All posts tagged: romance

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 …

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 …

roses

The Great Rose Petal Debacle

On our first date, there was, amongst other things, mention of a wedding. It was for an old friend of his from high school and would be held on the day after Christmas in New York. Since there are few greater joys in life than having an excuse to buy a new hat, I started dropping hints. And then there we are a few weeks later, strolling together in Ten Thousand Villages on Walnut Street to pick out a gift and I have a gorgeous new blush colored cloche from Macy’s waiting for me in my closet. It is 6:00pm on the day after Christmas now; the ceremony is over, the “L” word has been spoken for the first between us, we’ve adopted official terms and he’s introducing me to his old classmates as his “girlfriend.” There is music playing, wine being poured and roses everywhere you look: in the centerpieces, in the bouquets and scattered— in petal form— across the escort card table in the lobby. It is then that I have what I …

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 …

Flowers

A Surprise Behind the Door

I suppose it’s time to tell you: I came back to my house yesterday—my house, the one with the thrice scrubbed floors that still feel and look and smell of plaster dust, where every chair I own was drug out for the holidays only to be ensconced once again, as soon as the last guests took their leave, beneath their plastic shrouds, lest they too succumb to the scourge of the plaster—to find a bouquet of purple flowers tucked behind my front door (which I have since transferred to a vase on my desk). If I sound melodramatic, it is only because I am reading Middlesex. And because last night’s flowers were not the first. But we’ll get to that later. In the mean time, I am back. I had intended to come back on January 1st, with a spiffy new blog to herald in the new year and all of the resolutions that go with it, but in my infinite wisdom, I purchased a new blog theme that I don’t actually know how to …

agratr

Continued Misadventures in Garter Belt-Wearing

My pre-departure shopping list includes, amongst other things, pepper spray and thigh high stockings. (Go ahead. Before we get to the funny part of this story, you can insert your witty but ultimately misogynistic comment—something along the lines of “Tsssk, tsssk. You wouldn’t need the former if you wouldn’t wear the latter”— but then remember that it is 2014 and go see the The Vagina Monologues. Or take a look at this most excellent and thoroughly hysterical blog post by anthropologist L.P. who writes for The Salt Collective). Anyway, getting back to my shopping list… (By the way, if you are my father, you should probably stop reading here.) I haven’t seen The European for nearly a month, and because we are now both working in fields that require a decent amount of travel, he’s flying out again 48 hours before I catch my flight to El Salvador. I decide, therefore, that we have to make our one night together count, and what better way to do this than a pair of thigh high stockings? …

wine and cheese

The Trouble with Older Men

Okay, now that we’ve gotten the real estate out of the way, let’s talk about men. As most of you know, I’ve always gone for older men. When I was in my early twenties, this translated to cars and proper houses and fancy dinners on Valentine’s Day—a reprieve, if you will, from my world of dining hall fare and college roommates. Now that I am in my late twenties, however, this translates to a whole host of additional complications. Kids, for example. And ex-wives. (I will let you guess which of these applies to The European, but I will say that at least it is only one and not both.) One would think, having recognized this dilemma for the unchanging phenomenon that it is, that I would see the error of my ways and start dating men a little closer to my own age but I just can’t help it. With the complications, you see, come other things. Lovely things. Last Thursday, for example, The European invited me to his house for the first time. …