Friday Night Lites

Lite on the romance. Lite on the cuddling. Lite on the laughing. Lite on the love. Heavy on the frozen yogurt and Netflix.

This may be the first post in my blog-posting history where I can't appropriately trivialize my love life into a humorous play on food and sex and popular culture. I'm actually sad. Really sad. I just cleaned my whole room. I vacuumed, mopped, swiffered, and dusted. I scrubbed my toilet bowl and shower until I was sweaty. I CHANGED my SHEETS. If we've ever met, you know this means trouble. 

When Daniel left America for Israel a month ago, it was all sweet e-mails and late night Skype calls and work-day sexting.  It was so cute for a few days. Distance? Ha! I spit on distance! Let them cast doubt on our relationship! Let them judge us for believing in a love that spans hemispheres! Haters 'gon hate. We weren't like other couples. Our love was more real, our bond more true. 

False. False false false false.  Daniel is starting a new life in Israel. I'm living the exact same life in Brooklyn, minus Daniel. A seven-hour time difference is nothing to fuck with. When he's got time on his hands, I'm in the most crucial hours of sleep. The first time he called at 5am was fun, the subsequent times were not. When I'm free, he's in bed. When I'm drunk dialing him 4+ times in the middle of the night, he's at work. At first, the time difference was just a tough obstacle to tackle and navigate. Now it has become the proverbial coup de grâce of our relationship. 

I know we'll be friends forever. I know that I'll continue to pine over Daniel for at least a few years to come. Can I help it that Monday night in Zumba, when the instructor asked us to picture ourselves covered in gold and jewels dancing for the love of our lives, I pictured Daniel? That French accent.  Those sturdy arms. That mischievous laugh. 

It's tough. Not even the stove-top popcorn or red wine is providing solace. It's honestly been a struggle. I do know that life would be a lot harder without Friday Night Lights (the TV series, not the movie. Billy Bob Thornton WOOF). If I can follow the love triangles of Jason Street and Lyla Garrity and Tim Riggins (more importantly, shirtless Tim Riggins), maybe I don't need a love triangle of my own. Let's be real--if I can't have a relationship like Coach and Tami Taylor, what's the point?

On the bright side, yesterday I fasted for Yom Kippur and lost two pounds. I pouted my way through my first French class, but Marie--the adorable instructor--might be my new best friend. Not all is lost.

Which is to say, I've saved one fifth of my (one-way?) ticket to Israel. 

A Brand New Day(niel)

I realize it's been over a month since my last post. A lot was happening! My brother got married. I blacked out for a minute and thought I should be in a relationship with Evan. I lost and gained ten pounds. Daniel came to America and changed everything.

Daniel. The love of my life. The apple of my eye. The brie to my bread. The onion on my pizza. He arrived three weeks ago tonight. The second I saw him in the airport, I knew we would pick up right where we left off. Or maybe it was later that night, when he let me choose both dishes for delivery and smiled while I ate the bulk of the Pad See Ew and the Beef in Garlic Sauce.  "I love it when you eat," he said a number of times. He wasn't being facetious.

I interpreted this statement as an implicit command to eat anything and everything in sight. Daniel and I ate (and loved) our way through the Mid-Atlantic. What's New York City if not the gastronomic capital of the world (or at least America)!? When we couldn't sightsee anymore around the Financial District, we ate dumplings in Chinatown. When we couldn't drink anymore in the East Village, we went to Artichoke Pizza. When we couldn't afford to eat out anymore, we ate lobster and steak at the homes of charitable friends (and parents of friends).  People love hosting a handsome, young Frenchman with a penchant for mispronouncing words and complimenting middle-aged women.

I fell even more in love with Daniel than I thought possible. It was so effortless. Uncomplicated. He watched episode after episode of Intervention, Bachelor Pad, and Real Housewives (New York AND New Jersey) and didn't even act bored.  He thought it was cute when I did Zumba in the living room. He thought it was sexy when I got riled up about political inequities for women.  He laughed really hard at my jokes. He thought the fat under my chin was endearing. He told me everyday that I'm beautiful.

And now he's gone. After a steady diet of Ativan and red wine and not eating (I wasn't being funny when I said I gained ten pounds. I gained ten pounds.), I'm feeling sort of okay tonight. If it wasn't for my incredible friends (two of whom came to Brooklyn tonight from the UPPER WEST SIDE just to make friendship bracelets at my apartment) and the new Justin Bieber album, I'm not sure where I'd be. Fortunately, I don't have to imagine a world without those things. A few more trips to 16 Handles, one or two more packs of cigarettes, I think I'll be back on my feet.

One way I won't be coping? On-line dating. I am officially unsubscribed to every internet dating site on the interweb. FOR GOOD (justkiddingyeahrightthatisobviouslyajokebutatleastfornow).

Soulmates en Français

As IF I could not post after tonight's Bachelorette finale (and my mom told me three times she's sick of seeing my last post when she logs in.) Jef and Emily are the most wonderful, beautiful, amazingly happy couple I have ever seen. I want to be in their relationship. It just looks so fun and intimate! I genuinely believe they are soulmates. I cried when Jef proposed. I cried again when I watched the recap.

I was a bit confused by my tears. They were happy tears, right? Because I wholeheartedly wanted Emily to find a father for Ricki. Because I am so happy to see two people find love. Not because I am excruciatingly envious of a woman my age finding a husband and living happily ever after. Right? Of course not. Still, I would be lying if I said that watching the Bachelorette finale was the first time I'd cried today. 


It was earlier in the day while talking to Daniel, the love of my life from Israel. He's finally coming to visit (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) It seems to have all been worth it--the Skype dates over shoddy internet connection, the turmoil over misinterpreted What'sApp messages, the drunken google-translating ("BUT WHAT FRENCH WHORES HAVE YOU BEEN HOOKING UP WITH?!") at 4 o'clock in the morning. Daniel is flying in from France in three weeks, and not a moment too soon. Today I accused Daniel of not being excited enough for the visit. He encouraged me to take another look at the price of the ticket. I did. He also said a million of the things that made me fall in love with him in the first place. I cried. 


I am beside myself in anticipation for his arrival. I've planned every meal, every drink, every romantic walk in Brooklyn Bridge Park. I've also planned every meal on my diet until he arrives. He will fall so hopelessly in love with my post-Israel body that he'll have no choice but to move here and marry me. Assuming the wings, beer, and breakfast sandwich I ate at 2am last night don't count, I've been doing very well. Okay, so I treated myself to a (medium!) fro-yo this afternoon after our traumatic Skype call. But dinner was a turkey burger with sauteed mushrooms and onions, served with cabbage and shaved broccoli slaw. Total 17-Day-Diet shit.

Daniel's impending visit is making it very easy to ignore my current dating life. The dating scene in New York is also making it easy to ignore my dating life. Maybe it's because I'd rather go out in Brooklyn and share fifty buffalo wings and three pitchers of Coors Light with my three best friends than wear heels and go out in Manhattan. Or maybe it's because guys on OkCupid and Match.com have figured out that a second date is all it takes to convince girls (me) that they're boyfriend material, and therefore worth bringing back to their (my) apartment. No more, sirs. Not with men like Jef out there. From now on, it's Jef-quality man material or it's snuggling with my air conditioning remote. Who needs a big spoon when you've got uninterrupted, climate-controlled sleep?

Back When I Ate Pasta

You know how sometimes you're eating pasta, and you're like, "Hey! This tastes good with some parmesan cheese. I bet it would taste even BETTER with MORE parmesan cheese!" And then you add four tablespoons of parmesan cheese and then it just tastes like gross, sour, mushy, cheesy overload? Yeah, so I think dating me is like too much parmesan.

On the first date, I kill it. You like a little somethin' EXTRA in your date? A little sass? A little spice? Someone who's gonna up the flavor factor of your routine skinny, blonde, vegetarian advertising chick who likes to talk about her puppy? Yeah, I got dat parmesan. Then, on dates two and three, they realize--Hey! You know what? This dish was kind of good without all that extra flavor. That extra intensity. All that extra cheese (read: honesty, emotional effusiveness, overindulgence period.) And then the inevitable happens. They throw out the parmesan-smothered disaster and move on to buttered pasta. Plain. Safe. Sane.

A friend once told me that she categorizes all people into types of pasta. She labeled me a spicy, tomato-y blend with penne. "Why spicy?" I asked. "Because, you know. You're a certain type. Not everyone's gonna like you." Clearly, I was shocked. As far as I was concerned, I was the macaroni and cheese--the single most crowd-pleasing pasta of them all. However, as friends often are, I believe she is right.

Last Tuesday night I went out with Madison (Okay, I'd never really date someone named Madison but I'm running out of pseudonyms that start with "M.") I wasn't very pumped for the date. He had asked me to INSTANT MESSAGE on OkCupid (oops--did I mention I reactivated?....) but a few wines into the date he was my next future husband. We really did have an amazing time, wines or no wines, and he sent me not one but TWO sweet texts the next day. We confirmed our date for tomorrow night, and I looked forward to it all week. Then, as the story always seems to end, the dreaded text came: "Hey. A million apologies. I'm gonna have to bow out of tomorrow night. I don't think it's gonna work out. Sorry." I just typed that out from memory. Fuck. I might have read it more than once.

Okay, so: A million apologies--fine, good start. Can't make it tomorrow--not a problem, I reschedule all the time.  I don't think it's gonna work out. Sorry. Nope, no explanations for that one.

It's like I repel them. There is literally NOTHING I could have done in this past week to fuck it up. I was in San Francisco, truly enjoying myself, and didn't feel the need to call or text or even WORRY because I was so confident in our connection.  I guess he reflected on things, and I was just a little too much cheese. He's on the paleo diet--what did I expect?

17-Day Dummies

I haven't eaten a carb in eleven days. Not one single grain of rice. No bread, no crackers, no NOTHIN'.  My co-workers are starting to look like bagels.

It's the 17-Day Diet, and it's either the best or worst thing that's ever happened to me. Results unclear. The objectives for the diet were simple: Clear my body of toxins. Stop binge drinking. Lose 15 pounds. Attend open casting call for the Bachelor. Meet and fall in love with my future husband. It was all within my reach. It looked so easy the Sunday night before, stuffing my face with popcorn and planning my menus.

Eleven days in, it's not all bad. I've lost five pounds (or more. I know for a fact my scale is broken.) I'm cooking like a machine. I get drunk off two glasses of wine. There's no wine allowed on the 17-Day Diet, you say? Are the assholes who compel the drinking of wine allowed? Because if I had a slice of pizza for every idiot I've been out with since starting this diet, I'd have two slices of pizza.

Like the 17-Day Diet, the dates weren't all bad. On day two of the diet, I hung out with Aaron. I was feeling hot and skinny (and hungry) and Aaron was loving the confident, sexy (hungry) me. We spent a lovely night watching GIRLS and Veep on Aaron's couch while I cooly sipped my only (second) glass of wine. All was good in this burgeoning relationship. Until I texted Aaron the next day telling him I'd accidentally left my phone charger at his place, and he offered to SHIP IT TO MY APARTMENT. Seriously? You would rather overnight the package to Brooklyn than face the prospect of hanging out again. Dummy one.

On day four of the diet, I went out with Jason. Jason is the first guy I've been out with from Match.com, and I was thrilled with my success. This tall, liberal Jew who runs a charter school! And lives in Brooklyn. And drives a car. Yahtzee! I had trouble reading Jason throughout the date, but his effusive e-mail the next morning confirmed: he was into me. Turns out I'm fun when I'm hungry and tipsy.

I couldn't wait to see Jason last night for our second date. Day ten. I was sick of the diet, and sick of cutting myself off after two wines. I was 2.5 glasses of Pinot Grigio deep when we started our date, and 4.5+ glasses in when we finished. Maybe I wasn't as classy as day four. Or as peppy. Or as excited to wake up and eat fat-free cottage cheese for the third morning in a row. Whatever it was, Jason and I lost our love connection. I resented that he didn't hold my hand. He thought it was stupid that I like The Notebook. I thought it was stupid that he goes to bed at 9pm.  I started thinking he looks like John C. Reilly. Dummy two.

Day eleven. Tonight I went to The Meatball Shop and ate a salad. For dessert I had peppermint tea. If I don't get picked for season 17 of the Bachelor...

Sausage for One

Of the chicken variety, that is.

The highlight of my week: Sauteing onions, mushrooms, garlic, and chicken apple sausage in olive oil. Adding some diced tomatoes and whole wheat pasta. Eating said meal while watching the Bachelorette. Consuming a pint of blueberries during the rose ceremony. NATE got sent home! Who the fuck is Nate? Was he even on the show?

I digress. That was the highlight of my week. Perhaps that's why IN THE WEAKEST MOMENT OF WEAKNESS I'VE HAD IN MONTHS (okay, days) I JOINED MATCH.COM. Why, God?!?!?!!??!?!? Why?!?!?! I already regret it. Out of sheer, bold confidence in my real-life love life, I quit OkCupid (... and by quit I mean de-activated my account. It's saved and ready should I lose faith in my real-life love finding abilities.) Alas, down the drain goes that confidence. I may not be playing Quickmatch during my lunch break (I refuse to get the Match.com app on my phone, for now...) but I paid $41.99 for this shit! Except, I didn't pay for it. I talked my poor mother into buying it for me. She must be getting sick of my love life too.

So tonight, while watching 16 and Pregnant and feeling pretty good about myself for not being 16 or pregnant, I received yet another blow dealt exclusively by internet dating websites. ONLINE NOW: Aaron, the guy I'm having dinner with this Friday. We met on OkCupid before I de-activated and have now hung out twice. Looks like I'm not the only one double dipping in the world of cyber encounters/relationships/excusestogetdrunkforfreeonweeknights. He's got great eyes and an intriguing, dry sense of humor. I'm not sure if he cares about social justice, but he bought all my drinks and has HBO. At this point, that's grounds for a third date.

Maybe Aaron isn't crazy about me yet. I'm not crazy about him yet either. Jared, my favorite boyfriend last month (law school, Jewish, all-around perfect husband material), broke things off because I was too crazy about him too soon. Whatever, JARED. I'm sorry I thought you were awesome and I figured I would tell you! If he only knew the million texts I DIDN'T send. Hah. I'll show you too much too soon. No, no I won't. His number is now safely deleted from my phone, where it belongs.

Does it only feel like everyone else in the world is in a relationship? Or is it, more likely, true?

Love In The Time Of Internet

One in five relationships now begins online. I've probably heard that three times today. Could that possibly be true? And what are the odds, if I average 2-3 OkCupid dates a week, that I should find myself with a soulmate? Good, I would think! 

Maybe I'm selling myself short. I'm kind of in a few relationships. There's Boyfriend Number One, Mason. Mason went to art school, works in some kind of creative field I only pretend to understand/care about, and is Irish Catholic. Mason is HOT. Mason has tattoos. Mason is a man who knows how to do things (anyone see last week's episode of GIRLS?) However, I find myself yearning for a little bit more. If it wasn't for the roasted duck bread pudding (I KNOW) on our last date, I might have given him the old "my friend just broke up with her boyfriend she really needs me" and left. And then I remember, I already gave Mason that excuse, when I left to hang out with Boyfriend Number Two...

Jared. Boyfriend number two. Fiance number one? I do believe, as I believe nearly once a month, that I have met my future husband. Jared is in his first year of law school. He loves Mad Men. He loves to eat. He loves social justice! Seriously, what kind of man is athletic, cool, AND has his own non-profit geared toward international development? Oh, and did I mention he's Jewish!? The whole package. So far I've played it pretty cool (aside from telling him he's my dream man once when I was drunk. Or twice...) He finishes law school finals tomorrow, so we'll see what the next couple weeks bring (HA! Like I have the patience to wait that long before finding Boyfriend Number Three.)

Over the past few weeks I've been feeling really zen about my two relationships, and about dating in general. Maybe it's my new Total Body Conditioning class. Maybe it's the fact that I've learned how to make popcorn on the stove and the pleasure from this discovery has not warn off. Nevertheless, I can feel my dating angst rearing its ugly, virtual head. I probably spent a cumulative two hours on Quickmatch today. I was watching New Girl at the same time, but still. Not healthy. I almost can't keep the potential new boyfriends straight. In a moment of weakness, I stooped to the ultimate low. I started  INSTANTMESSAGINGSOMEONEFROMJDATE. I shame-ate two spoons of almond butter. Then I finished a bag of white chocolate chips. I don't even like white chocolate. 

When I reach this point, I always think it's time for a break. Or I could make some rules for myself. Like, one boyfriend/week. Or, limit two boyfriends/week. Or I'll just cut myself off carbs for a day or two and go read Fifty Shades of Grey. Yes. That is exactly what I will do. Who needs the internet when I have Christian Grey on my Kindle and a fresh bottle of wine in my kitchen? Is wine a carb?