Re-Boyfriend’s Evil Ex-girlfriend is not moving here.
Or, at least she is not moving here in late October/early November as previously announced by Re-Boyfriend.
I have found this out, not through Re-Boyfriend, but through Myspace, an institution I will never mock again.
Background Information: I occasionally check Evil Ex-Girlfriend's Myspace profile. I know. But at least I admit it—to myself, to you and to Re-Boyfriend. (Actually I think Re-Boyfriend is secretly flattered by my occasionally psychotic behavior but he could just be acting that way so as not to push me over the edge).
My suspicions about the moving situation began when a comment appeared on EEG’s profile. The comment read, “I’m so happy you’re coming to see me!”
A quick peek at the commenter’s page told me that the place Evil Ex-Girlfriend was visiting was New York.
Curious. Why, I wondered, would someone ostensibly moving here, visit here?
Naturally I checked EEG’s profile, and the New York visitee’s profile quite frequently (some might say obsessively) over the next few days.
Under my watchful eyes, EEG posted a comment on her friend’s page, telling her that she would be in New York the first week of November. Coincidentally, this was when Re-Boyfriend would be away on business.
I couldn’t quite let myself believe it at first. Maybe his trip would be canceled, maybe her trip would be canceled—I mean, who actually gets that lucky? And who has a boyfriend so stupid that not only would he misinterpret someone coming for a visit as coming to live, he would also neglect to realize that he would be gone for the entire length of the visit?
Apparently the answers to those questions are “Me”, and again, “Me.”
Which raises the point—does Re-Boyfriend now know EEG is not moving here? It is possible he knows but has neglected to tell me since the mentioning of her name prompted the following conversation:
CB: Can you not say her name?
CB: I’m jealous. Okay? I’m jealous and I don’t want to hear her name.
Re-B: But you have no reason to be. I mean, being jealous of her is kind of ridiculous.
CB: Look, I get one person to be jealous of. You get jealous every time someone asks me for a cigarette, I am totally allowed to be jealous of someone you actually dated.
Re-B (mumbling): I wasn’t jealous of that guy. I was just…..worried.
CB: Ha. Right. (Pause). Seriously, don’t say her name.
Or does Re-Boyfriend, due to his aversion to Myspace and his limited interaction with her, still think she is moving here? In which case, I suppose I should tell him so he doesn’t find out by checking my blog.
And in other news, I have become a total fatty since Re-B has been gone. Phase Defattify was supposed to go into effect Saturday, but I got very drunk and stayed out until 6am with S., which is not conducive to weight loss. Neither is the Chipotle near me.
Re-Boyfriend’s Evil Ex-girlfriend is not moving here.
It is a well-known principle of business that rather than giving an employee a small--but in the long run costly and unappreciated--raise, it is better to give the employee a one-time gift. A $50 American Express gift card, a box of Godiva chocolates, a gift certificate for a massage… Employees will feel appreciated and employers will save money. It’s a win-win situation. Or a win and thinking you’ve won situation, which is fine with me, even if I am on the thinking side.
Bastardizing this concept so that it benefits absolutely nobody is my company. A $25 gift certificate to The Gap and a bouquet of wilted lilies will only anger your employees and lead them to refer to your “gifts” in a disparaging manner. Instead of quelling the masses it has actually stirred their discontent since no one wants to think their silence can be bought with such paltry means.
I cannot participate in a People’s Revolution though because I want to keep the gift certificate and buy socks.
I have gotten quite good at Re-Boyfriend leaving. I do not cry when he leaves, or even, truth be told, generally miss him much when he’s gone. I know he’s coming back, I know he loves me, why not celebrate temporary singledom by refusing to clean my apartment/shave/moisturize etc.?
The first sign that something was amiss was the fanatical checking of my e-mail. Today I refreshed my hotmail page approximately once every fifteen minutes. (This figure is approximate only because I had to break for lunch). Even if Re-Boyfriend’s e-mails were consistently full of scintillating tales, I would still think my behavior a bit strange. Since Re-Boyfriend’s e-mails usually only contain random factoids (“Today I am staying in a hotel with red sheets”) and long discussions of odd subject matter (“I am reading _______ which has a good conversational tone, but is a bit long. I think it is well written but, of course, blah blah blah”), then my eagerness to receive one is just bizarre. It is not like me to wait with bated breath for the next installment in the suspenseful two-part series named “I Wonder Whether I Should Order Room Service Or Go Out To Dinner.”
In a similarly alarming turn of events, I have found myself periodically checking my cell phone to see if Re-Boyfriend has called. This from the girl who received the following e-mail from Re-Boyfriend on his last business trip:
I bought you a present. I’m calling you in an hour. You don’t get the present unless you answer the phone.
In my defense, I wasn’t avoiding speaking to him per se, I was avoiding the inevitably awkward phone conversations that left me feeling depressed and confused. Now I am actually SEEKING THAT FEELING OUT.
For some reason this time I really miss him. I actually miss him a whole lot and he just left—I’ve still got almost three weeks to go. This blows.
Re-Boyfriend is gone for three weeks. Having learned from previous trips, I am not even going to attempt to believe that I will go to the gym everyday, quit smoking, and generally engage in healthy living. Instead I am going to embrace my inner sloth for two weeks, eat everything in sight, and generally celebrate the fact that no one will be seeing me naked. (It was hard to find the silver lining there, but I did it). Then, a week before Re-Boyfriend returns, I will begin eating normally again.
I am, apparently, so committed to the gaining weight portion of this plan that last night as I drunkenly stumbled home I stopped to buy a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Then I ate the entire thing, most likely while sitting on my couch. (The location of my eating was surmised by the place where the empty carton was discovered this morning. Since I do not actually remember eating it, it is entirely possible that I was careening through the streets of Manhattan digging at the vat of ice cream with a plastic spoon. But I prefer to believe that did not happen.)
I really hope I left myself enough time to lose all the weight I will inevitably gain. Boys always stutter and stammer their way out of the question “Would you still love me if I got really fat?” Except for one of my friends, whose boyfriend responded “Well, I would have to talk to you about it because gaining weight when you’re in a relationship is really selfish.” There's a modicum of truth in that, but it is just not a comforting answer.
Last night I decided to make meatballs. Not being much of a cook, the endeavor seemed wonderfully adventuresome and light-hearted. I imagined myself playfully rolling up the chopped meat while chugging wine from the bottle and calling gaily to Re-Boyfriend “I think I may have burned them.”
Re-Boyfriend had not been privy to these bizarre fantasies and so when he called to let me know he was leaving work, he said cheerfully “I’m thinking pizza. Want to come to my apartment and order pizza? How does that sound?”
“But I’m making meatballs,” I said in a whisper, my dreams crumbling before my eyes.
“Really?” he asked in a skeptical voice. “Did you already buy the ingredients?”
Some part of me knew this was a fair question since I am prone to announcing intentions of cooking then almost immediately losing interest and ordering Chinese food. Still, I didn’t like his tone.
“I bought the ingredients.” I had not bought the ingredients.
“What did you buy?”
“Eggs, meat, garlic, bread crumbs, parmesan cheese…” I was reading from the recipe on my computer screen.
“My recipe doesn’t use milk.”
“But you need milk.”
“Oh my God, I’ll call you when I’m done making the meatballs.”
I hung up the phone, and instead of going to the supermarket or trying to make meatballs from the raspberries, English muffins and corn chips I actually had bought, I began to cry. Hysterically. Sobbing I sort of paced my apartment, kicking at things and wailing. It was a real, honest-to-god tantrum and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even feel emotionally involved with my hysterics, just curious and even proud—“Maybe I am having a real nervous breakdown!” This only made the entire scenario that much more frightening.
When I finally calmed down, I paused to reflect upon what could have caused such sorrow. Maybe I was really craving iron or protein and needed to eat red meat—which would explain the whole uncharacteristic urge to cook meatballs.
After an extensive search online, I concluded that the culprits were my birth control pills, which apparently have the capacity to drive one slowly insane. Even though I hate that commercial where the hot chick at the bar explains the benefits and side-effects of the low hormone Yaz, (as though people really sit around and say things like “Side-effects may include nausea…” while sipping Cosmos), I may have to look into it.
As proof that something needs to be done, I began crying again during this morning’s subway ride. It’s like when I was in middle-school, first got PMS and actually cried during the episode of Boy Meets World where Corey serenades Topanga with Christmas carols to prove his love. Except ALL THE TIME.
Also, apparently my birth control lowers one’s sex drive, which is sort of exciting. I already like sex, so maybe I will become a totally insatiable dynamo sex kitten in a few months.
I don’t even know where to begin. First there are the commercials that suggest having one’s period is an incapacitating, near life-threatening condition, and now there is a product suggesting it is dirty?
I have asked other women (read: myself and S.) and we have unanimously agreed that it is unclear why toilet paper is not enough.
When I picture the marketing meeting that came up with this, I picture one lone woman in the room, too self-conscious to speak up and say something like “What the fuck are you talking about?”
And if there were a lot of women in the room, I really don’t know what’s wrong with them and their vaginas.
If anyone can explain this, I would be very grateful.
Posted by gotcha at 2:07 PM
The majority of large corporations in New York City received “emergency backpacks” after September 11th. My company was one of those, a fact which I did not discover until yesterday, when I finally received mine. Apparently co-workers had been carefully guarding their bags in desk drawers and cubby holes, not bothering to mention their existence to the no-longer-so-new girl, because who cares if she has food and water in the event of a national tragedy?
A shame-faced woman from HR handed me my child-sized back-pack. Though everyone else had probably gone through the initial period of giddiness with their new toy a long time ago, I still could not contain mine, pulling items out of the backpack yelling “Look! Dehydrated food!” and “String! Why string?!”
The HR woman, witnessing my enthusiasm, tartly reminded me that all items were to be used only in case of an emergency.
“No, I know,” I quickly reassured her. “Like a terrorist attack.”
“Or anything,” she clarified. “Like, if the building collapses and you’re stuck under rubble, you could have bottled water.” As if, when trapped under rubble I would think, I better save that water in my emergency backpack for a terrorist attack.
But then a thought occurred to me.
“What if I’m trapped under rubble and I can’t reach my emergency backpack?”
The HR woman was silent.
“Obviously, we should be wearing the backpacks at all times,” I said as seriously as I could before giggling.
“You know, I hadn’t thought of that.” The HR woman gave a thoughtful smile and returned to wherever the HR people come from.
Now there is a call for a company wide meeting this afternoon. I am irrationally frightened that they are going to announce a new rule that people must wear their emergency backpacks throughout the work day and it will be all my fault.
“One time, when I was younger, I was set up on a blind double date. I showed up and the man my friend had set me up with was an albino.”
I eyed my mother warily, wondering where, precisely, this was going.
“But you know, whatever, I was cool. I went to the movies with him and my friends, and you know, it was fine. Then, after the movie, everyone wanted to go get a drink. So I said ‘Okay’. But my date wanted to go home.”
My mom paused for a reaction.
“My date wanted to go home rather than spend more time with me. He wasn't attracted to me. I was a little hurt you know?”
At this point I expected a lecture on how we are all the same underneath, and one should not assume that albinos are necessarily attracted to everyone with normal skin pigmentation. Even my normally pigmented mother, who, it has to be said, was very cute in the sixties. (Not that she is not cute now, but it is a different thing).
I nodded sympathetically, wanting to convey that I too, was tolerant of albinos. Not that I had ever really thought about it but it seemed like a good principle to have.
“And I’ll tell you something,” my mom said leaning forward. “I’ve forgotten all about him. But you know what?”
“He is still an albino.” She looked at me triumphantly.
“You have no idea how funny that is, on like, ten million levels,” I told her.
I considered that perhaps it had been a good thing that Re-Boyfriend had basically only had time to say “Hi” and perform the classic firm-but-not-too-firm-you-can-trust-me-with-your-daughter handshake, before trotting off to a work engagement.
“So your father wants to meet Re-Boyfriend too. He didn’t come tonight because he thought it might be a little much to meet us both at once.”
He is wise.