the intersection of 2nd and A where he always falls in that shallow hole.

But I’ve looked out hollow ghost-eyes, eyes that never want to close, but don’t want to see anything either. I’ve stopped eating, tried to start over from the inside out. I’ve developed a quiver in my hands, my jaw, my gut I was sure was visible from the outside. I’ve been not just not my self, but not anyone.

When he pulls his shirt off over his head, he blocks the overhead light from my face. If this were a metaphor, he would be the moon in this solar eclipse and he’d control my tides. That’s a little sweet, but mostly gross. And anyway, no matter how much the earth stretches for the moon, she’ll never touch him.

And I just can’t get close enough.

I lie my head in the crook of his arm, run my fingers up and down his chest. But what I really want to do is pound it:

Never do that to me. Never do that to me. Never, ever do that to me.


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prove it

I’m sure my kindergarten teacher wouldn’t be surprised. I would spend the entire morning copying our handwriting assignment until each letter was perfectly formed and there were near-holes from all the erasing. Most adults can’t draw the way I could when I was nine, but the only evidence comes in snippets, usually about four square inches, of still lifes that were much larger.

I’m an anxious person.

I’m getting better at buying produce. A bruise, a spot, and funny color-- I have to fight a strong inclination to put it back and keep looking (and looking and looking and looking). I’ve given up completely at buying greeting cards.

With so many options and so little time, how do you ever know you’ve chosen the best one?

And I’m staring at the ceiling. Wishing wishing wishing you’d just prove to me that I can stop looking.


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the plus side

Maybe I’m just a glass-half-full kind of girl.

When I was single, I thought it was great that I could come home at any time of night or sleep wherever I happened to be when I got tired or get in bed at 8:45. I could find someone to buy me dinner or I could eat an entire pizza and pretend it never happened. Most days I thought I was happy.

But this is better.

I like his comfy chest and long tangly arms in my bed. I’d rather share blintzes with him or spit a sandwich in front of the t.v. I’m pretty sure I am happy.

And it doesn’t hurt that I don’t have to worry about Simon’s message that he’ll be in town Valentine’s day weekend or Tal’s text to see if I’m happy or accidentally telling Jeffrey I love him.

I’m sure dating was fun, I just can’t exactly remember why.


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today, i will forgive it for not being spring yet.

i would write something for you today, but in case you haven't seen the news, it snowed a lot today. and it was the biggest, puffiest, most beautiful thing i have ever seen and i was late for work because i kept playing in it and just stopping to throw it in the air. i really considered skipping work to make a snowman, but then remembered how responsible i am.

if i wrote something for you, it would be full of revelations like "if you open your mouth, it snows in your mouth!" and "look! the snowflakes look like snowflakes!"

in case you forgot, i'm from a warm place.


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I thought it was so sweet that my uncle texted to tell me Happy Valentine’s Day.

He’s the most fabulous uncle ever, always ready with words of wisdom like, “Oh, dahlin, it is always easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” or “Never, never stand next to Little Richard. I still haven’t gotten his makeup out of my new white linen shirt.”

So I texted back to say I miss him and I love him and that I hoped he was having a happy Valentine’s Day, too.

“Do you know who this is?”

Strange. Until I realized that the first message was not from Uncle Jeffrey, but from just Jeffrey.

Crap. Just Jeffrey who orbited for a while three years ago, before I moved. Who more recently sent a text declaring that he regretted never asking me out when he had a chance. Who invariably uses too many exclamation points and is needy and desperate and likes Thomas Kincaid.

Who I never should have answered. Who I never should have accidentally told I love.

So I did what anyone would have done: I finished my snack, ignored texts for the rest of the afternoon, made out with my boyfriend, and wished my uncle a very happy Valentine’s Day.


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there are some things, like rollercoasters, that are fun and not fun at the same time

The thought is that if he moves into my studio when his lease is up, we’ll save a ton of money. Then we can go on vacation.

And we’d rather see each other every night anyway.

It’s just a thought. It seemed like a great idea.

I didn’t know why butterflies had taken up residence in my abdomen today. At 10:15 pm, I made the connection.

I might throw up.


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it makes my last post seem a little less crazy. . . a little

I had turned my back to the boys, and beer was running down my chin. Two-thirds of the way in, I gasped for air before beginning again.

College was worth it like never before, and those sorority dues were paying off.

Ted had assured me I didn’t have to do this if I thought it would end badly, but it was going great, and I could hear them getting excited.

Ted’s friend I’d only just met declared, “If she’s pulls this off, you’ve got to marry her.”

And Ted’s brother claimed, “That is my future sister-in-law.”

I turned around as triumphantly as is possible when you are wiping beer from your face with the back of your hand, and raised the empty pitcher.

Those boys were easily impressed. There was only a glass and a half of beer in that pitcher, maximum. And once you say you can do something, you kind of have to do it.

“That’s my girlfriend,” Ted put his arm around my waist. No one ever said he fell in love with me ’cause I’m so classy.

Later I was standing on the sidewalk waiting for people who were still inside, a course your night tends to take when you’ve been drinking beer out of pitchers.

I don’t know how Ted’s brother’s thought began, but it ended, “. . . when you get married. Or maybe I’ll be in the wedding. . . ,” with a characteristic raised palm and shifted chin that means question mark.

“Of course you’ll be in the wedding,” Ted told him.

I told Ted I only want three bridesmaids, and he said he could probably narrow his people down to three.

“Oh, and my brother,” I added.
“But will he go on your side or my side?”
“My side.”

And then Ted told his brother’s friend he could be an usher.


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maybe you should ask him

My exes have started asking if I’m going to marry Ted.

When I asked Cooper for his address so I could send him a Christmas card, he asked if it was for a wedding invitation.

David asked. He said he thinks I’ll have a fun wedding, and it will be “so great” to see me as a bride. He’ll have to facebook stalk to see pictures, ’cause he won’t be invited.

Hugo asked, too. He says he’s going to dance with me and hang out with my brother. My baby cousins will be excited to see him.

And I might have told Hugo he can be an usher.


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wealth management

Sometimes I panic, not because it doesn’t feel right, just because it doesn’t feel real.


He was driving down the West Side, and we were stopped at a light.

“People don’t understand sometimes. Being single is just. . . .”

“Exhausting,” we said it together.

Sometimes having a blog puts one in an interesting position to reflect. A quick scan reveals that I have written about relationships, however distant, brief, or insignificant, with no fewer than 41 boys. Stories from a kindergarten proposal to everyday adventures with the boy I woke up with this morning.

No wonder I was tired.

For a while I thought I was lucky, and maybe I am. But maybe I just deserve this.

I’ve worked hard.

There’s a Bright Eyes song that says

With these things there’s no telling, you just have to wait and see.
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery.

I think it’s a love song.

I always thought I’d just keep pressing my luck, but it turns out that even if you hit the jackpot, you still have to manage your investments.


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insight, brought to you by the boys in my life

Sam told me he’d invite my boyfriend to the Google calendar that tracks my phase of the moon. I politely declined on Ted’s behalf.

Now Ted has responded to a gchat message from Sam on my computer and they are talking and even though I said they cannot gang up on me they have.

S: Did she tell you how much cake we ate today?
T: How much? She only told me about some cheese.

T: I’m getting a lecture on the value of whining. Evidently it gets things accomplished. I should practice.
S: Haha. Earlier today she said, “[This intern] is so bossy! I mean, I know I’m bossy, too, but on me it’s a positive quality, on her it’s just annoying!”


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emergency contact

Now well aware of bad things that can happen to you in doctors’ offices (even eye doctors’s offices), I was filling out a stack of paperwork and trying to remember if any of my grandparents have glaucoma and decide if having my wisdom teeth out counts as surgery when it asked for an emergency contact.

Out of habit I put my mom. She is dependable and I know her phone number by heart, but it seems silly because she lives too far away to be of any help in a real emergency.

I almost put Ted. Almost.


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we went to a wedding-- epilogue

And afterward, with my dress and coat and shoes all over his bedroom and my hair back in its ponytail and my feet tucked under him, we were very full and very tired and it was very late. I don’t know if it mattered that we’d just seen friends get married. But our words were soft and heavy and trapped in under the covers, and we talked about prayers and love and believing, because it might matter. One day.


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