My Present

Re-Boyfriend calls it "Mini-CB." And it just occurred to me that he thought he was being really funny when he told me that he bought me "something small."

So Re-Boyfriend left about a week ago for work. I didn't say anything because who wanted to talk about missing him? Not me. I was too busy falling into a spiral of reality television and toaster waffles while slowly transforming my apartment into one gigantic closet by leaving clothes in unlikely places.

This helped me realize something important. I had believed myself to be growing up and maturing this past year, but really I had just been reigning in my bad habits so as not to completely scare off Re-Boyfriend.

Anyway, Re-Boyfriend gets back Sunday. Thoughts:

1. I'm excited
2. PRESENTS

These thoughts are not unrelated.

We both know that the present-giving in my relationship has turned into a most random/least useful competition. At least, I know it. I think Re-Boyfriend might believe that each gift he gives me is the one item that will break the pattern. Then I see it and start laughing. (I would feel mean about this, but if you haven't read my archives just search "boyfriend" and "present"--you will understand.)

I cannot WAIT to see what the present is. At this point I would feel let down if he got me anything normal.

I Didn't Get Into A Club and I'm Not Afraid to Admit It Anonymously

Saturday night S., a few of our friends and I were blatantly rejected from a club. We were told we weren’t “on the list” which is code for "You don’t look rich/powerful/beautiful enough to come in here." It made me miss Brooklyn.

Most of us had laughed it off by the time we crossed the street and entered another bar. “It’s all your fault you know,” I shouted over the music at S. as we tried to get the attention of the bartender again. “It’s because you’re so ugly.” Then I collapsed into giggles and started hiccuping a little.

But S. didn’t laugh. Instead she informed me that since we always get in everywhere we had to think about what had been unusual about the night.

I frowned seriously, trying to hear her, or at least pretend that I could, over the annoying Fergie song playing.

The Mitigating Factors According to S.

1. S. and I were with other girls
2. The other girls were sort of standing to the side of the line looking pissed off and saying that the bouncer was stupid
3. S. and I had not been expecting to go out and so maybe looked a little less than our best

There was nothing to do but agree with her, order another vodka tonic and watch our friend make out with a bald man. All in all, it was a good night and I'm sure the bald man would agree.

Then the next morning I got a phone call.

“Hello?” I answered from my bed. I stuck my head under the covers to block out the 10am sunlight and noticed I was still wearing shoes.

“We’re going back there,” S. told me.

“To where…? That bar? Why, does Amy really like the bald guy?”

“We are going back there tonight and we are going to get in.”

"Oh, that place...But it’s Sunday."

“CB, we are going.” S. was trying to use her I-Will-Not-Be-Reasoned-With voice which generally scares me into doing her bidding, but I was hung over, wearing shoes in bed and unable to be swayed.

“Well, I’m not. I'm staying in Brooklyn and ordering Chinese food.”

“Fine, maybe not tonight,” S. allowed. “But that club is awesome. We’ll just have to go some other time this week.” Then she hung up.

Apparently, the point of going out is to relax and have fun, unless you're in Manhattan, in which case the whole thing is a process as fraught as applying to college.

Update: We're going there again tomorrow night. S. tried to act casual but since we usually prefer parties or dive bars, there was no chance I wouldn't be suspicious of her suggestion that we go out to a "real" club for the second time in six days.

A steam pipe burst in midtown Manhattan yesterday and asbestos was released into the air via mud and debris that erupted out of the ground.

If you live in New York, you obviously already know this. If you are my mother, you not only know this but have called eighteen times to educate me on how to minimize asbestos contact.

Apparently, I am to discard not only of The Dress I was wearing but all other things The Dress may have touched before CAREFULLY showering with both soap AND water. Then I am to throw out/clean everything that came into contact with the pre-clean me.

I have tried explaining that:
a) I generally shower with soap AND water anyway
b) I had no mud or debris on my clothes
c) I never saw said mud or debris
d) I like The Dress
e) Me and The Dress sat on the couch and watched reality television, then sat on the bed for a bit, so really, at this point my entire apartment is contaminated

Faced with this logic, my mother was supposed to give up her Freak Out CB campaign. Instead, my mother decided I should get a new couch, new sheets and a new comforter but benevolently conceded that I may stay in my apartment.

I understand that the whole thing was a little scary. I understand that we were in New York on 9/11 and so we’re all a bit edgy. But, you know, all the points listed above.

I’m keeping my couch. And I’m going out tonight. But because my mother is very good at pushing my buttons, I’m going to stay in Friday night to wash everything in my apartment. And, for at least two weeks, I’ll feel uncomfortable every time I sit on the couch or lie in my bed.

That is compromise.

Update: My mother's nefarious ways have worked. I've become convinced that the comforter on my bed is an asbestos-harboring, cancer-causing evil entity and that by sleeping with it I become contaminated. Then when I get out of bed I re-contaminate the entire apartment.

Not only is this all completely illogical, I smoked two cigarettes last night, so where is this obsession with removing carcinogens from my life coming from? Nonetheless the comforter is going to the dry cleaner tonight. Hopefully then my insanity will calm down.

Mom, I love you, but perhaps you should consider my susceptible nature before the next phone call.

People Love to Play On My Domestication Anxieties

It started before we were even in the building.

“Ha,” my recently engaged friend said, pointing to Re-Boyfriend's and my last names, taped above our mailbox door. “Didn’t you guys forget the hyphen?”

Being blonde, it took me a second to get it.

“Oh my God.”

“Is that what you guys are going to do? Are you going to hyphenate?” she teased.

"Oh my God.”

“I just assumed we’d both keep our names,” Re-Boyfriend said, shrugging.

“Wow, she's going to let you keep your name?” my so-called friend asked Re-Boyfriend.

“Hey, CB, can I keep my name?”

I ran up the 4 flights of stairs (which was, sadly, no easy feat) to get to our apartment and avoid further conversation. Then I refused to talk to anyone for the next three minutes. Because I am very, very mature.

Perhaps when I'm feeling more introspective (read: bored at my job) I can try to do some self-therapy and figure out how much and why all this marriage and "bambinos" stuff is getting to me.

Rejected Opportunity

My friend’s company is trying to consolidate their office space and free up a large enough area to rent out for some extra cash. To that end, they are encouraging people to work from home part-time. Workers can set up “desk-shares” with one person using an area Monday-Wednesday and another using it Thursday and Friday.

That is a totally awesome opportunity for said friend.

If she elected to work at home part-time, the company would buy her “home office equipment” which would include a printer, a new computer and whatever else she could convince them that she needed. Then, at the end of the year, through some tax thing that I don’t understand, she would get back HALF the money she had spent on rent.

That would be like a 25% salary increase for me. A 25% salary increase for working in my pajamas with My Super Sweet Sixteen playing in the background.

However my stupid, stupid friend does not want to do this.

Stupid Friend: I don’t know, what would I do all day?

CB: What you do now! But with breaks to go get ice cream, or go to the gym, or just take a walk…

Stupid Friend: Yeah, I don’t know..I don’t really like any of those things. I don't really like leaving the couch...I think I would wind up sitting in my apartment watching soaps and ordering too much Chinese food.

CB: But the money!

Stupid Friend: Yeah, I don’t know...I would miss the people.

CB: But you would still see them at least twice a week! Just go out for happy hour with them more often and get really drunk! Oh. My. God. I just realized—do you know how much extra sleep you could get if you didn’t have to commute anywhere?! And if you were hungover you could work from bed. And you wouldn’t have to put on all that makeup to look presentable and wonder if you smell weird—

Stupid Friend: Yeah, I’m not doing it.

I want her job. I would take proper advantage of this.

One More Post About the Wedding Weekend (Alternate Title: Men Are Crazy)

I leaned over during the rehearsal dinner and whispered in Re-Boyfriend’s ear, “Do you think she’s going to have kids soon? That’s so weird because she’s so young. But I guess if you get married, you want kids. Why else do you get married? The whole thing is so weird.”

Re-Boyfriend looked slightly upset, turned to me and whispered back “That’s not why people get married, CB. They get married because they get their first place together, or just whatever...I don’t know, it doesn’t mean they want to have kids in the next five seconds. And it’s not weird at all.”

I couldn’t believe my boyfriend was defending the institution of marriage at a young age. When I looked at him, he actually appeared to be pouting.

"Um...no, you’re right," I said quickly, trying to make amends. "I mean living together is a big step. I guess it’s not weird to get married soon after that—"

“ARE YOU TRYING TO PRESSURE ME?”

I just stared at Re-Boyfriend. He looked like he was hyperventilating.

“Clearly, you’ve gone insane,” I told him. A person that could come up with a non-sequiter like that could not be reasoned with. “I’m not talking to you.”

Then I went to the bar and drank until I wasn’t pissed off.

My boss just pulled me into the scary conference room (reserved for interviewing, firing, reviewing, etc.) and asked if I had been interviewing Friday instead of attending my "possibly fabricated" wedding.

"No..." I told him. "I was a bridesmaid, remember?"

"A bridesmaid, huh?" he asked, getting a Caught you! look in his eye. "If you were a bridesmaid I want to see pictures. I want photographic evidence!"

"Okay."

His intuition is astounding. This is just about the only time I have taken off work for a reason other than interviewing.

My Favorite Parts of the Wedding

As I exited the church in the bridal procession, S. and her date (our friend from college) inappropriately applauded from the pews. “Good job!” “Whoooo!” “Don’t fall!”

A fellow bridesmaid informed me that since I was “the closest to getting married” everyone had decided I would be the one to catch the bouquet. I snorted wine out of my nose and then made sure to hide around the corner of the building during the bouquet toss, smoking cigarettes with S.

Re-Boyfriend, drunk at the reception, had a do-as-I-do dance off with the bride's six year old cousin. The six year old won, but not before Re-Boyfriend tried to do the worm.

The next morning, another bridesmaid innocently asked why S. and I had been taking pictures of each other in the field by the wedding reception hall, prompting S. and I to look at each other in mortified memory of our drunk asses. “Take a picture of me in nature!” “Nature is soooo beautiful.” “I love trees!” "This is why our friend wants to live out here. New York has no nature."

And, throughout it all, seeing my friend pull off her wedding day looking every bit a beautiful, traditional bride while freaking everyone out with her decidedly laid back approach. (Photographer: And do you want to do another photo over there? Bride: Um, sure. Whatever. Photographer: Well, it's really about what you want. Bride: Well let's do it if you think it will look good. Photographer: Do you have any idea what kind of photos you want? Bride: I'm not going to be very helpful. Do you want to talk to my mom or something?)

Being a Bridesmaid

What is more humiliating than spending thousands of dollars on crap you don’t want or enjoy and then parading around in an unflattering dress and hairstyle for a friend you no longer stay in touch with?

Buying “chicken cutlet” inserts for your bra.

I was hoping to balance out my dress’s multi-layered ability to make me look like I have gigantic hips by adding some gigantic boobs. It didn’t really work. (But Re-Boyfriend appeared to get an erection when I tried on the chicken cutlets which is either pretty cool or insulting.)

So this weekend I will be (ostensibly) standing before God in fake, pushed up cleavage as I "bear witness" (or something) with S. to our friend's confusing union with a man who lives in what he calls "God's Country" and I call "bumblefuck".

Maybe it will not be that bad.