Skip to: Site menu | Main content


 

Archive for November, 2006

Sofia

The summer I was 19 I took an English class where we read Tom Jones and Clarissa. I’d read Tom Jones before and seen the movie. I re-read it for the class. More challenging was Clarissa. It’s one of the worst books I’ve ever attempted to read. I say attempted because not one of us, including the professor, managed to lay eyes on each of that wretched book’s 1,500 over-sized pages.

Our professor reasoned that in the short summer session we could handle reading two (very long) books, despite the short-attention span summer usually entailed. It seemed reasonable to me too. Unfortunately, we were both wrong. He announced, happily, on the first day of class, that we were going to read the unabridged version of Clarissa. In fact, it’s almost impossible to buy anything other than an abridged version of this monstrosity. In the end, though, the prof created, on the fly, his own abridged version. When seeing the demoralized looks on our once-eager faces, he started instructing us to skip certain chapters. He also became increasingly frustrated with the sanctimonious moral tone of the book. The thing about Clarissa is that no one reads it because it’s a good book. They read it because it is an early book–one of the first novels in the English language. It is revolutionary. It’s epistolary (one more reason I hate it). It is also atrocious. You must read Fielding to properly appreciate how atrocious Clarissa is. Fielding and Richardson were contemporaries and Fielding hilariously ridiculed Richardson’s first novel (twice, in fact!). You will adore Fielding. It’s almost impossible not to love him.

The other reason our professor only wanted us to read two books and write two papers is that immediately at the end of the quarter, he was leaving for a sabbatical in Sofia, Bulgaria. (Why an English professor was taking a sabbatical in Bulgaria is a question for which I don’t have an answer. Maybe it was a guest teaching position.) He made a big point of explaining how to pronounce it correctly, which he had hard time with since his daughter was named Sofia. He told us about Sofia (the city) on the first day of class and announced, “I can’t take late papers or give incompletes. I want to be completely done with this class when I leave.” Again, this seemed perfectly reasonable. I had taken incompletes in college, but not for a while and I didn’t anticipate any problem with such a light workload.

In addition to the class, which met four days a week at 10:30 (he gave us Wednesdays off) and TAing for a history class in the afternoons, I was also dating my first serious boyfriend. My day went something like: sleep late, barely make it to class on time; meet my boyfriend for lunch and hanging out; go to teach my section; and go home/read.

We read Tom Jones in no time flat and everyone loved it. Then we started Clarissa and everyone struggled. I was still making it to class and discussing the book…but just barely.

And then my boyfriend broke up with me. I was devastated and I stopped going to class. I couldn’t face it. There was a paper due and I didn’t turn it in. I stopped reading Clarissa.

When I came up for air, I went back to class. I talked to the professor and apologized for blowing off the paper. He said, “I was worried about you. It wasn’t like you to miss class.”

What could I say? No one had died. A break-up seemed like such a sorry excuse for screwing up, I couldn’t bring myself to mention it. But I was so sad–I’m sure he could tell something was wrong. I said, “I’m sorry, I’ve just had a lot going on and I’m having a hard time and I don’t know what to do.”

He made a bargain with me: turn in one paper and he’d base my grade on that. I got that paper in on time and I passed the class with a B+. Was I lucky or what? Sofia saved me.

Grateful for: my understanding professor.

Drop me a line.


Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating

Who me?

It’s funny the things that terrify me. I expected to get a lot more comments on yesterday’s post and I expected them to mostly be negative. Instead, I got relatively few comments and they were mostly positive. I was so worried that my fight with Owen was much worse than it seemed and I was missing it.



I have a hard time not thinking the worst when situations get ever so slightly negative. Here’s an example. (Patience, it takes some background.) My parents were divorced when I was 12. Not longer after that, my father started seeing Susan,the woman who he would eventually marry. She is a nice lady and was always kind to me but I never cared for her much (these days, we get along fine). I spent several teenage summer with my father and Susan in Berkeley, sometimes joined by an assortment of step and half siblings. I was undeniable dour, sour and miserable. I did an exceptionally fine job of spreading my unhappiness wherever I went. Why was I so unhappy? I was 13, 14, 15 and 16 and I had no friends in Berkeley. I barely knew my step-sisters and one of them, the one closest to my age, though still 4 years older, got all kinds of attention from boys–boys who completely ignored me. I was terribly jealous. Even worse was the one summer B1 (my eldest half-brother) came to stay and showered all kinds of affection on my youngest step-sister. Attention that I felt I deserved. Oh boy, was I unhappy! Dad frequently took me aside and asked me to be nicer to Susan–who I jabbed with many fine, sarcastic barbs. Once he even asked me to stop talking about my mother so much around Susan. As you might imagine, that request had pretty much the opposite effect.



Now, the impact of all of this on me was that I felt excluded from the family. I was the crazy one. The troublemaker. I grew to feel that if there were a problem and I was involved, it was my fault.



Years later, when I was in my early 20s, I was visiting Dad in Berkeley. My angst was gone for the most part and there was at least detente with Susan, if not actual affection. This particular day, I’d woken up with the flu, though Susan left before being told I was sick. (Dad knew and was in touch with me off and on through the day.) I spent most of the day napping and watching movies on cable. When Susan got home, I was watching the 1950 version of Cyrano de Bergerac with José Ferrer. It’s a good movie and I hadn’t seen it before and Susan came in just as the movie was reaching it’s climax which comes in the very last minutes. She had a bag of groceries in her arms and sad, “Can you help me unload the car?”



I said, “I’ll help–but can I just watch the last five minutes of this movie?” I was sure she’d understand since she speaks French and likes old movies–but before I got a chance to tell her the name of the film she stomped out to get more groceries. On her second appearance, seeing me still in the same spot, watching the movie, she proceeded to yell. “Why is ok for you to just sit there and do nothing all day! I’m tired and I need help! You can’t just sit around!”



I don’t think Susan had ever yelled at me before. Without saying a word I jumped up and ran out to the car to get the rest of the groceries. I left the tv on and then I’m sure she saw what I’d been watching since she asked me about it when I came back in. I told her I was sick and then did my best to help put away the food. As soon as the task was done, I went down to my room and got hysterical crying.



It sounds crazy to me now, but I was completely distraught because my stepmother yelled at me. I was sure I’d done something wrong. I thought, “what did I do this time?” As soon as I calmed down a little, I called my mother, who didn’t answer. Next, I called Audrey. I told her what had happened and she was confused, “Wait, I thought you said you did something.”



“I did. I must have.”



“No you didn’t. She was wrong. She overreacted. It’s not that she’s a bad person, she just lost it and yelled at you. But you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were sick and just wanted to watch the last five minutes of a movie.”



“You mean…she was wrong?” After all those years of everything being my fault it was hard to fathom that someone else had acted badly. Upside down world! I felt a little better after talking to Audrey but I was still upset and stayed in my room. A while later, my dad came to see me. He gave me one of his awkward bear hugs and thumped me on the back. He said, “Susan feels bad about what happened. She is sorry. She didn’t realize you were sick today.”



It was surreal.



So, sometimes, I think, everything really is my fault and if I just try harder and do better then I can fix it. I’m ready to change–or to try to change. but maybe I expect you to be ready too and no one really is, are they? But, seriously, don’t feel sorry for me. I had it so good and others had it so much worse, I hate to complain for even a second. Which may explain why I’m often so blind to serious faults of boyfriends (and sometimes friends) until long after the fact. After all, maybe there was something I could have done….




Grateful for
: knowing it’s not always my fault.



Drop me a line.

Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating

No bother

I’ve been thinking about taking a break from blogging. Not for any particular reason but just to see how it feels. To give myself a break, not that I’m particularly busy. But, when I’ve said I’d take a day or two off, I never did. I don’t know. Anyway, I’m not taking a break yet, so I can tell you about my weekend with Owen. It’s all about the boyfriend these days. Boring! Owen, Barry and I


Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating

How did it go?

Thanksgiving went rather well. We were only three, but there was enough food for an army. The bird was huge. It came out perfectly. We had several side dishes (mashed potatoes, yams, turnips, green beans, stuffing). It was absurd and wonderful. I have to admit, as far as big holiday meals go, the smaller the crowd the better. I don’t enjoy making inane small talk with strangers and people I don’t like. I dig the family gatherings where I can catch up with my far-flung relatives–I also like it if there are little kids around to play with–but other than that, the smaller the better.

I tend to hover a bit in the kitchen, but beyond helping determine where to insert the meat thermometer in the turkey and exhorting Owen to remove the bird when the temp hit 160, I didn’t help very much. I removed myself from the kitchen while Owen was hustling around getting the side dishes ready. The turkey was done much earlier than expected, which threw the schedule off a bit, but we just ate earlier. No problem. I whipped some cream for the pie I made, I heated up the potatoes I brought–but mostly I let Owen and Barry take care of the meal. They did a great job and you would never have guessed they hadn’t make a Thanksgiving meal before.

In the comments, dan-E requested my recipe for garlic mashed potatoes. It’s the silliest most labor intensive mashed potato recipe ever, which is why I only make it once a year. But, once a year, it’s worth it. It’s from Cook’s Illustrated, which is a fantastic magazine, but the recipes are so precise it can be maddening. I’m going to reproduce this one from memory–let’s see how I do.

Garlic Mashed Potatoes
Serves 4

2 pounds potatoes, preferably russets
22 cloves garlic (about 3 oz.)
1 stick (1/2 cup) butter, melted
1 cup half and half, warmed
1.5 teaspoons salt
black pepper

1. Toast the garlic, unpeeled, in a small saucepan on lowest possible heat for about 22 minutes. Shake frequently. When they are toasted all over, set off heat and cover for another 15-20 minutes until completely softened. Best to use cloves of similar sizes. When cool, peel and trim off hard end of cloves. They may be processed with the potatoes, but to ensure smoothness, I ran them through a garlic press.

2. While toasting garlic, place whole, unpeeled potatoes in a large pot and cover with one inch of water. Bring to a boil and then simmer on medium heat for 20-30 minutes, until soft (easily poked with a fork, not quite breaking apart).

3. When potatoes are ready, drain water. Peel potatoes. (This is a challenging step. The skins will come off easily, but the potatoes are HOT. Wear an oven mitt, hold potato on a fork and use a paring knife to peel.) If you are using a food mill, drop the peeled potatoes in the hopper and process in batches over now empty pot. A food mill or ricer will give the smoothest potatoes. A regular masher is fine, but the consistency will be chunky. If you use a food mill, put the garlic in with the potatoes. If you use a masher, put it through a garlic press or mince first.

4. Add the melted butter to the potatoes and stir with a wooden spoon.

5. Add the half and half and whisk.

6. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Serve immediately. (Yeah, sure. I’ve never been able to serve them immediately and they are always very tasty several hours later. Don’t refrigerate them, though, unless absolutely necessary.)

A few notes based on Cook’s test kitchen: the boiling of whole, unpeeled potatoes is the key to good flavor. If you peel and cube first, it will dilute the flavor into the cooking water. The testers also found that toasting the garlic gave the right level of intensity–not too strong and not too mellow. Also, it’s important to add the butter first. The fat coats the starch and makes it more receptive to the half and half. Adding the liquid first will make the potatoes gluey.

My note on processing: I use a food mill, but I’ve always had a hard time getting enough downward pressure on the blades to force the potatoes through the mill. Yesterday, I stood on a chair in order to get more leverage and it worked like a charm. I probably wouldn’t have this problem with a newer, better adjusted food mill, but this seemed to solve the problem–so next year, I’ll just start out on a chair. It will also save me from the garlic press step since I’ll be able to add the toasted cloves right into the hopper with the potatoes.

I do think it’s absurd to use three pots (toasting garlic, boiling potatoes, melting butter) to make mashed potatoes–but what can you do?

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving!

Grateful for: a mellow holiday.

Drop me a line.


Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy T-day everyone! I made a pumpkin pie last night and this morning I made my decadent garlic mashed potatoes. I’m borrowing TR’s car and driving over to Owen’s in about an hour. It’s going to be a small gathering, but I’m looking forward to it. A nice lazy, football and movie watching day with friends and boyfriend. Not bad, not bad at all.

And, if you’re so inclined, you can also read my review of Borat.

Grateful for: a good day.

Drop me a line.


Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating

Thanksgiving

Owen is cooking Thanksgiving dinner. He was planning this before we met and about a month into our relationship, he invited me. Last year I had a bit of a difficult time finding somewhere to go and I happily accepted. Owen and Barry (the roommate) did a lot of shopping last Friday and Saturday, unaided by me. It’s clearly important to Owen that he do this on his own. I’m making a dish and I’ve volunteered to help, but heeding Nancy’s advice, I’ve tried to take a step back from the preparations. Owen’s needs to do it without my help.

Last night, I planned to go grocery shopping. I am loaning Owen an extra table and some chairs and I emailed him to find out if last night was a good time to bring those things over since I would have the car anyway. He called me around 5:30, just as he was leaving work, and said that would be great. He also listed a bunch of other kitchen stuff that he wanted to borrow. We’d talked about this before and it was fine. Along with the card table, I took him a large sauce pan, a couple of casserole dishes, a loaf pan and a roasting pan. I’ve loaned him half my kitchen and it’s barely enough! I realized that most of my pots and pans were hand-me-downs or gifts from my parents. That’s how you start a kitchen–your parents help–at least in my world. Owen hasn’t had the benefit of this, so I’m happy to share. You can’t go buy a whole new kitchen just for one day.

After I got to Owen’s and unloaded, we went to the grocery store. Originally, I was only going to make mashed potatoes, but now I’m also making a pumpkin pie. I got the ingredients for both and he picked up the few odds and ends that he’d missed on the last shop. And we STILL forgot a couple of things. He’s taking the day off today and I’m sure he’ll make at least one more visit to the grocery store.

What is so great is how excited Owen is. He sees making this Thanksgiving as a rite of passage. I suppose it is. He’s a mix of happy, excited, nervous and worried. His enthusiasm is delightful and a bit exhausting. I’m very happy to be part of this event.

The funny thing is, while I am an experienced (though far from expert) cook, I’ve never made a turkey. I have a thing about whole, raw poultry. I don’t like to touch it. If I cook chicken, it’s skinless, boneless breasts. I have roasted a chicken or two, and they came out fine. I also tend not to work with large cuts of meat, though I once made a mighty fine brisket for Passover. I usually make sauces, stir fry, steak, hamburger…but not roasts or whole chickens. My mom did a lot of that kind of cooking so I’m familiar with it, but I won’t be too much help to Owen.

He is a little worried that I think he “can’t” do things. I said, “I’ve never had that thought, not once. I know you can cook and I know you can take care of yourself. You don’t need me for that.”

“Right. But you’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have.”

“Sure, I’ve been cooking longer–so why not use the benefit of my experience? But I’ve never made a turkey, so you’re on your own there.” We laughed.

I’m really looking forward to this Thanksgiving. Owen says he wants it to be perfect, and I can understand that, but I also know it’s not realistic. Regardless of how the food turns out,though, it’s going to be great–Owen’s enthusiasm is more than enough to ensure that.

Grateful for: a first Thanksgiving.

Drop me a line.


Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating

Review: Casino Royale (2006)

I didn’t think I’d like it but I liked it. Call it the magic of lowered expectations. I also needed to see a movie where I could get out of my head, where I wouldn’t have to think, where I wouldn’t have to reflect on or evaluate my life. I thought a little about why I like James Bond—why anyone likes James Bond—or perhaps why any women like James Bond. Of course, he’s sexy and mysterious. He travels the world, is stylish, suave and masculine. All attractive qualities. But I identify with James Bond, not with the Bond girls. I want to be that sexy, stylish spy who travels the world and makes love without breaking hearts, leaving only satisfied, grateful partners in my wake. Ah, that’s the life.

Casino Royale is an origin story, which tend to be the best. It’s cold, brutal and action-packed. The titles were not the greatest but they were refreshingly free of naked ladies (sorry fellas). In fact, there’s damn little sex in this picture and more than enough violence. One of the first chase scenes is actually conducted on foot and is astonishing, exciting and completely held my attention. It contrasted the gymnastic agility of the “bad” guy with the brutish more direct approach of Bond. Perfect set up and was exceptionally fun to watch. In general, the action in this picture was more realistic than I’ve seen for a while—it’s more about the physicality of the actors (and stuntmen) and less about CGI effects.

Eva Green plays the female foil for James and I liked what she did. I did not buy her British accent (good reason for that: she’s French) but I did buy her repressed sexiness. (I would also like to air my on-going issue with casting: Eva Green is twelve years younger than Daniel Craig. What gives?)

I liked Craig as Bond. He was rugged and not too refined and very physical. He was cold and brutal, witty and sneering. His wisecracking fell a little flat—he is better on the move. Still, he is a Bond I could get used to.

Grateful for: a new Bond.

Drop me a line.


Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating

Much better

Wow, Friday was something, wasn’t it? I was sooo frustrated with the blog world, my own behavior, and the stupid comments from a site I refuse to link to (if you send me an email, I’ll give you the link). I could not wait to get out of the office. Luckily, my impromptu plans with Pele panned out and we went to see the new James Bond in a crowded theater with an enthusiastic audience. I’ll write a longer short review later, but I liked it. You know what it is you are looking for when you go see a Bond movie? This one has it.

Pele was kind enough, as usual, to drive me home. We sat and talked in the car, as usual. I did more listening than usual, but that was good. It was good to get a little outside myself.

I slept well on Friday and got up early on Saturday for “put away day” at the boathouse. I arrived at 8:30am and stayed until noon. We took all the boats out of the boathouse, derigged, washed and waxed them. Minor repairs to all the boat parts were made. It was a big job and I have the sore shoulder to prove it, though I didn’t stay until the official end time of 2pm.

Before going home, I stopped by the local Italian store in my neighborhood, A. Litteri. If you’ve never been, go. The subs are fantastic, though all I got was some olive oil, cheese, crackers and cookies.

When I got home, I called Owen to figure out when I should head over there. It was pushing noon and I told him I’d get there by 3pm. I had lunch, bathed and packed a small bag. That evening, we were going to a party on a boat–you know one of those dinner/dancing cruises on the Potomac. I cannot tell you the foolishness of planning such an outing for NOVEMBER. (No, he did not plan it–this was his work’s holiday party.) It was a dress-up affair so I brought my nice clothes, fancy shoes and optional make-up to Owen’s place.

When I arrived, Owen greeted me enthusiastically. Barry (the roommate) was also happy to see me and they showed me their full cupboards and fridge–all in preparation for Thanksgiving. They were so pleased! It was cute.

We watched some college football. Barry and I had a long conversation about rowing–he rowed in high school. I have to say, it’s great to get along so well with him. I feel completely comfortable hanging out at Owen’s when he’s home. It’s nice–very friendly and homey. Too bad Tabitha (the cat) can’t join us! Poor baby, all alone.

A couple of fellow party-goers came by–they were leaving their car at Owen’s and taking the metro to the boat with us. I turned out to be dressed appropriately, but modestly, for the occasion. I have never seen such a display of cleavage in my life. Owen gave me a mildly hard time for not wearing something more revealing and he (incorrectly) said I could pull off the low-cut style one of our dinner companions was wearing. While inaccurate, his comments were flattering.

The party itself was…not terrible. It was on a boat. The dinner was inside and condensation covered the windows as soon as the boat launched so there was no view unless you went outside. It was chilly outside. The view was so-so–heading South to Alexandria does not provide the most dramatic nighttime scenery. The festivities also included a mildly entertaining floor show. Three performers, a couple of medleys and some goofy dancing. I was terribly embarrassed for them. For one of the numbers, they recruited audience members to act as back-up “singers” (no actual singing required). They tapped Owen and he handled it remarkably well. He accepted the “honor” uncomplainingly, unlike our other friend who wanted to refuse. Owen followed the dance steps pretty well and he smiled through the whole thing. I gave him a big hug when he was done. While I would not have enjoyed it, I love that he did. He’s such a good sport and completely un-embarrassed.

After the boat docked, Barry took off home. A little odd, but he’s done that before. When he’s ready to call it a night, he doesn’t wait for anyone else. We stayed on the boat about an hour after it docked, dancing and talking to folks. I was done drinking, and so was Owen, but a few of the other people in our group were still going at it. By 11pm, Owen corralled them and we got a ride back to Arlington with Nick. Our party numbered six–all of whom ended up sleeping in Owen’s living room (as anticipated).

When we got back, Barry had a bunch of food ready for us. He also offered alcohol, but only Nick (the driver) took him up on it, thus ensuring he would also spend the night. We watched a movie and Owen unsuccessfully tried to get everyone to keep their voices down since a baby lives upstairs. I didn’t hear a baby cry, so hopefully we didn’t wake anyone up.

Owen and I sat together, cuddled up, a bit separate from the rest of the group. Every once in a while Barry would say something like, “they sure look cozy over there.” Bonnie, who I’d met before, would also call out to us occasionally. I’d say she was the drunkest person there, though not the first one to pass out. Everyone went to sleep around 2am.

Bonnie woke us up by knocking on the door around 8am (really? that early? Yes, I think so). Because we had cars, as soon as everyone was awake and dressed, we went out to breakfast. I do enjoy that. We sat at two tables–Owen and I with Nick, Barry with Bonnie and two others. Nick and I had a long-ish talk about rowing when Owen told him I’d been putting boats away the day before.

I spent the rest of the day watching dvds and football with Owen and Barry. Around 4:30, I got a little restless and I said, “I think I’m going for a walk.” Barry said, “You’re leaving already?”

Owen and I said, almost at the same time, “No.” I continued, “I just need to stretch my legs.” Since they live a five minute walk from the mall at Pentagon City, I went over there and ended up buying a ton of socks (on sale) at Nordstrom’s. I stopped at the grocery store too and got some cookies and tonic water. (The tonic was because Barry said he should have gotten some to mix with the gin he bought in their shopping frenzy.) I also made a couple of calls, one to Pele, who called me back right before I returned to Owen’s. I sat on a bench in the park next to his building and we talked for about half an hour–until it got too cold to sit still.

While we were on the phone, a call came in from a number I don’t have programmed in the phone. From an unfamiliar area code. I didn’t take it but I said to Pele, “You know, I bet it’s that guy! It’s that David.” When I got off the phone with Pele, she said, “Text me if it’s him.”

It was him and he’d left a rather long message. What did he have to say after almost three months? That he was a clod, he wanted to see how I was doing even though I was probably mad at him because of what happened. That he wanted to chat, I was very cool and a good person to know and I should call him.

About the same time, Owen sent a text that said, “dinner?”

I went up to his place and put the tonic in the fridge and the cookies on the counter. I sat in the living room and Barry said, “She brought tonic and cookies! What more could you ask?” Not much, apparently.

I told Owen, in a hushed voice, that David had called. He was very surprised. He said, “Like he’s getting a call back!”

“I know! What was he thinking?”

And yet…and yet. My curiosity is so strong…I sort of want to call David. Maybe I want to gloat a little? I have a great boyfriend now, so there! I haven’t decided yet. I’m not mad any more but odds are I won’t call. Beyond satisfying my curiosity, I don’t see the point.

Owen made some dinner for Barry and me. We ate and watched football and then Simpsons. By 9:30, I was falling asleep for real and I put myself to bed.

Owen and I didn’t have a cross word the entire weekend. The party was fun, the hanging out with friends was fun and I feel like we’re in a good place. We were both angry on Thursday, but by Saturday, we were fine. No resentment, no lingering recriminations, nada. Of course, we weren’t alone very much, but even if we had been, I didn’t feel the need go over anything. Being alone would have been good too, but being together was great.

This relationship keeps surprising me. I can’t always anticipate how I’m going to feel and I was pleased with how well I handled myself, what with the party on the boat, the group of friends, the roommate–all things that have potential to cause stress and unhappiness. Instead, I was comfortable and pleased through it all. In the one or two moments where I needed to be alone, Owen never took it personally. He let me have the space I needed and was just happy that I came back. Was there ever any doubt?

Grateful for: letting it be and being happy.

Drop me a line.


Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating

Beelog: If I Spilled It

If you need a laugh as much as I do today, read this. F’ing hilarious.

Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating

Relax

I need to stop. I’m going to spare you the details of my last off-the-rails conversation with Owen. (Well, I’m going to spare myself the re-telling.) The problem is me, of course. Well, the problem is him too.

The part that is him: he works too much. He is very, super, monstrously, stressed out and busy at work. He has too much work to do, a commute that’s too long and no energy left at the end of the day.

The part that is me: I want more connection. I want something that he can’t give me–at least not all the time. I get it on the weekends, not during the week. It’s hard for me.

He’s doing the best he can. I see that. I get it. And then I lose it. Just a little. And it freaks him out. It freaks me out too. I don’t want to feel like that. I don’t want to act like that.

The solution: I have to back the hell off. I have to accept that this is how it is. I can tolerate it or I can leave. I can’t complain, I can’t freak out, I can’t ask for more. He’s maxed out. I’m exhausted.

To that end, tonight I’m doing something with friends. I’ll see him tomorrow for his company’s holiday party. I will be calm, well-rested and ready to shine in front of the work friends and bosses. They’ll love me. He’ll love me. We’ll have fun and I will relax.

It’s getting increasingly hard to write about Owen. It’s so odd to have an actual boyfriend and tell stories about him/us. I pretty much still know where to draw the line but I’m not relishing so much scrutiny, especially when it is so critical. I like getting different perspectives and opinions but I don’t love so much being called “psycho” or “whiny” or “high-maintenance.” I don’t love all the advice. I never asked you what I should do. And, dammit, I’m always pretty clear on how I’ve fucked up. I’m not deluded about my behavior, I am just not able to get it together all the time, perfectly. Folks, please cut me some slack. I would really appreciate it.

Last, to those of you who arrived here via a dating advice blog that put the smack down on yours truly today, please take a minute and read the whole post (below) before weighing in.

I sure don’t care for the heavy judgment floating around today. I need a break.

Grateful for: a break. See y’all next week.

Drop me a line.


Original Article syndicated via RSS from Grateful Dating