All posts tagged: love

one way

What Happened Last Week

I’m sorry for last week—for getting you all excited about my return to “regular” posting only to leaving you hanging with a single, solitary, charming-but-rather-daft post about shower curtains. The thing is I have this friend. And three months ago she met this guy on the internet (Plenty of Fish of all places…) and now they’re talking about spending the rest of their lives together. We keep telling her she’s crazy—sure, he’s a great guy, and no, there aren’t any obvious red flags, but isn’t this all a bit premature? Granted, he has yet to officially ask, and she has yet to officially say “yes,” and they’re having all sorts of sensible discussions about the logistics (the pros and cons of premarital cohabitation, the financial ramifications, the legal) in addition to the implications of “putting a ring on it” (isn’t the whole practice just a bit anti-feminist? A bit Wedding Industrial Complex?) but we’re still rather concerned on her behalf. Especially because on Thursday morning, after one such discussion (which was less logistical and more …

We look basically like this

The Case of the Broken Sled (or, a Surprise in My Bed)

I wrote but never published the following post as my last relationship was falling apart last winter. A few weeks ago, we got into a fight about going sledding.  (I wanted to go; he refused.) It wasn’t actually a fight per se—we’ve never had a real fight—but it made me realize, for better or worse, that he is who he is and I am who I am and that there are going to be times when who he isn’t able (or willing) to fulfill my every need. Of course, it wasn’t just a question of playing in the snow vs. not playing in the snow.  It was, at least in my mind, a question of his approach to life vs. mine.  (Mind you, this was the very same conundrum that nearly caused us to call it quits this past summer.) A few years ago, I would have simply thrown in the towel.  But I’ve changed a lot in the two years.  Instead of nagging him to come sledding with me (okay, instead of only nagging …

TopSecret

Writing Wednesday: How to Date a Blogger

If you write a blog about dating, should you tell the man you’re dating? I get this question a lot actually (especially after last Monday’s post), and my answer is always the same: YES! During my Manthropology days, I let all prospective suitors know up front, from the get go. I felt it was important, especially because in those days a lot of different men took me out to dinner and if a man takes you out to dinner, the least you can do is let him know said dinner might show up on the internet in the morning. (How’s that for a little nugget of wisdom in this here digital age?) Now though, the blog is different. And now I’m not just dating any Tom, Dick or Harry. Now I know what I want; now I want to build a life with someone. And so the blog comes up again. I told PIC on our first date. I told him I write a blog, I told him the name of it and I told …

picnic

On My Team

I’ve spent the better part of my life wondering if love is real or not. On good days, I think it’s a feeling, an emotion, an action, perhaps even a scientifically verifiable state of being if I listen to enough NPR. But on bad days, I think it’s just something we poetic types go on about, something that the rest of the world buys into, something we spend our entire lives trying to achieve and we dress it up with engagement rings and wedding gowns to prove to everyone else that we’ve found it. Then I met PIC. (You had to know I was going to say that, right?) Each time I’ve had a new boyfriend, I find myself thinking, “This! This is what love feels like!” But this time it’s different. It was a weeknight when I invited PIC over to my house for dinner for the first time. I know how to make approximately four proper dinners, and I’d chosen the most impressive (Thai peanut satay chicken) but as I got the preparations …

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Introducing P.I.C.

We’re on the train, the new boyfriend and I, heading downtown from his apartment in the suburbs. I’m writing a blog post on my phone and he’s reading Time Magazine. “You need a name,” I tell him. He looks up. “For my blog. It’s been almost three months.  I need a nickname for you.” I toss a couple of ideas into the air but they’re all lame or to obvious or too cumbersome. He suggests “The One” (sort of in jest but not really… more on that later) and finally it hits me. “I’ve got it,” I tell him. “You can read about it tomorrow.” So here it is: PIC, which stands for (obviously) Partner in Crime. And that, quite truthfully, is exactly what he has become, whether we’re scrubbing rose petal stains out of a fancy hotel duvet or painting the spare bedrooms in my house. A woman walks onto the train with a bedazzled ski hat. “Look at that,” I whisper, “that is ridiculous. I’m all about rhinestones but you have to know …

elr ey

The Story Begins

Okay, okay, I shall stop teasing you all. Here at last is the story of the flowers behind my front door, but we must start, as all good stories start, at the beginning. It was today. Exactly one year ago. When my world (or so I thought) cracked in two. It was today that a young father-of-two from New Jersey called his even younger (and even unhappier) girlfriend from Philadelphia and gave them both the freedom they so desperately needed. It would take her months to see it that way, and she would spend many of these months drinking too much, crying herself to sleep and watching Breaking Bad until the wee hours of the morning but eventually time, that ancient mover of things and mender of hearts, did what everyone promised it would do. She realized, after the initial wailing gave way to enlightenment (as it always does if you quiet down long enough), that there were things that they could have never fixed, but things that she herself could have fixed and so …

commu

How to Love when you Hate to Fight

Right. So yesterday’s post? Feel, Felt, Found? I’m sure you felt like I was just putting you off, dragging things out for the sake of a good story, but really I picked it for a reason. It shows, you see, how I handle conflict (calmly, quietly, slowly and yes, wrapped up in a pyschobabble bubble of corporate nonsense-speak and yoga-infused rhetoric because really, conflict terrifies me and I can’t deal with it any other way). It also shows how the majority of the population deals with conflict, how stubborn, strong willed people like my mother deal with conflict. And luckily this was pointed out to me before I made a big mistake. (I will, once again, get to that later but suffice it to say, the past 24 hours have been rather dramatic; I almost snuffed out the story of the flowers before it began.) So now I’m curious, and as I find myself navigating previously uncharted territories, I need help. You have the people like me and my father, who keep our tempers in …

the-serenade1

Every 65 Minutes: To Jacob, with Love

Almost exactly three years ago, I arrived home at my parent’s house to see three scruffy looking men approaching our garage. My first thought was, “Oh great… who have we adopted this time?” The men were riding bicycles and it was clear that they’d been on the road for quite some time. Within a few minutes, however, I’d revised my opinion about this latest crop of house guests. They were activists and they were riding their bikes across the country doing amazing things: helping veterans, playing music, sharing their experiences and educating people about the real Afghanistan, the real situation in Iraq. And they were doing it with such grace and such humor and such wisdom that I was instantly enamored of them. All three of them. (I wrote several blog posts about them, but I was three years younger and three years stupider at the time so if you read them, forgive me: Three Male Houseguests, The Hillbilly Serenade, and My Deepest Date to Date). When they learned of my blog and the “manthropological” …