Dark and Stormy

Screw you, hurricane Irene.

After planning every minute of our last 36 hours together (and by every minute, I mean every outfit, every meal, every song to be played while we gaze into each others eyes and proclaim how much we will miss each other in the months to come), Evan informs me that he can no longer come visit tomorrow night. Thanks to my new arch nemesis Irene, Evan has to report to work on Friday--a day he was supposed to have off this week.

Instead of feeling sorry for Evan, commiserating with him over the fact that he has to report to work on his only day off after two straight weeks of non-stop training, I laid into him for messing up our plans. "I'm leaving for five months!!! Isn't there anything you can do!?" No, he calmly assured me, there is not. He will report to work on Friday, and I will report to the crazy-girlfriend police.

To be fair, we will now have only twelve hours together before I leave for Israel. Which sucks. On the plus side, I was so upset when I got the news that I stopped feeling the incessant hunger that has accompanied my pre-departure attempt to lose ten (five?) pounds. On the down side, once I got over the initial shock of the news I eased my disappointment with an entire bag of Kettle corn. I guess it could have been worse. I didn't dig into the blueberry cobbler I made earlier this week, the result of yet another instance where the Navy made me hate my relationship. Or my relationship made me hate the Navy? I don't know.

I guess I'll cook. I'm having friends over tomorrow night for one last get-together. I'll try to busy myself making treats and buying booze. I'll miss Evan, though. I had even picked out the dress I would wear. It was all so clear in my head: I would casually be handing out freshly made bruschetta to my guests when--COULD IT BE?!--in walks Evan, fresh from his tough two weeks at work and ready to let loose with his girl and her closest friends and family. I should have known it was too good to be true. I'll still have my friends over, and I'll still pass out bruschetta. I just may not wear that dress. And I may not shave my legs. No, I will not shave my legs.