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Mister Me Calls My Bluff

March 23, 2011

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?

January 26, 2011

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

January 19, 2011

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.

Happy Blogiversary to Me!

January 13, 2011

Tomorrow* The Engagement Project turns one.

What a difference a year makes. When I wrote my inaugural post, I envisioned a blog about self betterment through healthy eating, exercise and self discovery.

Then I realized that was incredibly obnoxious.

I don’t know that the Eff I’m doing. I’m just stumbling around over here. So instead of lecturing you on how to improve, I just figured I’d invite you to stumble along.

A few of you have been with me for most of this first year, watching me fumble through a doomed relationship, spoil a bunch of first dates, obsess about the unattainable Super Ex and suddenly run smack dab into Mister Me, who has turned my usual approach to love and relationships [sardonic mocking coupled with emotional detachment] on its head.

Others of you found me when I aired one of my more spectacular drunken episodes and ended up on Freshly Pressed. You were probably fairly nervous about my alcohol dependency. I hope I’ve fooled you shown you that I’m actually a fairly well-balanced adult.

Whether you’re new or old or just randomly ended up here searching “how to destroy my boyfriend” [don’t act all innocent, I can see my search term stats and that is high on the list], I just want you to know I appreciate you. Thanks for chilling with me, laughing with me, crying with me and occasionally judging me. It keeps me in line.

Everyone please raise your mimosa;** Here’s to another year of life’s decorative sprinkles; the good, the gnarly and the cream-filled centers. May the wind always be at our backs and the martinis at our lips. And when everything goes a little sideways and we’re left dealing with a steaming crap-pile of emotions, may we at least find the proverbial nipper of brandy in the desk drawer of life.


*I’d have posted this tomorrow, my actual blogiversary, but I’ll be on my way to New Orleans with my two best ladies. Plus, if I’ve learned nothing else from blogging for a year, it’s certainly taught me never to post on a Friday.

**You don’t start your Thursdays with a mimosa? Come on people, that’s just basic nutrition.

Bitches Be Crazy

December 16, 2010

I’ll admit it. I am one crazy bitch.

Despite my best intentions to be a reasonable, understanding and selfless girlfriend, sometimes my crazy side gets a strangle hold on my mind and wont let go. Try to squelch her as I may, that bitch is loud.

Take my latest internal battle:

Mister Me has this tight group of friends. They are a wonderfully supportive and rowdy crowd. This group of 20 or so has formed the tightest group bond I’ve ever seen. I’m in awe of them.

Within the group there is one chick in particular. This chick is direct, crass, hilarious and loves a good Sunday Funday. Naturally, I love her. I consider her a kindred spirit.

So where’s the drama? you’re thinking.

Here it is: Mister Me dated Kindred Spirit.

Of course, it was years ago and only lasted a few months and everyone’s had several relationships since blah blah blah… But… still.

I did not know about their brief past when I decided to adore Kindred Spirit, and it seems strange to stop now… but an internal battle rages on.

Something about the past relationship with her irks me in a place beyond reason. I know it’s petty and not worth my mental angst… but she’s seen my man naked, y’all. Can you really say that wouldn’t bother you at all?

Yesterday was Kindred Spirit’s birthday dinner. I was tied up with shopping, but Mister Me was planning on going.

I spent the entire day at war my inner crazy bitch, fighting the urge to pull girlfriend rank and say something passive aggressive enough to make him forgo the birthday party.

I had my line all set and ready to go, “Really? I’m gonna be out freezing my ass off in this weather trying to find a dress for YOUR company holiday party and you’re gonna be out drinking with a chick you used to sleep with?!”

While technically true, that characterization of the situation borders on pathological. My inner crazy bitch is not to be messed with. She’s insecure and possessive and immature and just generally… bitchy. She manipulates and schemes and suspects and turns relationships into her personal playground of pain and destruction.

And she lives inside me.

Man, who am I?

Reasonable me usually keeps a tight hold of the reigns, but every so often a fat day or PMS or overcooked potato skins gives Crazy Bitch the opportunity she needs to grab hold and tornado her way into my personal affairs.

Yesterday reason won out. I managed to avoid unleashing crazy all over Mister Me and Kindred Spirit’s birthday plans.


But for how long?

Meh. Turns Out Mister Me Is Human.

December 9, 2010

Well here we are, at that weird point in a relationship, well past dating and far before cohabitation, where we’re starting to live as one unit.

It’s funny how it happens. One day you’re two separate people floating through life and you occasionally meet up to share a meal or a few drinks or several hours of karaoke. The guy you’re dating is still this wonderful beacon of hope; perhaps I’ve found the Holy Grail of men! Here he is!

Somewhere, probably shortly after we started sharing a Google calendar, Mister Me & I stopped glorifying each other and started actually knowing each other.

As we both relaxed into relationship and let our Shiny Dating Personas drop, we started tackling all that humdrum life stuff as a team: we plan who will shower first in the morning; we clean; we run errands; and, because food is still of paramount importance to both of us, we plan who’s cooking, what and when. That is family type shit, y’all.

Oh, wait a second here… Did I say “we clean?” Silly me, what an egregious typo. I clean.

The horror… Mister Me is a secret slob.

Being that he has a nice place and a house cleaning service, I had managed to convince myself that he was fairly adept at picking up after himself. I erroneously assumed that the tidy, gleaming floors of the man I was dating would also be the tidy, gleaming floors of my boyfriend.

I should have looked deeper.

There were signs…

After a sleep over, we’d move on to the days activities with clothes all over the floor. Mister Me would throw soggy towels on the bed. There’d be an empty water bottle lurking under the couch. The remnants of dinner-making never seemed to make it to the disposal. Dishes would sit, unrinsed, in the vague vicinity of the sink.

But, wow, I was not prepared for the reality. Now that we essentially live together 50% of the time, he’s really let down the veil. He tears threw the house in the morning, tossing shoes and shuffling papers. He showers with speedy gusto, flooding tiles and soaking towels. He cooks with reckless abandon, leaving pepper cores and crusty wooden spoons in his wake.

Try as I might to keep up with the mess, he, sparkler-like, generates debris too fast for my frantic sprucing.

So I confronted him. What’s up with this, homie? This is gross. And he apologized, because, messy or not, he’s pretty much perfect. And then he sheepishly asked me if I wouldn’t mind emptying my cat’s box more often and cleaning up the litter remnants scattered on the bathroom floor.

God. I do that? That is fucking gross.

I guess he’s not the only human one.

Freedom Gropes

December 1, 2010

I’ve had really bad travel luck lately. Mister Me and I bought an all inclusive to Riviera Maya and crapped out with flights that had alternately too long and not long enough layovers. There is very little more frustrating than trying to convince a Customs agent not to send you through extra screening just because your flight started boarding before you de-planed.

Or so I thought.

Until I showed up at O’Hare yesterday. Of course, the security lines were endless. But, us business travelers, we know how to get through security at lightning speed, so I wasn’t worried.

Then I got pointed towards the full body scanner.

I saw those damned things on the Today Show. They digitally scrambled people’s naughty bits because the scan that thing spits out is not suitable for TV, y’all. Which means its also not suitable for some high school drop-out with a TSA badge. At least not when it comes to my body.

But I’d heard about that guy who tried to fight it and ended up with an $11k fine. So I sucked it up and submitted myself to the degrading visual undressing I usually associate with construction sites.

So fine, some guy is probably getting his jollies off to my rack in some clandestine TSA wank-it room. I can compartmentalize that thought long enough to get through the day’s meetings.

But no. TSA was not done with me yet. A female agent waved me through for a pat down.

I’ll let that sink in.

Yes, after a scan so detailed they can tell the current state of my brazilian wax, the TSA is still not convinced that I’m not packing heat. They were passing me around like the drunken coed at a frat party.

Faced with the choice between getting felt up or making a break for it and getting tackled and possibly tased, I swallowed my pride and let this lady cup my breasts. She seemed to take her job pretty seriously; she cupped tightly and rubbed in both a clockwise and counter-clockwise direction. And she didn’t even use the back of her hand.

I debated asking her if I could count that as my monthly self breast exam. I debated speaking to a supervisor, for at least an explanation of how I warranted both a nakey-Xray AND naughtier touching than I allow on a third date (humor me). I debated making a scene.

But in the end, I shame-facedly collected my purse and continued to my gate.

TSA, you have won. You have bullied me into resignation. There is simply no other option. You may look at my ladyparts, you may touch my breasts and you may demand that I submit with no more than a murmur.

But I’m raging inside.