Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle

There you have it, folks. My life is finally out of boxes and in Brooklyn, slowly settling down and making its way towards normality. Which explains why it's been so long since I've written a blog post. You know, it's hard to sit and focus when you aren't even sure what box your underwear are packed in and you're still trying to find someone to help you transport a mattress from Stamford, CT to Williamsburg on top of a Cheerio-encrusted minivan. Moving myself was a very labor and time-intensive job, and simply put: I'm beat.

But that won't curb my blogging, Cupcake Lovers! So I'll start with the inevitable question: Who helped with the aforementioned mattress? Who got up at the wee hour of 11 a.m. to snag me some discount twine and make sure I stayed below 55 mph? (Me: Omg! I forgot! There's a mattress tied to the roof!) Who risked his life letting me, the most timid driver ever, navigate various highways? Why, The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, of course. Who must be given a new title at this point since we're approaching a ridiculous level of Are We or Aren't We. I'm tempted to put it to a WMWC poll, but since you all don't seem to enjoy commenting (you're more the sneaky, stalkerish type... like me) here are some ideas:

Possible New Titles for The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend (Formerly The Boyfriend)

1. You Know You're My Boyfriend So Stop Avoiding It

2. The Ex-Boyfriend Minus the Ex

3. The Confused, Reluctant, Sort-Of Boyfriend

4. The Newly Instated (But Not Officially) Boyfriend

5. My Male Friend Who I Sometimes Like and Sometimes Want to Kick. Hard.

6. The Boyfriend*

I don't know, I can't make any decisions right now. I'm going to give it some time and possibly go for the Roger Maris-esque asterisk since the original title of The Boyfriend has been marred. Either way, things with That Guy are fine and what happens will happen. Regardless, he's been nagging me to blog (Him: You haven't posted since May 9th! Me: I didn't even know that!) so I figure I have at least one fan. And at least he likes the Internet version of me. Sigh.

But that's enough about that. Here's the more important part of this post: My. Life. Is. Awesome. My apartment is fantastic, my bed is huge, my backyard is a dream. The other night I laid out on the grass with That Guy, my roommate, and her dad while we drank beers by the light of some lanterns I grabbed at Ikea. My roommate's dad told us stories from back in the day that involved LSD, road trips, and a whole lotta hitchhiking as the four of us tried to spot stars. Besides the fact that it wasn't quite summery and warm, it was a beautiful evening. And all I kept muttering was "How did my life get so good?"

It's true though. Even though everything isn't necessarily perfect, I am so lucky to have this place to live and call my own. And I'm determined for it to be kick ass. I painted my room alone. It took me like 12 hours of straight work and precarious ladder-standing, wondering if I would fall and no one would be around to hear my cries of "I've fallen and I can't get up!" But my walls are now "Morning Sunshine" yellow (two full coats!) and I feel like a NOW-joining, womyn-writing, Ms. Magazine-reading independent woman.

Yes we can, Rosie.

Along the same lines, I guess you could say that my current mood is Empowered. My roommate and I found this apartment on our own, we've basically furnished it and made it the Brooklyn Nook together, and now I'm really living life in a Grown-Up Apartment with a Grown-Up Job and Grown-Up Friends. I would even venture to say that I'm making the transition into full blown adulthood both smoothly and gracefully. And it feels good.

I know this post isn't necessarily up to par, but I just wanted to say to you who read this that I'm here, I'm constantly brainstorming about what to put on here, and I've now committed myself to being a Blogger. Example? When I interviewed to be rehired at Anthropologie (the store, not a misspelled version of the science) they asked me what I liked to do in my spare time.

My answer? "Well, I'm really into blogging, and I like to explore the city?"

Ha. Who am I? When did I become this cool, New York City person? I think I like it.

I Would Rather Be Asleep

Not to say I don't love writing on this blog - because I totally do - I just have a long day tomorrow full of an acting presentation (involving this great monologue where I get to be a crazy stalker bitch), a second round of callbacks for the fall show, lunch/dinner (linner?) with someone great, followed by putting everything I own into boxes. So some sleep would be nice. Not to mention I'll be gearing myself up for Sunday, which happens to be The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend's graduation from college. That I am attending. Weird, right?

How did that come about, you ask? I know, it's surprising. One would think from previous entries that I would not be privy to such an occasion - namely getting to see him wear a dress and a funny hat and commence. And before I tell you briefly how it transpired, I just have to answer something that I know you all lay awake at night pondering: 

Does The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend read this?

The answer is yes, he does. And sometimes he quotes it to my face or my phone, which is not nearly as strange as it sounds and is generally endearing. Also, he thinks it's funny. There, now you can all rest peacefully.

But unfortunately, I cannot. Too many thoughts swimming through my head coupled with too many attempts at falling asleep early that have failed miserably. I think it's a combination of stress about moving MY WHOLE LIFE into a new apartment that is not even nearly ready to hold MY WHOLE LIFE. I mean, I don't even have a bed yet. What am I going to sleep on? When am I going to paint it? Who can I hire to do all this for me? For free? Ugh. Curse adulthood!

Beyond that though, I'm nervous and excited for this whole graduation biz. I mean, it's nothing new to see The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend at this point, but it's getting down to crunch time, and by crunch time I mean "Quit Playing Games (With My Heart)" time (Thank you, Backstreet Boys.) This sassy lady waits for no man. Except that's a lie, because I've clearly been doing a lot of waiting. It's just a matter of how long I can wait before I start to feel trampled as opposed to slightly used. It's all a balancing act. And it doesn't help that my graduation invitation essentially sounded a little something like this... (Note: Artistic liberties have been taken. Deal with it.)

The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend: Uhh, I'm going to pick up my graduation tickets this week and um, well, I'll probably get some extras. And I mean, I think graduation's stupid and I don't care about it but, uhh, if you want to... I guess you can come.

Cupcake Lover: [Pause] ...are you inviting me to your graduation?

The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend: Well like, I don't care either way because I think graduation's ridiculous but uhh... I guess it would be... it's always nice to have you around.

Cupcake Lover: [Pauses again.] So wait, do you WANT me to come to your graduation?

The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend: If you want, you're welcome to come.

Cupcake Lover: [Sighs a tired, beaten down sigh.] Ohhh, you...

Eventually, in a separate phone conversation, we got to a point where the words "I want you to come" actually came out of his mouth, which is a big step. So I bought a dress, told him to warn The Well-Intentioned Ex-Family that I'd be there, and have planned to spend my Sunday up in cow country for what is probably the last time ever. Cue shoulder shrug. By the way, it's a super cute dress - an outfit that just screams Supportive Sort of Ex-Girlfriend. And if that position didn't exist before, it totally does now.

But enough about The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, who probably no longer enjoys my blog considering I just wrote more about him than I normally do. (By the way, do you ever wonder why I don't abbreviate his long-winded title? It's because I really don't like the way it looks: TWEIB. That's so not cute. Plus, it sounds too much like "Dweeb" if you say it out loud. Say it. See?) I've been searching for other things to write about in life, ranging from ideas like "Now I drink peppermint tea. How odd!" to "How about those stupid Facebook quizzes? Ridiculous!" but nothing has really been clicking. So I opted to write about what I'm actually thinking about. I mean, for a really long time my Facebook Religious Views said "Honesty." And since Facebook dictates my life, I guess I have to stick to it.

But now, as the cartoon above clearly states, I Am Determined To Go To Sleep. For real. So I'm going to hop back in bed and give it another go, counting sheep and thinking good thoughts, etc... Have a good night, Cupcake Lovers. Sleep tight and don't let the bed bugs bite!

Behold the Mating Ritual

If you haven't noticed (or have a serious Edward Scissorhands thing going on) it's finally spring. After months of trudging through snow and slush and God knows what (seriously, in NYC you never know what you're stepping in), it's warm and the sidewalks are mostly dry... unless you happen to get spat at. Which has happened to me. Multiple times. I no longer have to sleep in three layers of sweatshirt because of the draft by my bed. The city is teeming with people who have clearly been planning their kick-ass summer outfits for, well, ALL of winter. And frankly, they're impressing me.

In short: I'm 21, it's warm, and life is fun again.

But a little bit weird, too. Now that it's legal for me to go out on the town and enjoy the [expensive] nightlife this city has to offer, I'm finding that I actually AM... enjoying it. Weird, right? Typically, I'm the kind of girl whose comfortable bed starts to call to her at around 1 a.m. regardless of how fun the party is. But recently a little voice inside me has been saying "Hey, why not go out and have a beer and RELAX?" I mean, I've been working out a lot (all part of Operation: Hot Weather, Hot Bod)... why shouldn't I strut my stuff a little bit?

Except as much as I want to have fun, experiencing nightlife can often lead to uncomfortable situations. Which brings me to the whole "Mating Ritual" aspect of this post, because I have qualms with bars and what exactly one is supposed to DO at them. Last Saturday night I went out with a few friends and our first stop was a bar near Union Square. It was one of those wait-in-a-line, yell-over-music, $8-dollar-drink bars, which are generally not my forte. Some guy who smelled like stale beer and had a super cute (read: not cute) Neo-Nazi hairdo tried to chat me up until I made it pretty clear I didn't think he was worth all the yelling (What? I have to protect my vocal folds... or "The Folds," as I affectionately call them.) But still, the time was well spent, because I always find bars fascinating as case studies in human nature. Young, hormonal, uninhibited drunk people are just a science experiment waiting to happen. It's like watching reality television. Live. With 3-D glasses and Scratch N' Sniff.

Yet my own experience in bars is pretty repetitive and uninteresting. I sip a drink and look around and adjust my outfit while I talk to my girl friends until, at some point, some guys either build up the courage (or drink until they're courageous enough) to come over and talk to us. Which, I'm warning you, is a bad idea. Moral of the Story: I should just invest in a sign that says "You're Better Off Talking to That Drunk Floozy Over There" with an arrow pointing toward someone with a few more drinks in their system and lower self-worth.

That's not to say I'm some prize catch or pick of the litter, because I don't consider myself either of those strange animal metaphors. I just can't be won over at a bar. Whether you say "I'm an investment banker" or "I live with my parents," you've already bombed because I discount bar meetings right off the bat. Even though Mr. American History X at Union Square gained points after giving me an exuberant high five for my patronage of the Yankees, he was unknowingly up against impossible odds. (Important Update: We discussed the ridiculous amount of home runs hit in the new Yankee Stadium. Sports Knowledge!) No matter how much you coax me to talk, Anonymous Bar Man, I am just waiting for you to walk away and give up on me so I can go back to my rowdy girl chat that is far more interesting than anything you can tell me about your dead end life. 

Sorry, that sounds harsh. And I guess it IS a little harsh. But those Bar Men can certainly make things even worse for themselves. Example: if you ask me to play a game of pool with you, like some guys did at a beer garden the other night, you better be good at it. Because if your pool game is equivalent to mine (Read: inbred orangutans without fingers could play better than I do) you're going to look neither confident, nor masculine. Thus: Fail. Another tip: If you're drunk enough to talk to me, you probably don't smell too nice. Fresh beer breath on someone whose company you enjoy is harmless. Stale beer breath on a staggering stranger is not. Curse my excellent sense of smell, but it's the truth.

I think a lot of people would tell me to get off my high horse - that the guys who approach me in bars aren't looking to Woo Me (hah, get it?) but instead are betting on the off chance that I'm as drunk as they are and might be easy. Which is cool, I get that. I also understand that people go to bars just because they like to talk to new people, and maybe even flirt a little bit. But seriously... what do you know of me so far, Cupcake Lovers? I like Jeopardy. I don't know how to flirt. I've been hung up on one guy for, like, forever. I like arts and crafts and I use "What's your middle name" as my pick-up line. Which of those things DOESN'T scream "Destined to be a cat lady scrapbooker"?

Point is, I'm learning to assimilate and adapt. I'm determined to memorize the steps to this elaborate, complicated mating dance. Who cares if I see myself as more of a termite, or a fox? (Note: those are two animals that mate for life. I think I'm going to go with fox over termite, for obvious reasons. Namely, wood tastes bad.) Maybe I'll even start resisting the urge to roll my eyes immediately when someone approaches me in a bar and says "Hey, I'm [Insert Generic, Unattractive Name here]. Where are you from?" Maybe instead of one word answers - "Uhh, Connecticut." - I'll actually be talkative. Imagine that.

We'll see. It's more likely that the termite in me will hinder my attempt at enjoying bar life. Which is fine. Plan B is to join a gym so that I can accomplish Operation: Hot Weather, Hot Bod while scanning the treadmills for potential soul mates. And I assure you, treadmill flirting is a very complex mating ritual unto itself.

Someone's On To Me

Sometimes it's frightening how insightful people can be by accident. There's this girl in one of my classes who can only be described as abrasive and a little scary. But the other day, she surprised me - because she saw right through me. Here's what happened...

Scene: The NYU Journalism Department, which only looks like a beautiful, fully-functioning academic building but instead is full of the usual broken computers and incompetent professors. Cupcake Lover is sitting at the table with everyone else when class begins. She has taken out a crossword puzzle, which she hopes to finish by the end of class... and usually does. The TA with a strange, unplaceable accent that involves a lot of odd vowel sounds begins to talk about an article in the New York Times that morning. Cupcake Lover is very proud of the fact that she receives the New York Times (and tries to read it) every day. Today, however, she did not read the article. So she can't strut her commitment to periodicals. Great.

Cupcake Lover: I can't believe I didn't read that article! I didn't read the front page section. I read every other section... I read the arts and leisure section, the dining section. I even read the sports section!

That Abrasive Girl: You read the sports section? Are you trying to get laid?

And that's when, suddenly, Cupcake Lover realizes. 

Yes.

That IS why she reads the sports section. Of course, CL doesn't say that. Instead, she blushes and says this:

Cupcake Lover: No! Please. I uhhh... I really like baseball. I like baseball season. It's the only sport I totally understand so I read about baseball season. I like baseball!

I do like the Yankees. Pinky swear.

Lies. Lies, lies, lies. And it took some weird girl in my journalism class to show me the light. Who am I kidding? I mean, don't get me wrong, I like sports. And I really and truly DO like baseball. Maybe even a lot. Okay, FINE. I like baseball uniforms... and baseball too! Whatever. 

The point is that I'm a manipulative little harlot and I didn't even realize it. I read the sports section because I think it's going to be attractive and super-cute to open my mouth and be all, "Wow, so how about Chien-Ming Wang's new ERA. Sucks, huh?" Or to use little tidbits to incite more talking. Such as, "Okay, I understand the play that just happened, but can you tell me a little more about this whole line of scrimmage business?" Vocabulary words are key (such as line of scrimmage) and it's very important to get them right. I read the sports section because I'd rather be the girl who DOESN'T say "Did they just score a touchdown??" during a game of hockey, or something to that effect. But I do find myself trying to memorize little things out of yesterday's article about The Game because, well, if a bunch of guys in my class are talking about it, I want to be able to interject. With a big, fancy sports word. And a giggle.

I don't know why I do this. Maybe it's because I can't rely on my feminine wiles to get me anywhere in this world, considering "flirting" for me consists of smiling a little wider and feeling uncomfortable. So what do I do instead? I rely on the fact that I'm a girl and it's cuter to say "Go team!" when you're a girl. I may be setting the entire female species back by half a century, but I'm doing what I can. And I WILL watch this week's Yankee games (the ones that aren't on the YES network. Bastards.) And I WILL read the sports section. And I WILL use it to attract men.

But I WILL NOT watch basketball. Because it's boring.

The Jerk Factor

Today's entry is a little bit different than previous entries. I'm not going to go so far as to call it a rant, but perhaps an exploration of something I've found true but nevertheless mind-boggling.

So here it is. The ultimate question: 

Why is a certain degree of douchebag-ness in a man sometimes (gulp)... attractive?

Ok, you got me, I just wanted an 

excuse to ogle Clive Owen.

Ugh, I hate that I even WROTE that sentence, mainly because I am a faithful proponent of nice guys everywhere. Nice guys, please don't misunderstand. I am steadfastly staying on your side. You know who you are. You're the men who respect women and woo them with real dates. The men who understand that compliments go a long way. The men who would offer to wash dishes if a meal was made for them. The men who hold doors. For people other than themselves.

I guess it's part of my newfound fascination with vampires (I know, gross) that brought this up. I mean, vampires are NOT nice guys. They want to suck your BLOOD for god's sakes. So why are women around the world all hyped up over pasty, cold men who may or may not want their next girlfriend to be their lover-slash-snack?

All I can say is that it's like a disease... some women have it worse than others. I won't name names (cough, my mother, cough), but I know women both old and young who have found the same information to be true. Symptoms can be as severe as spending years of your life with various men who are moody, tyrannical, and downright mean, or they can be way less pronounced. Like the ones I see in myself... hints that I'm not completely resistant to the gravitational pull assholes sometimes have. Hints that are frightening.

I have a few theories, although since my experience with jerks is (thankfully) low on the spectrum, I doubt any of them are very good. I would also like to say that for all of you covert WMWC readers out there (I suspect I may have some...) feel free to comment with your own theories.

Here they are:

1) The "Patron Saint of the Assholes" Theory.

It's been said, time and again, that women are often looking for a project (though, of course, we shouldn't be.) Sometimes I think we gaze at the handsome, brooding jerk and we think "Maybe... just maybe... if he fell in love with me, I could save him!" Oh, you mean turn him into the nice guy you really need? He doesn't need, or want, your saving.

2) The "Good In Other Departments" Theory.

This one doesn't need much explanation. Essentially, I think we subconsciously look at someone who's attractive and a terrible person and think "Well, he might be good at other things." Mostly we're thinking about, well, bedroom things. I personally blame the movies, since the "bad guys" in movies seem to fulfill this theory. Exhibit A: Vampires.

3) The "Accessories Make The Man" Theory.

Many stereotypical bad guys come with a lot of good visual accessories. You think "Good Guy" and you think... I don't know, khakis or something. Jeans that don't fit right. A hat their mom gave them. Glasses. You think "bad guy" and you think leather jacket, devil-may-care attitude, sexed-up car. Maybe if the good guys learned to dress themselves, we shallow women wouldn't have to outsource to their devilish nemeses.

And finally...

4) The "Clearly We Enjoy Suffering" Theory.

Falling in love with men who reek of "this-will-only-end-in-tears" is purely a sign of masochistic tendencies.

I know things aren't black and white, and that the entire species called "Man" can't be divided up into "Guys who will call you back" and "Guys who will wreak havoc on your life." But I think many women wouldn't deny the fact that there is a strange, exotic pull towards the men who are trouble with a capital T.

I, for one, will continue to ignore it.

After Careful Research...

...it turns out that breakin' up IS hard to do. Who would have thought?

Yeah, that's Bridget right there, wallowing in sadness.

Because it's been a whole week since I've written anything, I feel I deserve to bring my sunny view on life to something it's very hard to be optimistic about. The Break Up.

Side Note: Because we at WMWC (We = Me) keep things VERY classy, this isn't going to be the place where I post The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend (his new title)'s home address and ask you to wreak havoc on his life. Hardly. I only have the utmost respect for him. I'm not even including specifics, so you can go off and speculate as you please. Really, go ahead. Here are some examples of acceptable speculation: Were there five other women involved!? Was I the other woman all along!? Did I fall in love with his cryogenically frozen twin brother who was previously thought dead and gone? IS HE A VAMPIRE!? Etc., etc...

Ok, stop speculating for a moment and listen to my wisdom I've accumulated in, oh, exactly 24 hours of heartbreak. I know, I'm practically a veteran at this point.

First off, it turns out that The Break Up is an intricate, exotic animal, sort of like a Liger. As Jeffrey Lebowski (The Dude) might say, it has "a lotta ins, a lotta outs, a lotta what-have-yous." Really, Dude, I couldn't have phrased it better myself.

Alright, I do have a phrase to add: It sucks. Eloquent, I know. And although it sucks, I've decided to compile a list of reasons why it doesn't suck. Feel free to comment and add other reasons - I don't have ALL the wisdom in the world, you know.

1) To be serious for a second, you don't realize quite how many people love you (or how many people you love) until a loss occurs. I have so many wonderful friends and parents and grandparents in my life. I've never felt so taken care of and loved like I do right now... and so, so grateful.

2) I want to buy things, and I don't feel bad about it. Today I went to Sephora with a gift card and bought a new lipstick. I'm wearing it now. It's really, really pretty and pink and I feel like a totally new woman.

3) I've lost four pounds. Ok, that has nothing to do with TBU, since anxiety doesn't generally quell my appetite (if only...), but it doesn't hurt things either. Example:

Scene: Walks into the bathroom, looks in mirror.

Mirror Self: "You look hot. And thin. Wallowing totally becomes you."

Glance at side view, makes a sexy-face. (Ladies, don't pretend you don't have a mirror-sexy-face.)

Regular Self: "Hey! You're totally right! I'm going to put on jeans that make my butt look nice and get myself out of the house!"

Four pounds lost, problem solved. See?

4) I've stopped fidgeting. If you know me in real life, I'm a really fidgety person. I bite my nails, I crack my knuckles, I DON'T STOP MOVING. It drives my mother crazy, she's always asking "Why are you so nervous." Well, it turns out it was because I was HAPPY. Weird. Sadness took care of that habit!

5) Train ticket and gas money for trips to see The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend can now be spent on new clothes. I mean, sure, he was worth every penny. But it doesn't mean a new spring wardrobe isn't worth it either... I'm thinking a bright colored trench coat would be LOVELY.

6) Time. Right now, I don't know what to do with myself. I'm always so busy and crazed, these weekends ahead of me without a trip (or a visitor) scheduled are looming, empty and desolate. But I think I finally need to learn how to fill time and RELAX. So maybe it's a blessing in disguise, after all.

I apologize to you, readers, if this entry was too personal for what you've come to expect from me, but I like to think you've all been there, or known someone who's been there, and that you can appreciate a humorous, positive take on TBU. And who knows, maybe some day I'll be writing an entry about The New Guy or even The Un-Break Up with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. Only time will tell.

OR maybe I'll become some weird spinster who wears lipstick when she's alone and watches Jeopardy all the time (TOTALLY a possibility.) 

But please, send well-wishes so that doesn't happen.

I Unabashedly Love Valentine's Day

And I always will.

I know it's super cool to be all edgy and anti the big V-Day, (or National Single Person Awareness Day, as a friend referred to it) but I just don't have it in me. First of all, I like chocolate too much. I get so bubbly and happy just looking at the pink and red Hershey's kisses I bought and put in a little bowl with a heart-shaped post-it note that says "Help Yourself! Someone Loves You!" (Yeah, I did that. Mostly I think I'm the one eating them.) 

I'm a sucker. I can't help it. I just can't.

You can go ahead and think I'm stupid, but I don't care. I think a holiday that's all about love isn't such a bad thing, if you think about it that way. Yes, full disclosure: I'm currently IN love. But I have plenty of other people in my life to love. Don't you? Didn't your mom ever give you a Valentine? Or your friends in elementary school? I mean, everyone clearly was forced to bring cards for the whole class, but didn't you secretly enjoy getting all those valentines in your little bag you got to decorate? Didn't you like making them?

I know what you're thinking. "Well, this girl has clearly never experienced why Valentine's Day can suck so exquisitely hard." Not true. Here's a story:

When I was in 2nd grade, I gave a Valentine to a boy I liked - but not just ANY Valentine. I liked to make my cards by hand (to add personal flair, of course) but for this boy, I put extra care and time into it. I used the prettiest doilies, cut the most perfect red heart I could, and then wrote a special message: "Love Ya! ...For Real."

Valentine's Day 2nd Grade: The First Time I Got My Heart Broken.

Here's how it went. My little crush thought my lovely handmade valentine was nothing short of hilarious, so he showed the whole class. Everyone. They laughed at me and teased me and I cried and cried and cried. For years, it was one of those memories that brought on an awful twinge of regret mixed with anger and hurt. Mmm, gotta love those memories. You know what I'm talking about.

But I got over it. These past few Valentine's Days, which I have spent single, have included no flowers or chocolate (bought by someone besides myself) or kisses or whatever. Yet the lingering possibility that someone, somewhere would come out of the woodwork and declare undying love for me made that day a little bit special. And getting Valentines from a few friends warmed my heart enough to make it a little bit more special.

So now here's the fun part: This year, I have a boyfriend (previously referred to as The Boyfriend... I like to keep continuity so you don't get confused.) He's amazing and sweet and handsome and, well, I'm not going to continue with any more starry-eyed, general terms. But he's perfect, he's mine, and he's going to be with me for Valentine's Day. And although that may make you, my WMWC readers, groan and make an "Ew, gross, blech, vomit, hate-my-life" face, please don't get down about Valentine's Day. Someone loves you - I do! I love you, whoever you are, so buy some chocolate, get yourself a rose, and do something nice for yourself.

If all else fails, the candy goes on sale February 15th. And I think THAT should be cause for celebration.

Thanksgiving: A Review

Gobble Gobble.

Just look at that turkey, with his wonky eyes. Heh, what a stupid turkey.

Thanksgiving is an excellent holiday that only gets better and better. I give mine 4 stars, two thumbs up, and an A+. Here's why.

1. Spending Thanksgiving Day with my favorite people in the world. 

I piled into the car with my mom, who took a day off from cooking for other people, my brother, who now has long locks and a generally surly attitude to match, and the Boyfriend, who dressed up all nice and pretty but who was afraid that his brown Converse with a hole in them would make a bad impression. I assured him no one would notice, and considering we were lucky my brother was even wearing clean clothes, he would look perfectly fine.

Once there, the conversation and wine flowed. We were a total of sixteen for dinner: Grandma, Grandpa, Cousins, Aunts, Uncles, Dogs. Food was excellent. My 9-year-old cousin created an elaborate "Deal or No Deal" game and marched around yelling "Attention Please! We need complete silence!" Adorably obnoxious, mostly adorable because he's not my kid. Drunken debauchery ensued when we decided to play Cahoots after dessert, a sort of mind-reading game that involves Hungarian Gypsy Magic. I'm pretty sure I baffled the Boyfriend with my Hungarian Gypsy Mind Reading. At least the little kids were impressed.

2. Reconnecting. 

Saw a friend who I have not seen in FOREVER, or at least it feels that way. We ate lunch, sat on her bed, giggled, did astrology charts, and acted as though we had a combined age of 11. So great.

3. Dinner with the Boyfriend's family. 

Now it was my turn to dress up all pretty and behave myself. The night quickly progressed from steak and potatoes and candlelight to sitting on the couch watching Youtube videos of kitties and hamsters and pandas with the Boyfriend's mom. Then he told me why my face is pretty. (Insert contented sigh.)

4. Played Ultimate Frisbee. 

It was cold, I played poorly, but I did 2 and a half hours of cardio and my whole body hurts in the best possible way.

5. Dogs.

As Charles Schultz once said (and I know this because EVERY Chicken Soup for the Soul book has this quote in it) "Happiness is a warm puppy." Actually, happiness is a warm, scruffy little mutt curled up under the covers keeping your feet warm.

I'm taking the 7:51 train in and then it's back to the grind. But Thanksgiving, you treated me well. See you next year.