Because I Miss You

… and because everyone IRL knows who I am now anyway…

Photo Cred: Victoria Sprung

Fiancé Is A Weird Word

Us dating bloggers never really count on being successful.

I dated and dated for years and nothing ever seemed promising enough to convince me that I wasn’t just destined to end up alone with a cat and a blog 15 years from now.

I certainly never imagined I’d actually land a fiancé.

Then Mister Me eHarmonied his way into my life and suddenly I’m finding myself using option+e a lot more often.

Aside from the change in typing patterns (Like honestly? We couldn’t come up with an English word for it? I have to use the ´ all the time now? That’s Busch league.), life seems a little different now that we’re engaged.

This whole engagement period thing is basically the cocoon that our single-caterpillar selves created and from which we will emerge as one solitary butterfly.

It’s a time of transition, from being one to being one and also half of one.

The word “we” has become more acceptable. “We are interested in this,” “we’re looking for that,” “we would rather be out drinking,” etc.

Well it turns out that “we” don’t write a blog so well. Or maybe just not this blog.

I owe you snark and sass and stories of drunken blunders. But all I’ve got to give is happiness and homemaking and wedding planning*. Snooze.

So in an effort to spare you the flowery, sugar-drenched wedding blog, I must bid you adieu.

It has been an amazing year.5 and I will miss everysingleoneofyou. Even you lurkers that stop by daily and never comment, weirdos.

So farewell, kiddos. Date often and recklessly; it makes for good stories. Drink and eat and live and be happy. I’ll be doing the same.

Perhaps we will find each other again, one day, on a new blog with a new theme under a new pseudonym. I certainly hope so, I don’t think I know how to quit you.

*and the occasional drunken blunder.

Mister Me Makes It Official

I knew something was up.

I’ve never seen someone so jumpy at 5am. While I was grumbling groggily and threatening bodily harm, Mister Me was frantically running through the house double checking everything. Our cab showed up 15 minutes early which seemed a part of his plan, since I was half-dressed and he was in the elevator waiting.

His brain seemed to liquefy as the morning went on.

This guy, who used to take 100 flights a year as a matter of lifestyle, managed lose his boarding pass somewhere between security and the gate. He seemed to be trying to look in multiple directions at once, as if he might suddenly be jumped by a gang of ninjas.

(Which, I guess, is fair enough. You never know when you’re about to get jumped by ninjas. That’s why they’re called ninjas.)

We pulled into our first winery an hour and a half after we landed. The staff kept stealing sidelong glances as we were seated on the tasting porch. I couldn’t tell if everyone was just stoned or if they were smirking at me; I checked my teeth and my fly – everything was as it should be.

That ring must have been burning a fiery hole in his thigh. We’d been at our table less than 5 minutes before Mister Me led me, merlot in hand, into the vineyard, dropped to one knee and asked me to marry him. I’ll spare you the sap, but let me just say, it was beautiful.

Then, as if his brain suddenly re-congealed, he found his boarding pass.

Ever the constant overachiever, he then led me to our private wine tasting and lunch, followed by tour. We left Duckhorn Winery full, buzzed, happy, educated and, most importantly, engaged.

We spent the next two days soaking up the sun, view, wine and calories and abusing our newly acquired superpower to manifest free champagne every time we squealed, “We just got engaged!”

Every moment of our trip was perfection; bliss on steroids… except for the part where a bird shit on my head and I descended into a tailspin of rage and panic, screaming “WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING ME!?” at my newly minted and petrified fiance. That part was a little rocky…

Now it’s all said and done.

I guess that makes me the future Missus Mister Me.

… Huh. Didn’t think that moniker through very thoroughly…

Napa Time!

Tomorrow we leave for Napa.

Actually it’s basically today because Mister Me is one of those sadistic people who always wants to take the early flight to “make the most of the day.” Puke.

I keep explaining that I can’t be held accountable for my actions in the morning. He’s taking his life in his hands making me get up that early. But he can’t be deterred. Good bless him, he’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

We’ve been looking forward to this trip for months. Napa is one of the few places where post-college adults start drinking at 10am on weekdays and no one says “Bill’s having one of his episodes.” My kind of town.

Mister Me has taken vacation preparation to a whole new level. We have reservations all over San Francisco and Napa and a room with a private hot tub overlooking the vineyard. There are multiple spreadsheets, Google maps, itineraries and even a PowerPoint in play.

He’ll never be accused of under preparing.

Our trip of wine and luxury tiptoes on the heels of a week of extraordinarily good behavior.

We went to Alinea for dinner on Saturday, which is uncharacteristically fancy for a couple that could happily eat foil-wrapped tacos for three meals a day. There were twenty courses, y’all, twenty. Including one where they turned our table top into the toppings bar at Coldstone. (yeah, that’s me. I’m not anonymous anymore, remember?)

Then Sunday, Mister Me hid 35 Easter Eggs for me… because I am a child and still enjoy hunting eggs.

I’m proud to say I found them all with only a few warmer/colder hints and one “why don’t you look behind those blinds a little more carefully instead of running through the house like a sugar-crazed 5-year-old?” suggestion.

As is customary Easter tradition, Mister Me blew up a Peep in the microwave. And recorded it. Then tossed it’s lifeless body at the cat. Looks like I’m not the only 5-year-old in the house.

All this good behavior* has me a little jumpy…

*yes, I consider blowing up Peeps good behavior… or, at least, not bad behavior

My Birthday: Golf, Vodka and Robot Stirrers.

Last year my dad gave me a migraine for my birthday. Because I do not learn from the past, I gave him the opportunity to do it again this year.

For my birthday dinner, we mixed the families.

Despite the public outcry of cautionary warnings, I was fairly certain this set of parents (the dads & stepmoms) would get along swimmingly. Much like Mister Me and I (and much different than our moms) our dad’s are essentially the same person.

These two doods are both ex-insurance sales guys, love stocks and live on golf courses. Their wives have the same name and, until coached otherwise, they both wore their sandals with socks.

In fact, when I arrived at Mister Me’s so we could get on the road to my dad’s, I found his dad unshowered, with a beer in hand watching the Masters. Which, I’m positive, is exactly what my dad was doing at the time.

Then we discussed the Masters the whole drive up which was kind of a one sided conversation because no one had watched it except Mister Me’s dad. So it was more a recitation of all of the… plays?… of the day. I don’t even know the right words to use for golf.

When we arrived my dad announced he was making his “specialty” lemon drop martinis for the occasion. I’m not sure where the “specialty” descriptor comes from because the man has only two drinks: vodka and ice or vodka and no ice.

So first we exchanged gifts and I got my usual assortment of slightly bizarre last minute gifts from my parents (… which I loved… in case you’re reading). Two sets of earrings from the jewelry party my stepmom went to the night before and this contraption that is essentially a Roomba for a pot of food. Like… it stirs your pots… that are on the stove… while you’re not there? I don’t fucking know, but apparently you get two robot stirrers for the price of one and they throw in a ladel/strainer combo. Because that’s what I got for my 27th birthday.

I guess fair is fair though because all I gave my dad for his birthday was an electronic cigarette.

Then we went to dinner and the men discussed golf and the ladies discussed kids and I drank a lot of wine and everyone ordered the same thing except my dad who got the smoked salmon plate…? …and a vodka with no ice. We are more similar than I care to admit.

So basically it all went really well except for the part when my brother asked whether Mister Me and I would be making him an uncle soon and I, before realizing that was kind of a weird conversation to have with a 15-year-old in front of both sets of parents, told him that Mister Me wants kids way sooner than I do.

That produced some awkward silence.

BOOM. Caught.

The wise Tankboy once told me that if you’re blogging anonymously, you must accept that someday, you will be caught.

And it’s true.

I’ve been caught over and over and over again.

When I first started the blog, I told my mom, a few of my close friends and all my female cousins. So that wasn’t a very strong start into anonymity. As the months passed, I went from anonymous to semi-anonymous to who-are-you-kidding.

This past weekend I advanced to the-jig-is-up.

That’s right! Now not only do most of my friends, family, coworkers and a strong contingent of people-I-don’t-actually-know read my blog, but so do Mister Me’s friends. (Hi Guys!!)

I suspected something was up when I saw a hit from Mister Me’s very small hometown. But then I got distracted, probably by wine, and just chalked it up to one very-alarming coincidence.

Turns out, nope, it was real. I’d been discovered. Months ago.**

Yeah, I almost wet myself.

You know that feeling when you drop your purse and out tumble your tampons and pocket rocket and secret pack of cigs for all to see? You just kind of look at the mess, all panic-stricken, debating whether to deny it or scoop it all up and run away.

That’s kinda what happened to my life.

I mean, I talk about stuff on here. Personal stuff like ex boyfriends and thigh reductions and my incessant need to eat tacos. I’m not pretty on here; I’m real.

When the news reached me, I was too many beers deep to execute on deleting the blog entirely.

Thank goodness, because you know what? Fuck it. This is where I’ve been talking to the world for a long time. And I don’t intend to stop just because a little more of the world is actually reading than I thought.

There’s nothing I would tell most of my friends, family, coworkers and a strong contingent of people-I-don’t-actually-know that I wouldn’t tell Mister Me’s friends. I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

Now that it’s all out on the open, I guess I can breathe a little easier. Here I am, uncensored and honest. Everyone knows what’s in my spilled purse now; no need to clean it out.

So… the more the merrier. Come, read, judge, drink. That’s what we do around here.

**Luckily for me, I took the high road with Mister Me on our second date. Not only does he know about the blog, he’s read most of the posts written since we started dating.

Healthy Living Is Making Me Fat

I’m having a fat day.

Which would be totally acceptable if I’d spent the last few days noshing on tacos and referring to reaching for my wine as “my workout”… as per usual.

But my fat day is extra bogus because for the last week, I’ve been good. Like really good… for me anyway.

I’ve been getting daily exercise and hitting my calorie goals. Last night I was even 150 calories under my goal. That’s enough for a glass of red wine y’all, but I didn’t have one.

I even went to Bikram yoga last night and sweated more in an hour than I have in the past year.

(While we’re on the topic, let me tell you a little about Bikram yoga: It’s gross. By the end of the class, the room smells like… people. Sweaty, farty people. Never go to Bikram with someone you plan on sleeping with in the near future. “Lost my boner” is an understatement.)

Anyway, back to the issue at hand: I should feeling motherf-ing tiny.

Instead, my scale is reading 1.5 pounds more than yesterday. Also, I’m pretty sure my thighs are creeping back towards disproportionate. And that… makes me HULKSMASH mad.

If there is anything worse than dieting and exercising, it’s dieting and exercising and then feeling fatter than before. It makes me want to say to hell with it and get tacos for lunch.

And also for dinner.

All those rosy cheeked health nuts will say the same shit, “But you’ll feel so much better!”

No, fuck that. I do not feel better. I feel hungry and tired and grumpy and like I want some pizza. I’m just not cut out for this healthy living shit.

If the equation is (diet + exercise) = (tacos + wine + couch + 1.5 lbs) than guess who’s going back to basics? After all, I was maintaining a lower weight when I was eating whatever I wanted.

First person to say “Muscle weighs more than fat” is totally getting a kick to the chin. I can do that now. I’ve been practicing yoga.

Mister Me Calls My Bluff

Oh… hello.

It’s been a while, yes friends? I must beg your forgiveness. I’ve been blessed/cursed with a promotion at work which has raised my stress level and my responsibilities but somehow not my bank account balance. Go figure.

I suppose I should tell you how things are going:

Fucking. Incredible.

While my work life has been tumultuous and stressful at best (and intolerable at worst), my love life has been rock solid.

Things lately have been daisies and summer breezes and sandy toes. Now I’m one of those obnoxious bitches who thinks everyone should find a dude just like hers.

I try not to say that to people but, you know, I think it.

Things have been going so well, in fact that I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the past few months. Mister Me’s house has become my daily stomping grounds. Even my cat has made the move. I visit home once a week and to grab clothes, collect mail, make sure my roommate is alive and check that nothing has spontaneously combusted.

But that’s all about to end because… Mister Me has asked me to move in with him.

Or rather, gotten more insistent about it.

You might remember I’ve been here before with Bald Deadbeat Tattooed Guy. That experience taught me several things:

1. Do not move in with someone you wouldn’t marry first.

2. Do not lend someone money continually for 8 months when you suspect, then confirm, that they are lying about their educational background, work history, drive to succeed or penchant for Jack Daniels.

… Or all of the above.

… Especially all of the above.

And 3. Do not, under any circumstances, compromise on closet space.

Luckily for me, number 2 does not apply and number 1 I’ve got on lock down. I’d marry that fucker tomorrow if he asked. He made me breakfast in bed today. Egg white scramble. In bed. On a work day. I’ll let that sink in.

So that leaves the closet. My one hold out. There just simply is not enough space in that little room for all my shit. Let alone all my shit and his shit.

I figured that little closet roadblock would buy me a few more months. I’m happy to deal with the mild annoyance of living out of a suitcase to avoid the pain and suffering of an actual move.  I’m prone to dealing with mild discomfort for long periods of time to avoid any sort of intense hardship. For instance, I lived with ungodly large thighs for 26 years before giving in to surgery.

Mister Me, always one to surprise and overachieve, called my bluff. In one trip to the Container Store, two trips to Home Depot, and a 5-hour string of profanity, he tripled the storage space and turned his dude-storage-room into a full blown walk in closet, complete with shoe drawers. Shoe drawers, people.

Now I’m out of excuses. He’s done his part and now I will do mine. Time to put my condo up for rent and start the slow move. Soon we’ll officially be roommates and the honeymoon will be over. Until the real honeymoon, which better be on the horizon.

Where Did These Love Handles Come From?

So I’ve been trying to diet, I really have.

I thought I was doing better this year, at controlling the inevitable holiday gain. I was watching my calories and seeing Trainer once a week. I even took one very short run.

But those errant pieces of office chocolate and my stepfather’s sausage bread were plotting against me once again. At some point in December, my belt seemed to have gotten an inch shorter and my bra started being all dramatic about containing my boobs.

My denial kicked into overdrive.

I have the terrifying ability to see myself though beer goggles for weeks on end. I blame my freshman fifteen, sophomore five, junior five, senior two and post-college-year seven on this crippling power. I just fail to see the fat. To me, I still look pretty damn good. As long as I’m still getting hit on, well, then nothing could possibly be wrong.

Add to this the new challenge of no longer having the same problem areas. I used to know to stop eating when I was forced to wear sweatpants to work because I couldn’t wedge my thighs into my jeans even if I lubed ’em up. After my thigh reduction my shape is so changed that I can’t rely on my old standbys.

Once the pics from New Years Eve went up and my moonface* was laid bare for all of Facebook to judge and wonder at, it was clear something must be done.

I did the unthinkable: got naked in front of a mirror.

And not the “oh here I am, getting in to the shower and checking out my ass” type naked. The “stand there, look, understand, awaken” type of naked. My revelation was complete; instead of my normal plumped out lower half drooping from a small waist, I was looking at a new kind of fat. I can still fit into my new pants size, but I then have… a… muffin top.

I feel like one of those girls in danger of recognizing her outfit on the nightly news during the perpetual story about America’s obesity epidemic.

Now I’m seeing how the other half lives. Haunted not by jiggly thighs but by a stomach that refuses to flirt sexily with waistbands and instead throws itself at them with all the gusto and sweat of a mating hippo.

And Boss just announced he’s ordering pizza for lunch. Well… Fuck.

 

*Moonface is that pasty-glossy-round-as-a-plate look your face gets after the holidays. Oh, not your face? I guess just mine then.

The Good Stuff

It’s been a while since I’ve given a State of My Heart address. You guys get to hear about all the kitchen messes, the mom-meet-mom anxiety and the minor friend frictions. And in the scuffle, what I’ve forgotten to mention is the good stuff. I mean that really good stuff.

Y’all, I am in love.

From the second I met him, there was something different about Mister Me. And not just his (since eradicated) affection for short-sleeved button-downs. Blech.

When I walked into our first date, I knew what I’d begun to suspect with his first email. Here he is. This is the one I want.

Admittedly, its been a long road in a few short months. After years of bad dates and flawed relationships and a lack of any real commitment, the thought that this could be it terrified me. So yeah, my nerves got to me. I manically oscillated between forcing myself to feel love and trying to fly the coup.

But it wasn’t until I just relaxed and stopped obsessing that I realized my original perception was correct. Here I have the most hilarious, thoughtful, kindhearted man I’ve ever met. And he loves me. …So I guess I owe him at least one glowing, gushy, mushy, look-how-wonderful-he-is post.

I love him because he is ridiculous and once spent an entire work day trying to hire a drinking clown to attend a friend’s bachelor party. I love him because he’s endlessly thoughtful and sent a bottle of wine to our table when my two best ladies and I had dinner in New Orleans last weekend. I love him because he is smart and controls his career and his life with a confident and steady hand. I love him because he is the reflection of everything that I’d like to see in myself. And I love him because he loves me in such an intense and unyielding way that it makes me suspect he’s managed to miss my many flaws. Joke’s on him.

So here I am. In love for the first time in many years. It’s strange to be back. But it’s a good strange.