Raging Bull

Last week, I tried to be angry, only I wasn't truly angry. But now I am!

It started on Wednesday. The cute neighbor had told me he would leave it up to me if I wanted to contact him again, and we had left our last conversation a little upset and frustrated. I called him on Wednesday to tell him that yes, I knew it probably wouldn't work past his leaving date, but that I was hopeful. And also, that I wish that had been reiterated before he left, because I feel like I've now been put through this twice. He apologized and took full responsibility for how he handled it. Then we chatted casually and he ended the conversation by saying, "Ok, I'll talk to you later." An hour later, he texted me to give me an update on where he was watching the baseball game.

Really? How am I supposed to get closure with "talk to you later" and conversational texts? I was very proud of the fact that I didn't respond.

Then I made the mistake of watching The Proposal on tv. By the end of it, I was getting a little weepy. When Ryan Reynolds chased Sandra Bullock back to New York from Alaska, I practically threw the box of wheat thins I was eating (for dinner) at the tv and screamed, "THAT'S NOT THE WAY IT WORKS!" Then the weepy turned into whole body sobs with ugly tears. For about a half an hour.

On Thursday I swore off watching all romantic comedies for awhile and called McNerdy to come hang out with me in order not to have a repeat of the previous night. It worked.

Then on Friday, The Rage really kicked in. I have the cute neighbor to thank for kick-starting it too. On Friday afternoon, while at work with a 5 and 10-year-old, I got a text from him. Another random, conversational text. It threw me for a loop. I felt sick and distracted. I stopped paying attention to the kids, and had to shake myself out of my stupor when I realized that one of the kids was trying to beat up the other with the step stool. That's when I got angry. I couldn't get home fast enough to call him and tell him to leave me the fuck alone. Of course he didn't answer his phone, as it was in the middle of his workday (but he interrupted mine, so I figured it was worth a try), which only made me angrier. How dare he?! How dare he act as if nothing had changed? It would be so easy to fall into that trap with him, but I'm going to be very mature and grown-up here, and tell him that we can be friends someday, but we can't be friends now. And now by not answering his phone, he was depriving me of this conversation, which in some way I think would have really helped me on the whole closure process.

I got angrier and angrier. He knew exactly how he felt, and he knew how I felt, and yet he strung me along all summer, and I was left feeling like I had gone through two big break-ups in two months. Nobody deserves that! Nobody can take two break-ups in two months! Why would he do that to me? The bastard! The douche bag! He was not honest with me. I expected so much better of him.

Eventually he sent me a message telling me he had a phone meeting and couldn't call me back but that he was sorry he texted me and he shouldn't have. I got angrier. I wanted to be able to tell him that myself. He still hasn't called me back, which I guess is what I want, but I also want the pleasure of telling him these things myself. Finally yesterday I emailed him and told him no, you shouldn't have texted me. Yes, we can be friends someday but no, we can't be friends right now because 1. I need time and space, and 2. I'm very angry about the way you handled this and put me through this not once but twice, and I expected better from you.

And now I need a rebound. Badly. Unfortunately, Baby-child left town on Monday, and that was way too soon. I was hoping The Dark Horse would come through for me, but he's out of town. I feel like I'm on the clock too, since I'm going back to Pennsylvania next weekend, and heaven knows there are absolutely no chances for a rebound there. Another reason to be angry. His handling of the situation could prevent me from properly rebounding. FUCKWIT!

The End.

Hey, do you remember when the cute neighbor became the first actual boyfriend any of us had while writing WWBD? Well now he has the honor of becoming the first actual ex-boyfriend we've acquired while writing WWBD? He must feel so honored!

Yes, it's over. Finished. Finito. The End.

It started on Friday. I was getting increasingly frustrated with the cute neighbor over the fact that he was dragging his feet on making plans to see each other in August. Up to that point, I had done everything, but he still couldn't come up with dates for our little rendezvous. If he wants to see me, he best be putting some effort into it too. I called him to tell him just this. I told him it made me feel like he didn't want to see me, and that I felt like I was inconveniencing him when I brought it up. He apologized. Then I don't really remember what was said, but in the midst of me looking up plane tickets to visit him, we somehow got into another argument and he asked me what I was hoping to accomplish with this visit. I told him I just wanted to see him, to which he responded that it seemed that I was trying to make a long-distance relationship work and that's not what he wanted. Huh. That horrible feeling in my stomach? That was the suckerpunch.

I tried to process this information. I know we had always said that we would just see what happened until he left Atlanta, but I definitely missed the part where we broke up. Because in my eyes, I thought things were going quite well when he left, and that little part where he told me he would do the best he could to arrange his summer travel plans to come visit me? Very silly of me to think that meant anything. If he was so dead set against it, why didn't he just say "It's been fun!" and leave me alone? He dropped this on me while he was in a noisy pub waiting for a ride to go away for the weekend. I was about to meet some friends to go to a baseball game. Supremely bad timing. (But I sadly can't blame him for that, since I'm the one that called him to tell him I was pissed off at him.) He told me he'd call on Sunday and we hung up. I stared at the phone. What the fuck just happened? Then the tears started. No, not tears. SOBS. Hugs, from-the-gut sobs that made it difficult to breathe. Just moments ago I thought I would be purchasing a plane ticket to actually see him soon, and now I've just been dumped?

I called Grayer and sobbed the story to her. She encouraged me to go to the baseball game, because if I didn't, I would just sit at home and cry, and at least this way I could have some fun. She was right of course, and I did enjoy myself, but the minute I got back in my car after leaving my friends, the sobs started again. I had to sit there for several minutes to compose myself. I was not successful, and probably should have waited longer, as I was still in no shape to drive. I even got honked at.

In the morning, I got up early and went for a run, which always works. Not this time. I barely managed to stay composed during my run, and the minute I got to the safety of my porch, the sobs came again. The rest of the morning went like that. I kind of wanted my mom.

My roommate texted me from work to tell me we were going to go out that night for dinner and drinks, no excuses. I decided that gave me plenty of time to pull myself together. In the early afternoon, the 23-year-old baby-child subletting the apartment downstairs asked if I wanted to come down for a beer. I did. It was a good distraction, and then we watched the first part of the 7th Harry Potter so he could go with me to see it Sunday. I was feeling better already.

Baby-child joined us for dinner, where after a few margaritas we decided to head to the most notorious strip-club in town, famous for employing strippers who qualify for social security. It will actually make you feel pretty good about your own naked body. It also doubles as a dance club on Saturday nights, and that's what we were looking for. With all the drinks and the dancing, baby-child was getting a little handsy and flirty, and I thought, "I can totally do this. I've still got it."

Sunday we went to see Harry Potter. It was good to cry over something that had nothing to do with the cute neighbor. At one point, I noticed baby-child's arm was draped across the back of my seat. He also paid for my ticket. I felt a little like I was 16 again. Then we went home to watch the Women's World Cup final. Major disappointment. Then baby-child left and I was just left waiting for the cute neighbor to call and make things official.

We delayed the inevitable by talking about our weekends. After stalling as long as we could, we got down to business. I'm not going to recount the conversation, but here are the heart-breaking highlights:

1. I clearly misunderstood that "wait to see what happens when I leave Atlanta" actually means "we'll date until I leave Atlanta, but we're not going any further than that." Obviously, I knew that was a possibility, but I guess I also thought there was a possibility that we would continue. Silly me.

2. I was always more into this relationship than he was. This came up when I asked him why he bothered to talk to me after he moved. He told me that I was doing all the calling. I can safely say that he definitely called me as well.

3. Even if we weren't moving to opposite continents, we would have the same outcome. It just wasn't going to work.

This time the sobbing started the moment I hung up the phone. (And it was an accomplishment to hold off that long.) I feel stupid. Seriously stupid. Did I really know this all along and just wanted it to work so badly that I ignored it? I knew that it was a longshot in the long-term, but I also figured I had nothing to lose. I wasn't going to want to start dating someone new before I left, so why not enjoy spending time with someone I could learn from and have fun with? Apparently there was more at stake than I knew.

It hurts. I feel like I've been tried on, found lacking, and thrown back into the pile. Despite bracing myself for it, now it's official. I feel officially unwanted. I know it sounds dramatic, but there's no question that I've spilled more tears for him than any other man in my life. In fact, I don't think I've spilled this many tears over all the others combined. And it's just the beginning.

Hollywood Lies

Friday was my last day as a regularly-employed nanny. Can I get a what WHAT?! No more will I have to be threatened with bodily harm by an 8-year-old. No longer will I be blamed for things that are in no way, shape, or form my fault. No longer will I be treated like a servant and be expected to clean up after an entire family. Needless to say, it was time to celebrate.

I went out with McNerdy and my roommate for food and pitchers of cheap beer. We had a fantastic time getting drunk and me ranting about the problems of children being in therapy. Then we decided to move on to another spot for a nightcap. For the first time in ages, I returned to the scene of the crime. The same tiny bar where the cute neighbor told me he didn't want to be just my fake boyfriend anymore, and where I pushed Fenella into the bathroom and held her hostage while I peed and told her what had just happened and after which I went running across the street to knock on the cute neighbor's door at 2am for a film-worthy passionate kiss. And then I got really sad.

I was sad because according to the movies, that was the beginning of our happily ever after. In Two Weeks Notice, Sandra Bullock went running down the street after Hugh Grant for the same passionate kiss. In Notting Hill, Hugh Grant went racing all over London to find Julia Roberts and tell her he had been a "daft prick" and win her back. In Love Actually, Prime Minister Hugh Grant went door-to-door looking for Natalie, before also ending things in a passionate kiss at the school Christmas show. And then they all lived happily ever after. It was very easy. They didn't have geography to deal with; one half of the couple didn't move to one side of the world for work while the other went to the other side of the world for grad school. They were all very successful and the economy was booming, and they just chose to live happily ever after and never had to deal with these kinds of issues.

This tells me one thing: Hugh Grant is a liar. In real life, even if you have a Hollywood ending as a beginning, that doesn't mean you won't be searching for solutions to find the time and money to see your significant other before you leave the country. It doesn't guarantee you'll be together every Saturday night until the end of time. And my missing him that much caused me to have a dream last night where he spontaneously decided to come visit, let himself into my house, then my bedroom, and then my bed while I was sleeping. And then a lizard walked across my bedroom floor on its hands. (Do lizards even have hands?!)

Lies! They are all lies! I don't want to be Will and Viola from Shakespeare in Love, with a heartbreaking, inter-continental separation and forced marriage to an alarmingly un-charming Colin Firth with a stupid dangly earring! I want to be George and Lucy from Two Weeks' Notice, with witty banter and our own helicopter.

It's devastating to learn that my favorite romantic comedies are all lies. Maybe that's the next thing Grayer and I should put on our list of money-making schemes: Realistic romantic comedy. Or pick up where the movie left off to include arguments, complications, and infertility. I think there would be a huge demographic ready for that.

And on a separate note, this is the last in my series of "I'm so sad I miss the cute neighbor" posts. I think I've had sufficient enough time to move on to something funnier and more positive. I promise. Thanks for bearing with me.

How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying

As Grayer mentioned, her palm reader indicated that she would be in for a major life change at the age of 55, one of the possibilities of those changes being that we will finally make it big with one of our money making schemes. It's true. Grayer and I have no fewer than 27 money making schemes up our sleeves, although I don't know why we call them "schemes." They're not schemes so much as poorly thought out business plans. And while I would love to list all those plans here, they're really good ideas, and I don't want anyone to steal them. (Obviously I trust everyone who reads this blog regularly with my life, but I don't want to be the Winklevoss twins to your Mark Zuckerberg. Although, come to think of it, I would totally take that multi-million dollar settlement...) Anyway, Grayer and I don't have a problem coming up with ideas. It's the follow-through (probably due to our complete lack of business know-how) that we have a problem with.

Until last week, when I came up with the most perfect, sure-fire, can't-fail idea yet. I was at work, working as a nanny (possibly the worst job on the planet), counting down the days until the job is over (TODAY!) and wondering how on earth I managed to take two different nanny jobs and get possibly the two worst families in the city to work for. I mean, I hear stories about people who really love the families they work for, but I have certainly not had that experience. Then it hit me. I will write my experiences down in a book. Obviously, this is not a new concept, and I had thought of it all before, but suddenly everything became much clearer. The concept, the story-telling, the plot-line, everything was suddenly there. I actually forgot that I had two kids in the backseat of my car my mind was working so fast.

As soon as I got back to their house, I grabbed the first piece of paper I found (graph paper) and started furiously scribbling down ideas while pretty much continuing to ignore the children. (They have video games, they only need me to drive them around and feed them.) I was so excited, I texted both Grayer and the cute neighbor to tell them I wouldn't have to worry about paying back my impending grad school loans, as it was sure to be a best seller. I got an equally enthusiastic response from Grayer, as I knew I would. I did not receive a response from the cute neighbor.

When I talked to him later that evening, I was seriously disappointed in his lack of enthusiasm for my future Pulitzer Prize winner. "It takes a lot of time to write a book," was his response. Seriously? I called him out on his non-enthusiasm, and he went on to talk about how much goes into getting something published (he's an academic, so he has papers published all the time). I was pretty pissed off. I mean, there's a 97% chance that I will never have anything published, but throw me a bone here. If anything, this is only motivating me more. I just want to prove to him that I can do it.

Before you go condemning the cute neighbor, just know that afterward I told him exactly how I felt about his lack of support, to which he apologized profusely, and told me that I should do it, especially later in the summer when I'll be at home at my parents' house with absolutely nothing else to do while I wait to start grad school. And I will. Look for it at a bookstore near you.

The Funk

I'm in a funk. Ever since the cute neighbor left, my weekends have been awfully exciting (insert sarcastic face). Now, I realize that even with the cute neighbor, my weekends weren't always totally hip and happening (as we sometimes stayed in to watch baseball and listened to NPR in the mornings), but at least there was sex involved. And cuddling. This weekend, however, was just plain sad.

Friday night. I pick up a Whole Foods dinner on my way home from work, and am a bit too excited to be listening to a local radio station's Big 90s Weekend. I'm a huge fan of their playing nothing but 90s music on the weekends, as it reminds me of my coming of age. It also makes me feel old. At home, I sit on the couch and eat said Whole Foods dinner while watching my latest addiction: America's Got Talent. I know what you're thinking: LAME! But before you go judging me for watching it, watch these cuties, who are the cutest things I've ever seen. And Nick Cannon is way cooler than Ryan Seacrest, although I have to look away for the really bad auditions. At least on Idol, the bad ones are only in front of three judges, as opposed to an auditorium full of people. I kept bursting into tears all evening, which I told myself was because of the emotions of watching these people realize their dreams, but was in reality about something else entirely. And that was Friday night.

On Saturday, I was awake way too early, did some pilates, watched some tv, got my car detailed in preparation to sell it, and looked into moving vehicles. Around 4 or 5 pm, my boss called to see if there was any way I could baby-sit that night. Sadly, I had absolutely no other plans, so I agreed, but only because it would be late enough that the kids would be sleeping the whole time I was there. I got a lot of reading done. At 11pm, she called to see if I could stay for another hour. No, that's not a problem at all, I told her. I have only an empty bed and a cat who pulls out his own hair to go home to. All I wanted to do was go home and cuddle with the cute neighbor, but that wasn't an option.

I realize that I could have called somebody up to hang out, but I just didn't want to. I really couldn't think of anybody I felt like hanging out with that was actually within driving distance. This is something that I have simply got to snap out of; I can't feel sorry for myself. It could be a lot worse.

I was a bit better today. I went to the pool with some friends, and I'm hanging out with Rebecca this evening for a movie and take-out. I need to force myself out of this funk. Otherwise, there will be a lot of long, lonely weekends in my future.

Just peachy

I'm fine. Really, everybody. I'm fine. I'm not about to jump off a bridge. I'm not thinking about staying under the covers for weeks on end. Besides, it's too hot for that. My boyfriend moved out of town. Yes, I'm sad about it, and Tuesday was a really rough day, but he didn't dump me, nor did he die.

Don't get me wrong. I really appreciate that there are people out there who care. It was really very sweet of my co-worker, who has a family of her own and is thus very busy, to offer to take me to a movie this week as a distraction. I was really touched. It was also really nice of The Umpire, whom I haven't heard from in ages, to call me on Wednesday to see how I was doing. Unfortunately, I just happened to be watching The Daily Show on the couch with ice cream and wine. The same co-worker just sent me an email to let me know she was thinking of me and she hopes I'm having a good weekend. I'm really touched that people care, but again, I'm not suicidal.

The two people I would have guessed would be more concerned about the situation, but who haven't said much of anything are my parents. The only question my mom has asked was if we were going to "stay in touch," as if we were penpals. Yes, mom. We're going to remain facebook friends and maybe send each other a Christmas card. When it comes to not prying in her daughters' lives, my mother is an artist. Being interested is not prying, mom!

Anyway, I've been trying to keep myself busy with the cute neighbor gone. I went to the library yesterday to get some movies and fluffy, mindless chick-lit. I really wanted a new Meg Cabot or Sophie Kinsella book, but I had read all of Meg, and the only new Sophie's they had were Shopaholic, and I just can't relate to her. (I find her increasing debt frustrating. I'm a bit too practical with money for that one.) So I just started perusing the shelves for books with dark pink covers and a high heel on the spine. I found one, of course, but after 15 pages or so, I'm a bit annoyed. Chick-lit, when done well, is awesome. When done poorly, it's a bit unbearable.

My attempts to stay busy have also created a new obsession with peaches. A sweet, juicy peach is one of the great things in life, and now that it's high peach season, I want to take advantage of it. Last night I made some peach salsa, and this morning, peach-blueberry smoothies. It looked gross (a bit pukey) but tasted absolutely delicious. Tomorrow I'm thinking peach cobbler. If you have any good peach recipes, please send them to me.

So yes, my boyfriend moved out of town. Yes, I really miss him already. But we're constantly talking/texting/emailing, so it's not as if he was just completely removed from my life. I very much appreciate the emails/texts/phone calls, and I hope they keep coming (if for no other reason than I just like hearing from people), but no need to put me on suicide watch. I'm just peachy...

Everybody Hurts...sometimes...

Ugh. I feel like I've been put through the emotional wringer today. Today was moving day for the cute neighbor. All weekend I helped him pack up his stuff, pack up his U-Haul and clean out the empty shell of his apartment, keeping ourselves busy so we wouldn't have to think about Tuesday. But then Tuesday came. Let's just say this hasn't exactly been my best Tuesday.

The Cute Neighbor spent last night here since there was nothing but dust in his apartment to sleep on. Normally, we need separate sides of the bed to sleep, but not last night. In the morning, I went off to work while he went to tie up a few loose ends. On my way home from work at noon, I couldn't stop crying, not because of the cute neighbor, but because a student of mine had just turned in an essay about coming out of the closet to his parents, who in turn told him not to tell anyone about it and have not acknowledged it since. First of all, I was extremely saddened by the fact that they just can't accept their own son for who he is, but I was also struck by the fact that he had confided in me like this, since I certainly didn't know this piece of information before, and I don't know who else does.

But back to the cute neighbor. We had a long, tearful goodbye. The tears were all mine, but at one point, I actually thought he might be fighting back some too. This may sound terrible, but it was slightly comforting to see how torn up he was over our separation. It's always good to know when you feel the same way. He assured me he was just as sad to be leaving me, and that I was the best thing about this city and he would do everything he could to arrange his summer schedule to include a trip east. I'm very glad to know this, but it only made me cry harder.

After he had left, I curled up on my bed and let it out for awhile. I wasn't quite sure how to stop. Even as I write this, the waterworks have turned back on. There just seems to be a hole somewhere, and I'm not sure quite how to fill it up. Part of me feels silly for feeling this way. We haven't broken up, and we still have phones to talk to each other. But it still hurts.

Luckily, the family that I nanny for is out of town this week, so I can house-sit and take care of the cat in solitude. Of course, as always seems to happen in these situations, every song on the radio seemed a little too significant, and got me started up all over again. REM's "Everybody Hurts", Green Day's "Good Riddance," and the one that for some reason always gets me choked up no matter what: "Somewhere Only We Know."

This could be the end of everything/so why don't we go somewhere only we know...

When I got home tonight, all I wanted to do was curl up on the sofa and watch the saddest episodes of Grey's Anatomy, but I realized that not only did I not have any food, but I was also completely out of toilet paper, which was bad enough in of itself, but it also meant I had no tissues with which to blow my constantly running nose. I put my sunglasses over my swollen eyes and headed out to the grocery store, passing the cute neighbor's empty apartment on the way.

The problem with going food shopping at a time like this, is that I don't actually buy anything with which I can actually prepare a meal. The cute neighbor took my appetite with him, so I wasn't much interested in anything. Although aside from the much-needed toilet paper, I did manage to buy some wine and coffee heath bar crunch ice cream. I think that will hold me over for awhile. I'm still going back and forth between whether or not I want to be alone to wallow in my sorrow, or if I want someone to come over with Chinese take-out, more wine, and a movie. I just don't know.

I know it will all work itself out in the end. If it was meant to be it will be, etc. etc. But knowing that doesn't make today and probably tomorrow, and most especially this weekend just really, really suck. Luckily my sunglasses are really large and Fenella says I can totally rock the Audrey Hepburn look.

And yes, it will all work itself out in the end. As William Shakespeare once said in A Midsummer Night's Dream, "The course of true love never did run smooth." Damn, that guy was good.

The Chop

Hair.

So much about us comes from our hair. It's a source of pride, frustration, embarrassment, and individuality. It can dictate our moods, as it's impossible to be in a bad mood when having a great hair day, but will send your day spiraling in a heartbeat on a bad one. It can also send people in a panic to find a gray one, or when it starts to fall out. Nothing defines your appearance more than hair. It's the first thing people mention when describing someone else. One thing is for certain: there's a lot of emotion tied to our hair. Women especially.

I have very thick, very dark, curly hair. And before Friday at noon, it was long. Really long. The amount of hair on my head was pretty amazing. It had gotten to the point where it was more than halfway down my back. On the rare occasion that I wore it down (because wearing it down was a pain in the ass) people stared at it, asking, "is all that yours?" Yes, it's all mine.

I had been growing it long for two reasons. One being that I'm too cheap and lazy to get it cut on a regular basis, but the other reason being that I had the intention of donating it ever since my mom lost her hair to chemotherapy several years ago. I knew how emotional it had been for her to lose her hair, and had I had enough at the time, I would have cut it off right then and there, but I didn't, so I let it grow.

For the past year or so, I've been talking about chopping and donating it "soon." Even though I knew I wanted to donate it, I'd grown rather attached to my hair. It was my thing. I know it sounds silly, but I was actually worried that if I got rid of it, I would lose my one distinguishing feature. Without it, I would just blend in with every other girl. To help my decision-making, I asked the cute neighbor if that was in fact true. He told me I was indeed being ridiculous, and mentioned that people (men) were too busy staring at my legs, ass, and boobs to notice my hair. He's so romantic.

On Friday morning, I woke up determined to cut my hair. I'm not sure why Friday, but I tend to make big chops during times of really big change in my life. This year certainly qualifies. First the cute neighbor is moving away this week (maybe it was a preemptive chop, in preparation for the loss of a man?), then I'm moving to Europe for grad school in the fall. I'd say it's a year for new starts. And thus, new hair.

I told the hair dresser what I wanted. She asked if I was sure. I told her I was. She reminded me that what I'd told her was longer than the 10 inches required, so I didn't need to go so short. I told her to do it anyway. She put my hair in a ponytail. Then chopped it off. She cut off an entire foot of hair from my head. A foot of hair!

I exhaled. I already felt much lighter, like I wasn't being weighed down by this thing hanging down my back. No more would I need to pull my hair out from under me while laying down, nor would it get stuck behind me when I was sitting down or in my car. When she was all done, there was still a lot of carnage on the floor beneath me. She picked up my ponytail and put it in a ziploc bag for me, and told me I was doing a good thing, so I shouldn't be sad about losing my hair. I almost cried.

My roommate's jaw dropped when she saw it. "I can't believe you went so short!" she said. But nobody was happier about it than the cute neighbor. He was good not to say anything about it, but the sheer mass of hair on my head was always in his way. When I slept at his place, I slept with it up so as not to suffocate him. He tells me it looks better too. This morning, when I put my hair up in a pathetic little ponytail while making pancakes, he asked if I missed my hair. "Not yet," I said. "Do you miss my hair?" Without hesitating: "Nope."

Now that the really hot weather has set in, I don't think I'll be missing it anytime soon.

The Final Countdown

Two weeks and counting. And then the cute neighbor is just... gone. Driving off into the sunset in his U-Haul. Two weeks. Then I'm going to be left behind to try to figure out what it was that I did before he was in my life. I mean, how am I going to spend my Saturday mornings if not sleeping in with the cute neighbor, then cooking breakfast together while listening to NPR? I think I'm going to be running a lot.

Two weeks ago, the cute neighbor and I were at least able to go on a mini-break together. We got out of town for a long weekend camping at the beach. I wanted to use this opportunity to cross something off my New Year's Resolution list: skinny dipping. I've said it before and I'll say it again, but if I died tomorrow, my biggest regret in life would be not going skinny dipping. I'm not sure why, but skinny dipping seems to me a symbol of living life to the fullest, so to speak. Nakedness, water, the most natural of elements. So yes, on this trip I was determined to go skinny dipping.

Skinny-dipping on the beach, however, is not as easy as it seems (does it seem easy?). It's something that kind of needs to be done late at night, when the air is cooler, and the water dark and slightly scary. The beach closest to our camping spot (and thus within walking distance late at night after drinking beer around the campfire) had a big, scary-looking sign posted informing us of the high levels of bacteria found in that water and STRONGLY CAUTIONED us not to swim in it. The last thing I want to do is bathe my naked hoo-ha in high levels of bacteria.

Second, I was hoping to include the cute neighbor in this skinny-dipping endeavor. I mean, why wouldn't I? However, without my even mentioning skinny-dipping, the cute neighbor informed me that the ocean is the last place he would ever want to go skinny-dipping in case the fish mistake his dingus for bait. Hmm. Excellent point.

And thus, no skinny-dipping. But I WILL do it. I'm bound and determined.

Aside from the shattered dream, the cute neighbor and I had a fantastically awesome weekend. We rode bikes on the beach and went kayaking, and he didn't even get mad at me that my right arm is stronger than my left so I kept making left turns and he had to work harder to correct it, or that I flung mud all over him when we were going through really shallow water.

It really hit home when we got back and I told my roommate all about it, and she said that's so great that we'll at least have that last nice memory together. That made me sad. Obviously I don't know what will happen or how it will end, but she's right. We'll always have the beach.

Forever...

It's April. Summer is almost here. This means the cute neighbor and I are down to less than 2 months of being neighbors. We're not moving in together. In fact, quite the opposite. At the end of May, he's moving. Leaving town. Forever. At the end of the summer, I am too. Only I'm not following him, I'm headed in the opposite direction.

Right now, I feel like this is the end of Senior Year. The cute neighbor and I still have the prom to go to and all, but at the end of the summer, we're headed to different schools. But we don't even have until the end of the summer for some Summer Lovin', because he's going off to work as a camp counselor and I'm staying home for the summer baby-sitting. (I just want to note that the cute neighbor is not going to be a camp counselor. But sadly, I will indeed be baby-sitting.)

Let me tell you right now: I have no idea what's going to happen between us. I've always known he would be moving right about now, but that seemed sooooo far into the future last year after I shoved Fenella into the bathroom to excitedly tell her that my totally cute neighbor had just confessed he had the hots for me and I dramatically ran across the street to knock on his door at one o'clock in the morning and we had our passionate end-of-the-Sandra Bullock/Hugh Grant movie kiss. I just told myself we would cross that bridge when we came to it. Well you know what? That bridge is here. In the immediate future.

I've done long-distance before and promptly swore it off as a can't-win situation. This situation, I told myself, would be different! We'll only be apart a year! (plus a few months) Then we can be together again! Now, however, reality is settling in. He's moving to the west coast. Of the United States. I'm moving to Europe. That's an 8 hour time difference. A ten hour flight. And a very expensive one at that. A flight that this grad student will not have the money to be taking.

I hate to say it, but I'm bracing for the worst. I figure the more I prepare myself now, the less it will hurt later. I know that makes it sound like losing someone to a long, drawn-out illness or in a sudden, tragic accident, but if it has to end, I would rather it end like that as opposed to walking into his house thinking I was in for a romantic evening and finding him in bed with another woman.

No matter what happens, June and July are going to be rough. I'm going to need many, many distractions. Getting ready to move to another country is indeed a distraction, but it won't be enough. I will begin taking suggestions now. I'm going to have a lot of weekends/nights to fill up.

The Rights of an Ex-Girlfriend

"So not that I'm stalking or anything, but my ex-boyfriend has a new girlfriend (well, I don't know how "new" she is, but she's not me :P ) and I can't help thinking how old she looks. Is that terrible? He looks old too. In fact, if you looked at a picture of him and a picture of the cute neighbour, you would probably immediately say that the cute neighbour is younger when he is in fact 8 years older than my ex. I fear that horrible karma is coming my way for thinking these thoughts, but it's hard not to notice." - Violet in a email to Fenella

No Vi it is not terrible and no, horrible karma is not coming your way. Why? Because you are an ex-girlfriend to this person. And you have rights.

The Rights of an Ex-Girlfriend:

1. The right to imagine what it would be like to run into your ex for the first time after your break-up. You are of course looking fabulous and feel fabulous. Him? Not so much.
2. The right to have a bit of wallow and eat a lot of ice-cream if the real-life run in consists of you looking hungover/dishevelled/sick/anything less than fabulous with lipstick on your teeth and an ink stain on your shirt.
3. The right to occasionally stalk him on Facebook.
4. The right to occasionally stalk him on Facebook – even if you’ve dumped him as a Facebook friend.
5. The right to wish that you find someone else before he does. (Not that you don’t want him to be happy. You just want to be happy first.)
6. The right to look at photos of him and his new girlfriend (obviously this has occurred after you have found your fabulous new boyfriend) and feel relieved to see that she is not as pretty as you. (Not that you’re a horrible person. She is still pretty, just not as pretty as you).
7. The right to ask your friend to look on Facebook at photos of your ex and his new girlfriend because you don’t feel you can give an unbiased opinion. (From what I can tell from the back of her head Vi you are prettier).
8. The right to laugh hysterically when you find out that your ex’s new girlfriend is 5 years younger than you. And you’re only 23. You also have the right to tell loads of people this and say that he is clearly going through an early mid-life crisis. (A personal example there).

Most importantly, these rights do not result in bad karma. Just don’t waste too much time on them because Mr Darcy (Pride and Prejudice version or Bridget Jones. Delete as applicable.) could be right around the corner.

Shoulda been a spy

Thank god it's over.

As I told you before, I was planning a surprise party for the cute neighbor for Saturday. The process was very stressful, mostly because people are extremely rude and refuse to RSVP, but also because the cute neighbor was being a bit difficult when it came to getting him to the party.

At first, I thought it would be simple: I would simply tell him I was making him dinner and let him know what time to show up. But then he decided he might like to go out. Nothing fancy, just invite a few friends to our corner tavern for a beer. When I pointed out I wanted to cook for him, he told me I could just do it Sunday. Hmmm... ok, time to move on to a different plan. I figured I could create an emergency to get him to my house, but had to make sure he didn't schedule an outing too early in the evening. I told him I had to work on Saturday, so there wasn't a way for me to be able to go out until 8:30ish (when I had told people the party was going to start). He said he could start without me. Not helping.

Then on Thursday, while I was still stressed as to how to get him to his own party, he says to me, "By the way, my parents told me today that they're coming down this weekend."

Fuck, fuck, fuck! How am I supposed to get him and his parents to my house? I panicked. I thought about calling the whole thing off. Why, oh why, did I plan this whole mess in the first place? But then I calmed down. I took a deep breath. And I realized one thing: if the cute neighbor's parents know what's going on, he will definitely get to his own party! Perfect! One problem: how do I tell them? I don't have an email address or phone number for them. So, later that evening, while the cute neighbor was in the bathroom, I grabbed his cell phone, located a number for his parents, and scribbled it down quickly before he had any idea. I should totally be a spy.

On Friday, I gave them a call and explained the situation. They told me to tell them when and where, and they would make sure he got there. They even called back on Saturday to make sure they had all the details straight. Hurrah! I relaxed. (A little bit.)

With the cute neighbor thinking I was baby-sitting all day, I baked and cleaned and cooked several skillets of bacon all day long. By 8pm, most of the guests had arrived- except D.B., who was bringing the keg. I stalled the cute neighbor by telling him I was stuck in traffic. (Lying via text message is remarkably easy.) Eventually we had to get started without D.B. or the keg.

I called the cute neighbor and told him I had just gotten home. I needed a few minutes to get ready. He should come over and I would give him and his parents a snack.

He agreed.

We assembled in my living room, killed the lights, and waited.

He opened the door...

SURPRISE!

And he was. I had pulled it off. Whew!

About 15 minutes later, D.B. showed up, wearing a Peter Pan costume meant for children ages 4-6. His belly was hanging out, his bulge was showing, and his pants were splitting in the back. It was definitely worth the wait.

surPRISE!

Last month, I came up with the perfect way to celebrate the cute neighbor's upcoming birthday: throw him a surprise party. As soon as I got the idea, I went full-steam ahead with the plans. I think I might live to regret this.

First, I picked the theme: Neverland. Absolutely perfect. The cute neighbor just won't grow up (seriously, he looks like he's about 22. He's in his mid-30s. And he thinks farting is hilarious, and does it with alarming frequency.) There is also no shortage of costume ideas with Neverland.

I enlisted the help of two good friends of mine who have known the cute neighbor longer than I have and could give me guest list suggestions and could also help out with food (and thus expense). Last week, I sent out the invitations. I've been in a slight state of panic ever since. Here's why:

1. People don't fucking RSVP. Seriously, people, when you get an invitation, and an RSVP is required, please RSVP. Don't wait to see if something "better" shows up (and seriously, what is "better" than a surprise dress-up party featuring Things Wrapped in Bacon and a keg? Nothing, that's what!), if you can make it, say you're going to be there. If you can't, just say no. That's all. Even worse than not responding, is responding "maybe" and saying "I'll try to make it." That really doesn't help at all. I really can't throw a surprise party with a handful of people. Thus the panic.

2. Last night, the cute neighbor suddenly decided he should plan his own birthday outing for Saturday night (the night of the party). I reminded him I was making him dinner (the ruse to get him to my house for the party). He told me I could just do it on Sunday or Monday, closer to his actual birthday. OooooK. This could get tricky. Luckily, I've invited everyone he knows in this city, so everyone he would invite would have already gotten my invitation. I'm just going to tell everyone to play along, then create an emergency to get him to my house at the last minute. Namely, the cat got out, and I need his help to corrale him so my roommate doesn't kill me. It better work.

Between now and Saturday, I have a to-do list a mile long, on top of two jobs and trying to keep everything a secret. I think I might have a mild panic attack before Saturday.

Winter Wondershit

Monday morning, I'm going to get up at 7am and go to work. For the first time since Friday, January 7. Yes, it's been more than a week. No, I haven't been sick. I haven't been fired. The cause of my unexpected winter vacation (merely a week after my scheduled Christmas vacation) was simply Snowpocalypse 2011.

A whopping 4 inches of snow fell on the city of Atlanta last Sunday night. It was then followed by freezing rain, and several days worth of sub-freezing temperatures. Since Atlanta is generally considered to be a warm weather city and is not used to such things, it lacks the equipment-like snowplows and salt- essential to dealing with such an event. Thus the roads and sidewalks were completely iced over and undriveable until Friday afternoon. (To compare, Boston received 16 inches of snow on Wednesday. Grayer went to work on Thursday.) How on earth does one keep oneself occupied and warm during a snow week? Let's take a look:

Sunday night: WHOOPEEEEE! Tomorrow is a snow day! We can sleep in! The cute neighbor, my roommate, and I all learn that we will not be going to work Monday morning. We are like children who have learned they don't have to go to school the next day. We stay up later than normal. The cute neighbor and I take pictures of the winter wonderland on the short walk across the street to his house. We have celebratory "Tomorrow is a Snow Day" sex. (Although that part is definitely NOT like my childhood snow days. Grown-up snow days are sooo much better.)

Monday: Sleep in. The cute neighbor and I make a fantastic brunch, complete with freshly squeezed orange juice. (No, really. We used a juicer and a bag of oranges to make it.) We bundle up as much as possible and take a walk through the snow and ice to the park, where there are loads of people (mostly grown-ups) using whatever they've been able to find in their house as sleds. There are plastic lids, laundry baskets, boogie boards, kayaks, and even an air mattress whizzing down the hill (or at least trying to. Many are flipping over early on, as they were not meant to fly down an icy hill.) We are sad we haven't got anything to sled on, but it sure is entertaining. We continue to walk through the park and take pictures, and occasionally throw each other down in the snow, just like all those annoying couples you've seen when you're single. In the evening, we watch football and learn that Tuesday is also a Snow Day. Cool, another day to sleep in. Repeat Sunday night's bedroom activities.

Tuesday: Sleep in. I don't really remember what I do Tuesday afternoon, but I do something while the cute neighbor tries to work from home a bit. He's not that successful. We go for another walk. This time to a bar. We each have a beer. Wednesday is going to be ANOTHER Snow Day. Huh. What am I going to do all day?

Wednesday: Sleep in. The cute neighbor decides he's going to walk to work. I watch Gone With the Wind in the morning. My roommate is also home for the 3rd day in the row. We are both very bored.
12:00pm-We decide to do a bit of cleaning.
1:00- I decide to walk to the grocery store and make chili and cornbread for dinner, because that is a perfect Snow Day meal. I skate to the grocery store, nearly slipping and cracking my head open at least 3 times.
1:30-I arrive at the grocery store to find that it does not have much food left. The produce section is completely cleared out. I can't find a single onion. There is not a single onion in the grocery store! I have to buy jarred onions. There is no ground meat of any kind. What kind of chili doesn't have ground meat? Shit chili, that's what! I end up buying stew meat. I have no idea what this chili is going to taste like with jarred onions and stew meat, but this is the snowpocalypse. I must make adjustments and persevere.
2:30- My roommate and I smell something funky. After eliminating all possibilities, we realize that we have not showered regularly, and neither of us has washed our hair since The Snow. Come to the conclusion that The Funk is us.
4:30- Tomorrow is going to be ANOTHER Snow Day! Seriously?! This is getting old.
7:30- The chili and cornbread are absolutely delicious. Really hits the spot.
8:00- The cute neighbor convinces me to watch Silence of the Lambs.
10:30- I am scared shitless and will never, ever eat fava beans or chianti again. Have actually never had fava beans, but I definitely won't be. Am also afraid to go to the bathroom.
10:45- Force the cute neighbor to watch Two Weeks Notice. I need to cleanse and Sandra Bullock and Hugh Grant in a delightful romantic comedy is the only way to do that.

Thursday: Sleep in.
9:00Eat breakfast. Watch tv. This is the first day all week both the cute neighbor and my roommate have gone to work, leaving me all alone. I... am... so... bored...
11:00- Watch The View. That chick from Survivor is still annoying. I really want to get out of the fucking house.
1:00- Decide I am going to scrapbook. Go across the street to have photos developed. Then decide to go for a brief walk to stretch out my legs.
3:00- Scrapbook, while watching an episode of Grey's Anatomy on Lifetime.
5:30- Fenella calls! Yeah! Skyping with Fen is the perfect cure for Snow Day IV!
8:00- Go out for a drink with the cute neighbor.

Friday: Sleep in. I am going to job #2 today. I am very, very nervous about it. What if my car doesn't start? What if I get stuck? What if I run out of gas?
11:30 am- I manage to make it to job #2. When I park my car, my hands are shaking from having had to drive over a solid sheet of ice that they call a road. I take a deep breath. I am happy to be alive.
7:00 pm- Leave work. Traffic is awful, what with all the ice patches.
9:00pm- Go bowling with the cute neighbor and friends. The perfect end to such a stressful week.

Tomorrow is a holiday and a scheduled day off. It is now a Make-up Day. I'm happy to have it. It's going to be tough to get up in the morning, but I really, REALLY need the money. Snowpocalypse has hurt my bank account. I should send a bill to the City of Atlanta. But they've got enough problems.

The Good Doctor

My apologies for my extended absence from this blog. I have finally acquired a second job (Nanny take 2), so I went from having most of the afternoon for goofing off to having limited time in the evenings for goofing off, and normally I don't even turn on my home computer. Luckily, a massive snowstorm of Biblical proportions (a whole 4 inches!) has paralyzed the south, giving me several snow days to get you all caught up.

Phoebe: Are you lying? Is this like that time you tried to convince us you were a doctor?
Ross: I am a doctor!

The Cute Neighbor is a doctor. Not a medical doctor, but a doctor like Ross Gellar is a doctor. He has a PhD. From a really good school, in a challenging subject (i.e., not English). He's a smart guy. Obviously this means that technically the title "Dr." goes in front of his name. He, however, thinks this is pretentious and never uses the title. I don't think of him as a doctor. Hell, in warm weather he wears shorts and flip-flops to work.

You know who does think of him as a doctor? My parents. They seem to be thrilled that one of their daughters is dating "a doctor." They refer to his "doctor" status far more than is normal. Odd, considering my dad has the same educational status. It's not like they should be in awe of him.

When they came down to visit and we were all playing cards, at one point my mom announced that it was "Dr. Neighbor's turn." I was really hoping he didn't notice. When I told my dad I was thinking about asking the cute neighbor to take my GREs for me because of my fear of them (joking, obviously) he said that yes, I could just have my "boyfriend, who already has a Ph.D. take them for me." Thanks dad for reminding me that my boyfriend has a Ph.D. And last week, while I was getting ready for our New Year's Eve party, my dad asked me what "the good doctor" was making to bring to the party. It took me a moment to realize who he was talking about. And you know what? That's not the first time he's referred to the cute neighbor as the good doctor! Or just "The Doctor." He's not even a real doctor! In the medical sense anyway! (Although one of his favorite jokes is to use that stupid line, "Trust me, I'm a doctor." Followed by an evil laugh.) I can just picture my parents playing cards with their friends, and saying something along the lines of "You know, Violet's boyfriend. The Doctor..." "Violet spent Thanksgiving with her boyfriend, you know, the doctor?"

Yeah, I really hope they're not doing that. Because if I ever do decide to take him home with me and unexplicably introduce him to the locals, I really don't want them saying to him, "Oh, you're the doctor!" after which he gives me a befuddled look and I make up a story about Grayer dating a doctor or something and they must have them confused. Silly old people.

And the Excellent Boyfriend Award goes to....

If I were a different kind of girl, my facebook status would read something like this:

Violet J. Bickerstaff is so lucky to have such a wonderful boyfriend to take care of her when she's sick. Thanks baby!

Luckily, I'm not that kind of girl. Instead, I'll just go to my blog so to properly detail how awesome my boyfriend was to me when I caught the Peruvian Death Flu over the weekend.

There were no signs that I would spend the weekend on the couch/in front of the toilet puking my guts out. I felt fine when I went out Friday night to meet the cute neighbor and his co-workers for Happy Hour that evening. I was looking forward to an evening out, followed by Friday Night Action, and was quite enjoying myself during my first beer. But before I ordered a second, I decided to wait a few minutes. Something wasn't quite right. A mere 2 hours after I arrived, I felt like I might die. My throat hurt, and I had that awful, achy feeling all over that is never a good sign. As much as I hated to be the first lame-o to leave, I knew I needed to go home, put on my flannel pajama pants, and curl up on the couch with some soup.

I told the cute neighbor (who was probably on his 4th or 5th beer and definitely did not want to go home yet) that I felt like death and needed to go home. He offered to go to the grocery store for me and pick up some chicken noodle soup and crackers. I took him up on the offer. After I got home, had changed clothes, and was huddling under blankets on the couch, I got much, much worse. The kind of sick that makes you cry because you feel so awful and just hurt all over. Not good. It was after the cute neighbor arrived and was making me soup that the vomiting began. And after I had maybe 4 bites of soup, it continued. (Oh, how I wish he'd never heard me throw up, but sadly, this isn't the first time. Note to all: Never let your drunk-on-her-ass roommate make your first beverage of the evening. It will be 75% vodka.) I basically begged him not to leave me alone for the night, and as unappealing as spending the night sharing a bed with a sickie must have sounded, he obliged.

In the morning he went to the store again for more soup, since I was starving, but didn't think I could handle anything more than that. He left me to my Harry Potter marathon on tv while he went home to get some work done, but checked up on me throughout the day to see if I needed anything. Later in the evening went back to the store AGAIN to get me smoothie-making supplies and spent his Saturday night on the couch with me watching tv. Then he stayed with me again. By Sunday morning, I was starting to feel like a real person again. I told him he was an excellent boyfriend and promised that if he ever gets sick (which I've never seen, just pesky allergies) I will be sure to take good care of him as well and even asked him if he wanted to make out with me, which he politely declined. (I've been careful not to kiss him, even though he's shared air space. Best not to risk it.)

Now that we have found another benefit to having an actual boyfriend, we can get back to our regularly-scheduled man-bashing. Grayer, I believe you have something to say on this issue?

Bring on the Turkey

The cute neighbor and I have survived our first major holiday together.

Things got off to a rocky start, as we found ourselves pulling off the highway nervously after hearing an ominous noise coming from my car not quite halfway into the trip. Sure enough, my car was broken and couldn't be fixed until the next day at the earliest. This is why God created rental cars, and we drove the rest of the way in a rented Nissan (rental car and all repairs were paid for by my normal mechanic who made a whopper of a mistake the previous day) and picked my car up on the way home.

Everything else went about as well as it could have, despite some potential awkwardness. First, the cute neighbor's grandma asked (while on speaker phone) if he and his brothers were planning on "having a triple wedding or something" since all of them are currently dating someone. Then, during the holiday game of pass the phone around, the cute neighbor's dad handed me the phone not once but TWICE to talk to his aunt and the aforementioned grandma respectively, who were both anxious to talk to the cute neighbor's "friend."

His mom had lots of little cute neighbor stories to tell me and I somehow managed to beat everyone in poker, although I'm still not sure how or why. (I don't really know how to play poker.) Things went so well, that I told him he was welcome to spend Christmas with my family, (obviously know he won't) despite my hesitations on inviting someone into the family circle.

Which reminds me: I really, really need to go ahead an book a flight home for Christmas...

Bah Humbug!

I've just seen the Coca-Cola Christmas advert. It must be Christmas. Ugh.

Now, I'm not a Scrooge, I do actually quite like Christmas. Obviously not the insane commercialism of it, but the odd family traditions, the Christmas dinner and of course, presents.

Which leads me to my bah humbug! moment. Buying presents for boys. Or, more specifically, buying presents for boyfriends. I hate it. And it's expensive.

I just find buying presents for boys really, really difficult. What's irritating is that it's so much easier for guys to buy for girls. Mainly because the shops cater to girl presents so much more so, even if you're stuck on ideas the shops will probably help you out, thus making the lives of boyfriends the world over much, much easier. Namely because you can buy girls presents in the following categories:

- Jewellery. All guys would need to do is pay attention to what type of jewellery their girlfriend wears most often. For example, I never wear bracelets but always wear earrings. Simple. (Unless of course you're the cute neighbor as a certain Violet Bickerstaff isn't a jewellery fan.)
- Cute & Cuddly. Not to every girl's taste true enough. But if it is, the options are there. Especially at Christmas time. Cute teddy bears everywhere you look. Some say 'I Love You.' Awww....
- Sexy Underwear. It's a risky one. Especially as this would entail your boyfriend knowing your bra size. But if he's feeling brave and wants to look like a creepy man buying women's lingerie, again, endless opportunities.
- Bath Goodies. If guys are really stuck, bath goodies! They come in pretty colours and they smell lovely. Plus there's the added bonus of special Christmas gift sets. Result!
- Perfume. Like the sexy underwear guys need specialised knowledge for this one. Namely, what's your favourite perfume? But if they know that. Simple. Simple. Simple.

Now, what do us girls buy for guys? I. Don't. Know. Hence my bah humbug moment. I don't know what to buy the White Horse and there just doesn't seem to be the same amount of guy gifts out there. Guys get it easy.

As for the White Horse, I remain stumped. I could get him a football (soccer) shirt but I'm not really a fan of him wearing those. But if it comes to it...

Home for the Holidays

It's Thanksgiving week, one of my favorite weeks of the year. This year, I'll be going with the Cute Neighbor to his parents' house for Turkey Day. This is not so much a "we're so serious we want to spend every holiday" move so much as it's a "my parents live out of driving distance, but his don't and isn't that convenient" kind of move. I realize just how true this is when I think of the cute neighbor going to my parent's house for Christmas. Which he is absolutely not doing; that hasn't been discussed. In fact, I don't want the cute neighbor to come home with me for Christmas. Why? There are just some things that happen in the Bickerstaff household at the holidays that I'm not ready to share with him- or anyone- just yet. A few shining examples:

1. The pre-church, family Christmas photo. Every year- and I do mean every year- before we head off to church on Christmas Eve, my mother forces us all into a family photo. She poses us in front of the Christmas tree (the main Christmas tree, not to be confused with the numerous, smaller, themed Christmas trees throughout the house) for a family photo. She sets the camera up on a pile of books on the coffee table, hits the timer, then makes a mad dash for the tree while we sit uncomfortably staring at the blinking camera. Everyone except Grayer, who thinks she's auditioning for America's Next Top Model and is too busy posing and making love to the camera to be uncomfortable. I don't know why, but the thought of the cute neighbor having to take this photo makes me cringe.
2. Church on Christmas Eve. Every year, we must leave for Christmas Eve service an hour before the service actually begins. Why? Because my parents sing in the choir. This actually isn't so bad, as Grayer and I sit facing them and can make faces at them. Especially the year my mom was featured on the finger cymbals. That will never, ever stop being funny, but it is terribly dorky. It has, however, spawned my now-favorite Christmas tradition: the one in which Grayer and I play "Holiday Hangman" in the church bulletin to entertain ourselves before the service starts. And no, we don't use words like "mistletoe" or "Rudolph", we use phrases like "The glow of electric sex in the window" (A Christmas Story, obviously) and "The best way to spread Christmas cheer is to sing it loud for all to hear." But don't forget about after church! That's when we go to the house of my junior prom date to get our fill of awkwardness in, and where last year I had my very own "I carried a watermelon" moment when I stood in the entryway and announced that "I have a meat and cheese tray." Then, of course, we must drive around and look at Christmas lights.
3. Holiday skyping. These days, we don't just call extended family on Christmas day, we skype them. That means we turn the camera on so they can see us and all our shiny new presents. Somehow, even after two years of using this technology, my mother cannot get over the fact that this technology actually exists, therefore, she never stops "smiling at the camera." It's exactly how I picture Bridget's mom would act if presented with a web cam.
4. Holiday decorations on steroids. Like I alluded to in number 1, my mom goes completely bonkers when it comes to the holiday decorations. I've lost count of the number of Christmas trees she puts up. There's of course the main tree, but then we have an angel tree, a snowman tree, and a music tree. A new one seems to pop up every year. Then there's the lights. You could land planes in front of my parents' house. There are millions of them. (All white, of course!) The cute neighbor claims his mom is just as bad, but somehow, I just don't think that's possible.

Yes, these are all reasons not to bring the cute neighbor home with me for Christmas. But they are the same reasons I'll be home for Christmas. I don't want to miss out on all the fun.

Butt out

I've got a bone to pick with...well, just about everyone I've talked to in the last several weeks. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, is asking the million dollar question: What are you and the cute neighbor going to do when he moves? It's not always phrased like this, but that's the gist of it. And here's the answer: We don't know. And a follow-up question to you: Do we have to know right now?

The cute neighbor and I have been together for about 7 or 8 months, and while that is not an insignificant amount of time, I just don't feel like we have to have our future together completely mapped out. Then when I tell people I want to go to grad school, they assume I'm going to follow the cute neighbor to grad school. Um, no. Then when I say I want to go abroad to grad school, they say, "What does the cute neighbor think of this?" To which I'm always tempted to say "Who cares? The last time I checked, I didn't need his permission to do what it is that I need to do." But I refrain. I mean, I do care, because I care about him, obviously, but my point is I cannot revolve my future around anyone else but me at this point.

Let's say I follow him to wherever he goes. I enroll in grad school. We break up. I am left heartbroken and alone in a city where I don't know anyone and never really wanted to be in the first place. I will regret not doing my own thing for the rest of my life.

Let's say I follow him to wherever he goes. I enroll in grad school. We don't break up. Instead, we live happily ever after with 2 children, a dog, a cat, two goldfish, and a white picket fence. I will still regret not taking the opportunity to study at the school of my choice for the rest of my life.

If it was meant to be, one year apart won't ruin it. (However, open-ended long-distance will never, ever work if you want my advice.) If it wasn't, we'll both move on. Why does everyone need to put pressure on the relationship to last forever? Is it because I've now reached the ripe-old age of 28 that if it doesn't last forever it's a failure? I'm getting really sick of people putting pressure on our relationship. If we're not worried about it, then you shouldn't be either.

If I'm following anyone, it's Fenella, seeing as my current plan is to study in Europe. That, however, is not a problem. You see, boys will come and go. But Fen and I are forever.