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?
Monday, July 23, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
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?
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?
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