City Wendy

Love and Marriage

Over the weekend Drew and I headed out to Jersey (via the train, not our bikes) for a birthday BBQ at his brother and sister-in-law's who have a huge backyard with a swing set and basketball hoop and everything. They also have the cutest, sweetest kids — both born since Drew and I started dating — and most of their friends who were there Saturday had a host of little youngins among 'em, too, all under the age of 5. There was a moment at the BBQ when I looked around, trying to remember which husband went which which wife and whose kids were whose and I suddenly had a flash of our lives, like, five years from now, full of snot and tears and gummy smiles and using baby wipes in lieu of napkins.

Drew and I don't want to wait too much longer to have kids. I'll be 33 in September and Drew's almost 40 — we want 2 kids and I'd like to be done birthing 'em before I'm 38, but who knows how things will work out. Maybe I'll have trouble getting pregnant, maybe we'll decide to stop at 1, maybe we'll decide to keep going 'til 4, who knows. More and more lately, I'm catching myself planning out the future — which, I guess is natural impulse when one's about to get married. Now that I know who I'm spending my future with, it's more fun to daydream about the life we'll have. 

But I catch myself when I get too caught up in the daydream, this idea that life will work out a certain way simply because I'm planning it so in my fantasies. I catch myself and remember that life doesn't happen because of plans — life happens in spite of them. And that's scary, but it's also really exciting, too, because sometimes those things that happen that we'd never imagine to plan are way better than the blueprint we've drawn for our futures. (And sometimes they're not.) Mostly this is a comforting thought, a reason to believe married life won't be any less interesting that what's come before — if anything, I bet it'll be twice as fun. Or, twice the drama. Guess it depends on how you look at it.

One Man's Treasures

Yesterday I mentioned a song Drew wrote for me in which he sings about how I threw out all his stuff (when I moved in with him). And while it's true that I did persuade him to get rid of a few things (hey, I got rid of about 75% of my stuff and moved halfway across the country to be with him! And I sold my beloved bike! Is it such a big deal I asked him to clear a little closet space for me?), he did not have to "throw out all his stuff." To prove that I did not, in fact, make Drew get rid of all his belongings, I bring you this photo as Evidence A. Everything you see here is his -- was his long before I came around, except the blue clock which I picked up in Chinatown and the art deco lamp which we got at some yuppie store on the Upper West Side.

The posters, which are backwards because I snapped this photo on my Mac because I'm too lazy to look for my camera, are framed concert posters for: Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and Loretta Lynn (which happens to be signed). The smaller frames hold three comics from a series Drew used to create called "The Adventures of a Tuna Fish Sandwich." The fairly short-lived series was published in a national publication, the name of which I can't remember at the moment. Anyway, it's a pretty funny comic strip and always a good conversation piece when we have people over, so I thought it deserved a special spot on the wall.

The diner booth is one of my favorite things in the whole apartment — second, maybe, to my great-grandmother's china cabinet that I was lucky enough to inherit...and also the big, flat-screened TV Drew got for half-price with his brother's awesome discount. I think Drew found the booth at some restaurant supply store on the LES several years ago, but I could wrong about the details. Maybe it was a second-hand shop, or just a restaurant that was going out of business, I'm not sure. Anyway, if you've ever wondered what it's like to have a diner booth as your dining room table, let me assure you: it's pretty awesome. Eating there means we always feel like we're dining out at some greasy spoon and as two of the biggest diner lovers you'll ever know, this is always exciting for us. Even something like, well, like a tuna fish sandwich, seems infinitely more special when consumed at a diner booth. 

In the last few months, we've been hosting "recession nights" of sorts where we invite another couple over, and we enjoy an evening of dinner, drinks, games, music and such. The "such," I should say, may include hula-hooping, looking at Youtube videos of cats doing funny things, and drinking absinthe. I can't speak for our guests, but I'd be surprised if they didn't also agree: the diner booth meals are often the best part of the night. The absinthe, I'll admit, may be a bit overkill.

So, there you go, everyone: evidence that I did not strip Drew of all his worldy possessions when I moved in. Sure, I may have rearranged some things (it's looks better my way), but can you fault a girl for wanting to make things look more cohesive? You cannot. At least, not with any kind of conscious and good taste, you can't.

Moonin'

This weekend Drew and I will book the flights for our honeymoon, a trip I've been looking forward to longer than I've been anticipating a wedding. We've decided on 2 weeks in Portugal and Spain (Lisbon, Seville and Barcelona, to be exact), and will leave early September, about 6 weeks after our wedding when the Europeans are back to work after their month off in August and the weather is a little cooler. 

It wasn't very hard picking a honeymoon locale. Basically, Drew suggested Hawaii and I sorta let him think that was a possibility for about a week before I said, "What about Portugal?" Truthfully, Portugal just popped in my head a couple days before and seemed an infinitely more interesting honeymoon spot than Hawaii, so I went with it. Turns out that's where Drew's parents went for their honeymoon. "You know that photo we have of them holding the little arch of balloons?" Drew asked. "Yeah, I love that picture," I replied, "they look so happy." "That's in Portugal," he said, "on their honeymoon!" 

Drew's mother passed away about 26 years ago, so obviously I never got to meet her.  I like the idea of going where she went after she got married — makes her feel a little bit closer somehow. And Spain's just next door to Portugal, so it made sense we'd want to stop there as well. My friend Jared's father grew up in Seville and Jared's spent a lot of time there over the years visiting his extended family. He's always talked about it with a sort of reverence and described it as such a romantic spot, it seemed like we'd be fools not to stop there for a few days as well. And Barcelona? Well, who doesn't want to see Barcelona?

We still have so much to do to get ready for the wedding — musicians to hire, rings to pick out and purchase, a dress to buy...and a million other little things I wish would magically take care of themselves — but my mind's already 6 weeks past the big day, somewhere on some little cobblestone street by the beach. If anyone's been to Lisbon or Seville or Barcelona and you have tips or suggestions for stuff we have to see and do, let us know. And if you know how to say "Make that a large pitcher of Sangria, please" in Spanish, that would be helpful, too.

He Put A Ring On It

After work on Friday, Drew called and said he was ready to meet up for our traditional post-work Friday drink.

"Let's go to that fancy hotel bar," he said, "I had a bad day at work and I just want to relax somewhere nice."

"Okay, that's fine," I said.

"And maybe we can meet up right outside the park (Central Park) and go for a little walk on our way there. It's kind of nice out."

"It's not nice out," I replied, "It's really cold."

"No," he argued, "It's actually pretty warm."

I was sitting in the apartment freezing and couldn't imagine it actually being any warmer outside than in there, but if he had a bad day at work and thought an ice cold walk through the park and an over-priced drink at a fancy hotel bar would help him relax, who was I to argue?

"I have to run an errand first, so meet me there in half an hour," he said.

"Should we meet at the spot where Rob took our photo that one time?" I asked.

Rob is a photographer friend of ours and once, during the summer after drew and I had spent the afternoon in the park, we ran into him in Columbus Circle (right by the statue) taking photos of  some pro skateboarder for a magazine of some sort. Since he already had all his lighting and equipment set up, he snapped a photo of us. When I saw him at our New Year's party I asked him about the photo and he promised to send it to us. Coincidentally, it had just arrived in the mail that afternoon, framed and everything.

"Yeah, near there," Drew said.

So I met up with him a half hour later and we started walking through the park.

"I really like park when it's all snowy like this," Drew said.
"Hmm," I replied, "It's really cold!"
"Well, we'll just walk a little bit and then head over to the hotel bar," he said, "we have to go this way, anyway."

Even if the title of this post and the picture above didn't give it away, I'm sure you'd know where I'm going with this.

Drew proposed on a little bridge in the park overlooking a written proposal in big sidewalk chalk on the ground below. He said, "Oh, what's that?" And as I peered over the bridge and saw the writing on the walk, he got down on his knee and pulled out the ring. I turned back around, he popped the question and I...well, I sort of did nothing. It was kind of like I was in a play and had forgotten my lines. Drew said it felt like an eternity, but I think it was probably, like, I don't know, 30 seconds or something? Finally, I remembered it was my turn to say something and I said 'yes.'

We headed to the hotel where Drew had reserved a room for us with a "romance package," which, as far as I could tell, included a bottle of champagne that the staff took FOREVER to bring to us, and a daisy in a bud vase. And the "spa-like" bathroom Drew was promised? It was a teensy bathroom with a chipped tub and a broken shower head. But, hey, when you're brand-newly engaged and getting drunk off the bubbly, these sorts of things have a way of seeming sort of hilarious.

Anyway, I'm not going to go all Bridezilla or anything, and don't expect me to sign up at The Knot or buy any of those wedding magazines and whatnot, but there is one part of planning I'm looking forward to: the cake tasting. One should never underestimate the importance of a delicious cake. I might even have to write that into my vows.

I'll Get By

I don't think I've ever been happier about a month ending as I am to see this January finally die. Aside from a great New Year's and my BFF's visit a couple weekends ago, it's been a pretty shitty few weeks. After a couple months of doing pretty well financially, I just got a major cut in hours at my main gig this week, which will make it next to impossible to reach some of the goals I'd set for myself this year (lots of travel, paying off my credit card debt, being happy) unless I get those hours back or find a different or additional job. And I know, considering the economy, I'm lucky to even have a job, lucky I'm not supporting a family on my income, and lucky I can still pay my bills, but it still really sucks. It still feels like a giant slap in the face.

Besides work crap, I finally decided to have a doctor take a look at this wonky eye of mine that turns deep red and gets really painful every time I wear my contacts. I'd been avoiding medical care since I have a general distrust and disdain for all doctors and assume most of them are total quacks completely unworthy of my hard-earned money. And anyway, who needs a professional opinion when there's Google to answer all questions? However, after 6 weeks of still no adequate self-diagnosis, I decided to suck it up and see someone with degrees and training and shit. So I went to this fancy pants doctor on the Upper East Side who dropped some crap in my eyes, shined some bright lights in my face and declared me "severaly dehydrated." He told me to drink more water and then charged me $400, I hate this month.

On the upside, after a lot of deliberation over what sort of engagement ring I might want (which I wrote about here), I finally made a decision yesterday. I'm going with my great-grandmother's ring, which was passed down to my grandmother, then to my mother and now to me. It's 81 years old and very eclectic looking. The diamond is tiny, which is fine by me as I've never really been much of a bling kinda girl anyway. (In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I've even worn a ring at all in the last five years). When my mom presented it to me over Christmas when I was home, I wasn't sure how I felt about it. She said it was mine whatever I decided to do with it, so I took it, thinking I'd figure it out in time. Part of me doesn't even want to wear an engagement ring at all once I'm married -- just a simple wedding band might do. And in that regard, it makes sense to stick with something already in the family instead of letting Drew drop a bunch of dough on something I may not feel like wearing very much. Plus, when my friend was in town earlier this month, I tried it on for him and he said it looked perfect on me and I trust his opinion. So last night I gave it to Drew and told him to have it sized and give it back to me sometime, all romantic like and whatnot.

It's funny to have those sorts of conversations. Is it bad luck, I wonder? Like letting the dude see your wedding dress before the wedding? I don't know. I've gone back and forth on even doing the whole formal proposal/engagement thing. I mean, we know we want to get married. We know we'd like to do it on the soonish side. Does Drew really need to make a big production about ASKING me to marry him if he already knows the answer? Well, it turns out that, Yes! In fact, he does. We didn't meet each other in a traditional way, or have a traditional courtship and I doubt we'll have a very traditional wedding, but this one tradition -- this formal asking me bit -- is important to me for some reason. So, let's see what the guy's got. The pressure's on, dude.

I love you, too!

I've debated whether or not to share this link with you, but what the hell, maybe you'll get a kick out of it. This rant is in response to an article I wrote about how, in romantic hetero relationships, women should let the men drop the "l-bomb" first. I didn't realize CNN had even picked up the article until a friend sent me the Jezebel link. I've since gotten plenty of email from readers who disagree with me, most of whom present their arguments much more thoughtfully and coherently than the Jezebel blogger did. I especially love how the rambling post (complete with sentence fragments and run-ons) is punctuated with a note that the blogger (who couldn't even be bothered to spell my name correctly) asked two men in her life — her father and brother-in-law — to affirm just how "foolish" my advice was. That's always a smart journalistic tactic — just ask my cats.

One and One Half Wandering Jews

First of all, have you been to a big-chain bookstore in the last few days? They are absolute insanity. I guess a book is a gift most people can still afford this year. I stopped by Barnes and Noble last week after I got a massage at Super Magic Fingers (oh my god, awesome), and it was a mob scene. Then yesterday the Borders in Columbus Circle (wait, or is that a Barnes and Noble and the other one was a Borders? I never can remember which is where), was even worse. The line snaked in and out of aisles and reached all the way to the back of the store. I wasn't there to buy a gift for anyone; I just wanted to get a book or two to read on the plane to Germany. Deterred by the line at both stores, though, I ended up copping a squat on the floor and skimming "Wishful Drinking," a book I wanted to read, but just didn't have the patience to buy.

In case you don't know, "Wishful Drinking" is the new memoir by Carrie Fisher: daughter of Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher, recovering alcoholic, medicated bipolar, Princess Leia, and former flame of Paul Simon. It was the latter identity of her history I was most interested in and I skipped right to that section in her book. I've always been a fan of Paul Simon and back in high school I read a couple of Carrie Fisher's books and remembered enjoying her voice, but I never really gave the idea of them as a couple much thought. There's a line in "Wishful Drinking" where Carrie writes that someone once compared her relationship with Paul, whom she was with off and on for 12 years, like two flowers without a gardener and I really liked that. It's a very succinct way of describing a relationship. Carrie say Paul's songs "Graceland" and "Hearts and Bones" are about her. Graceland has one of my favorite lyrics in a song: "And she said losing love/ is like a window in your heart/ Everybody sees you're blown apart/ Everybody sees the wind blow." It's kind of funny to think of Scary Carrie Fisher as the woman who inspired that.

Anyway, I did an image search of Paul Simon and Carrie Fisher together and found the photo above, which I just love. Paul looks so strained and exhausted, and Carrie's got all this wonder and curiosity in her face and I love how they're totally looking off in different directions and she seems so unaffected by a camera pointed straight at her. And the two of them together are so, like, cool mid-80's New York arty vanguard. I wanna go back in time and be friends with them. I wanna be going wherever it is they're headed.

Baby Steps

So the big excitement of the week is that Drew and I finally started watching "Mad Men" and yes, it really is as good as everyone says. We're about halfway through the first season and when I'm not watching the show, I'm scouring eBay for Mad Men style attire (I quickly learned that the best way to find such clothing is to do a search for "wiggle" in the "women's apparel" category, oddly enough). Drew's now basically in love with Joan Holloway and since I look a little like her — okay fine, a lot like her — I'm up for dressing the part if it makes his day.

In other news, Drew's ready to start making babies. Well, that's not really news — I think he's been ready since he was, like, 20, but hey, I'm finally ready to start talking about it and I guess that's sort of newsworthy. Maybe it's Obama's election as president, maybe it's something in the air, or maybe it's because I ain't no spring chicken anymore, but over the weekend when Drew's head started exploding over just the thought of onesies and burp cloths, I actually said, "Okay, let's talk about this," like I'm some kind of adult or something. And then I laid out my goals for the next year or two and explained when I thought I might be ready to get pregnant and what has to happen before then (marriage, paying off credit card debt, lots and lots of drinking) and even what time of year I'd like to give birth (dudes, I do NOT want to be 9 months pregnant in August, fuck that!), and before I knew it, it seemed we had the beginnings of a sort-of plan. Kind of. Which means I'm basically freaking out and having anxiety and getting cold feet already over something that's still, like, a couple years away. I guess I kind of have this idea that everything will change once there's a baby....probably because, oh I don't know, EVERYTHING WILL CHANGE ONCE THERE'S A BABY. I keep thinking about how we have to do all these things as soon as possible — like eat chili cheese dogs in Iceland and steer a dog sled  and stuff like that — because as soon as there's a kid, there won't be time for such shenanigans. I don't even like chili cheese dogs.

Anyway, there's much to think about and discuss and plan and do before now and the day everything will change forever. I know I can always tack on another year to that ol' timeline I threw out there and Drew will have to survive. But the wheels are in motion now. How slowly they turn and where exactly they take us, I'm not sure. And frankly, I'm not quite ready to imagine it all entirely just yet. Baby steps to the baby steps — that's all I can handle.

What I learned on my Summer Vacation

Tripping Out: The Dos and Don't of Vacationing Together

On My Own Again

Drew leaves for China on Tuesday and though I will join him there next month, we'll still be apart for 4 1/2 weeks before I get there. This quickly-approaching separation is making me all sorts of sad and anxious — partly because I'll have to actually empty the garbage now  — and wondering how we ever got through a year and a half of 1500 miles between us. I still haven't made that many of my own friends here yet and if I could, I'd buy a ticket to Chicago and spend the 4 weeks there — well, at least two weeks—  where my BFFs, Lake Michigan, and my favorite bars all are. Secretly, though, I know this time here alone will be really great for me for many reasons, and so, instead of being all weepy and sad that Drew's flying to the other side of the world and leaving me all alone for a month, I'm focusing on the positives, like:

• I won't have to watch baseball on TV even once if i don't feel like it!!
• No boyfriend, no beach, no need to shave above my knees!
• BED ALL TO MYSELF
• Won't have to clean up anyone else's toothpaste in the sink
• God, I hate that
• Can have girls night at my place without stray boy hanging about
• Who wants to come over?
• Seriously, I'll have wine, beer...maybe margaritas
• And no stray boy hanging about!
• What the hell, maybe I'll even have pie
• No random shoes and dirty socks lying around
• More time to read, write, maybe take a meditation class
• No junk mail and clutter piling up on the desk
• Can watch Swingtown without feeling like an asshole
• Well, okay, I'll still feel like an asshole, but at least no one will be watching me feel like an asshole!
• No wrappers or napkins or bottle caps in the sink
• Seriously, what's up with that? THE SINK IS NOT THE GARBAGE CAN!
• No more little stubbles from the razor all over the bathroom

...Damn! I'm gonna miss that boy.