Still Breathing

Yes, I'm still alive. Totally and completely in love, but alive nonetheless. (If we consider that head-in-the-clouds state of being as "alive," that is.)

N and I are doing quite well, I want all of you to know. Our tropical vacation was nothing less than fairytale: beach, pool, king-size hotel bed, eating, drinking, and just...being. We took lots of pictures, and I uploaded almost all of them (even the embarrassingly narcissistic ones) on to Facebook.

Sometimes I think my best blog posts come out of my own foibles, but there haven't been any to speak of as of late. I should consider myself lucky. I've even become half of one of those hated couples who counsels their single friends about their failed relationships.

"It's hard!" I tell single Sunny. "It's definitely hard. But you should enjoy your singlehood. Meet men! Date around! Enjoy being by yourself while it lasts! Because it will come, probably sooner than you think."

Ummmm, easier said than done much? How many single people reading this are ready to throw a wine glass at their computer screen, thinking, "You try to enjoy being single! Easy for you to say, while you're cuddled up next to N on weekend nights." And that's true. That's absolutely true, and I respect that.

I think what I'm finally realizing about 10 months too late (that dates back to my breakup with the Boyf, for those who haven't been following) is that there's creativity in being alone. Good things crop up when you have hours to yourself, provided you don't fill those hours with booze or distraction, like yours truly has been known to do. I wish I would have enjoyed that self-imposed downtime a little bit more than I let myself. So I'm trying to disseminate this PSA to those single folks who are far stronger than I ever was: Enjoy, and be strong, because s/he (a.k.a. The One) is just around the corner.

Laughing about Crying

One of the great things about living in Manhattan is that going about your everyday business takes on a certain glamour to outsiders simply because you're living in New York City. Like, you could be getting Chinese takeout, but it's takeout...from Midtown. Or you could be going running, but you're running...in Central Park. It just sounds cooler.

I thought about that when I was crying like a baby over N in the Oyster Bar restaurant last night. I mean, yes, I was drinking a Miller Lite and sobbing into a cocktail napkin while my friend A tried to console me, but I was drinking a Miller Lite and sobbing into a cocktail napkin...in Grand Central Station. That's when I started thinking about all the places I've cried in the city, usually over boys -- N, the Boyf, Evil... Yeah, pretty much just those guys. Here's a list of the ones I can think of off the top of my head:

Grand Central Station's Oyster Bar (N)
The 6 train (N)
The L train (N)
The corner of Grand and Metropolitan in Williamsburg (N)
The elevator of a high-rise in Williamsburg (N)
The lobby of a high-rise in Murray Hill (the Boyf)
The Macy's shoe department (the Boyf)
Rodeo Bar (N)
The Bar that Shall Not Be Named (N, the Boyf)
My workplace in Midtown (N, the Boyf)
My former workplace in Midtown (Evil)
Madison Square Park (the Boyf)
A hardware store in Murray Hill (the Boyf)
Union Pool in Williamsburg (the Boyf)
A bus to Weehawken, New Jersey (Evil)
Various taxis (N, the Boyf, Evil)
A foyer in Nolita (Evil)
The basement of Lolita (the Boyf)
Tavaru (Evil)
Eighth Avenue in the 40s (the Boyf)
The R train (Evil)
Some Naked Lunch-esque bar in the East Village (N)
A good portion of the Upper East Side (N)

I'm sure there are more. So now I will get back to enjoying my ultraglamorous (yet unceremonious) dumping.

Delicious Dish

After an early evening trip to the gym today, I got inspired to cook something. Yes, an actual recipe involving actual chopping of vegetables and actual heating of food that does not involve a microwave. It was a big day for me.

I had been eying a recipe in Self magazine's April issue, so I went for it: I made the Fettuccine with Shrimp dish, and it was completely worth the hour it took to make it. Which is not that long, considering that I shared it with the Boyf, who was so impressed with my sudden culinary genius he had two helpings, and I still have a healthy portion to take to work tomorrow. Bonus: After eating it, I didn't feel as though I had negated my previous workout with a ton of fat and sugar calories.

I highly recommend trying the recipe -- and sneaking sips out of the bottle of white wine you'll need to buy in order to make the sauce. A note: I even substituted dried basil because every grocery store in Murray Hill was out of the fresh stuff, and it turned out just fine. Happy cooking (and boyfriend/girlfriend-impressing).

Wishful Wine-Thinking

Here is a picture of the label of the red wine I wish I were enjoying right now instead of staring bleary-eyed at my computer and waiting with bated breath to fall into my bed:























I came upon this red zinfandel at a quaint (but somewhat overpriced) wine shop in my neighborhood. A while back the Boyf and I were having a little contest to see who could pick the most whimsical (yet tasty) bottle for dinner that night. I remember that he picked one of my favorite labels -- a 1980s woman hugging a concrete statue of a lion; I think it's a malbec, but I'm not sure what the name is -- but I won hands-down with the Tumbling Tractor, because it's as delicious as its name is funny.

I like dry zins. I like most of my wines dry, spicy, and exploding with full, near-harsh flavor. This one is perfect. See the cute backstory about Gravity Hills's Tumbling Tractor Zin here or just take my word for it and buy it for cheap here.

A New Comfort Zone

Roomie and I went out tonight. Nothing hardcore, just a couple of glasses of wine in the neighborhood -- one at the restaurant I recently went to with the Boyf and another at a totally new place that just opened this week.

Until now, I'd never had a neighborhood pub -- somewhere within two blocks that you can go to when you've had a rough day or when you want to meet a friend within stumbling distance of your apartment. But now, Roomie and I know the bartender at this new haunt -- a barkeep lifer who knows how to make a damn pretty rose out of a paper napkin in order to give it to the couple in the corner who just got married. I like the place. Pretension is not part of the equation, and it's okay that, when quizzed, neither Roomie nor I had any effing clue who the band Deep Purple was. But I've already talked about how patently uncool I am.

Tonight was low-key but important. I'm embarking on a sort of new chapter in my New York life, and it somehow helps to know that if I'm having one of those days, there is an old-school bartender in an Irish pub just around the corner who knows what my poison is. If a woman has that, in my opinion, she's doing okay. Life change or not.

High Drama

I usually try to keep my relationship dirt off of the virtual pages of this blog, because, seriously, who really cares other than the Boyf and me?

But today I think I had a little breakthrough, a la this previous post about drunkenness and relationships:

Late last night the Boyf and I had a rattle-the-rafters fight about...something. I can't really put my finger on what started it, but it had something to do with bedtime, too much "relationship cuteness," and television. There was cursing (the Boyf), there was screaming (mostly me), and there was even a little bit of crying (me again).

Ladies, I'm only speaking for myself, but feel free to chime in here if you desire: It is the LAST STRAW if a man tells me, after listening to a rant of mine, that I am "being dramatic." When I hear those words, it's akin to Marty McFly being called "chicken" in all three BTTFs. My blood boils. My face turns red. And my voice goes into this supersonic high-pitched fightin' tone that only women can truly master. I always suspect that when I go into that mode, dogs start howling in some alley somewhere and the neighbors put glass cups up to the wall to better hear my diction.

So, yeah, the Boyf called me "dramatic" last night, and I was none too pleased. So I did what any reasonable twentysomething New York woman with leftover Valentine's Day baking ingredients would do: I took it out on the kitchen.

Behold, the delicious brownies I made today:










But that's not my central point. My central point is that while I was wreaking cocoa-powdered havoc on my tiny kitchen, I had Dr. Phil's TV show on in the background. I think we can all agree that Dr. Phil is a charlatan, but I was thoroughly amused by Dr. Phil's "Man Camp," which is supposed to rein in chauvinistic husbands and prevent couples from divorcing, but, as far as I can tell, only succeeds in making the men madder and madder until they say wildly hurtful and inappropriate things to their wives. One guy called his wife not only "dramatic" and said she was seeking "attention" with her litany of complaints against him, but that she was also "a Hollywood actress from hell."

If I were his wife hearing that, I would have started packing my bags already. But the problem was that I was actually on his side for most of the story (which involved an overbearing mother-in-law and some issues about "sincerity" [WTF?]), so I couldn't place all my ire on him.

After seeing that, though, I had a thought: No matter how right you think you are during an argument, I think calling someone "dramatic" is incredibly dismissive. I think it's true that sometimes women and even men (I definitely dated some male drama queens) use tears to get a reaction out of their partners. If the fight isn't going well, if he's being cold, if she's being an ice queen, or if you're on the verge of being broken up with, turning on the waterworks is going to garner some sort of a shift in power, whether it's "Oh, honey, I didn't mean it. Please stop crying," or "I'm...I'm sorry. Please...uh, here... Kleenex."

But if an issue is going to be resolved, there needs to be some crying, some anger, some hurt -- all of those things that get labeled "drama" -- that shows you care. Because if you can have a knock-down, drag-out fight with your significant other stoically: without yelling, without crying, and without feeling, I think there's something wrong with that relationship.

In relationships and life, I would rather feel some ups and downs and highs and lows rather than a lulling, even keel of vanilla contentment. And if that makes me a drama queen, I'll take a one-way ticket to L.A.

Invasion of the Dinner-Conversation Snatchers

Last night was a special night for the Boyf and me. I got gussied up in a black dress and black pumps and pantyhose (shut up; it was cold outside), and the Boyf showered and shaved and put on this blue-gray woven blazer that makes him look like Chris Noth and Cary Grant combined.

We walked to a swanky restaurant near my apartment that I'd been itching to check out for a whole year. Inside, it was cavernous and the decor was warm and smooth -- even more impressive than I had imagined previously, as I had walked past it on the way to the gym and peeked into the windows like a street urchin. The interior bar rose two stories, and the upstairs housed a champagne bar with a leather chaise lounge that Veronica Lake would have been right at home perching on. We had two pre-dinner flutes of champagne at a polished marble bar, and the Boyf presented me with a gift of jewelry.

I couldn't help somewhat humbly thinking, This was not my beautiful life.

This was not my Hollywood-actor-looking man. This was not my dress. My new pearls. My artfully presented dinner.

But I'll tell you what it most certainly, without its surreal Technicolor glaze, was:

This night was the night that we were seated roughly five inches from the loudest gaggle of 26-to-29-year-old rich SoHo women that I have willingly encountered, well, ever.

As we stepped around them and to our reserved table, they had to move their bags out of the way: five or six brown-leather monstrosities that took up the aisle between tables. The smell of new leather rose from the tiny herd of pouches and made me ever so slightly jealous.

The meal was fantastic, but as the ladies to our left had a few more glasses of vino, we could hear every morsel of their conversation. I'm infinitely grateful to the Lord that the conversation was funny, or else I would have slit my wrists with the blunt potato-serving spoon on our table.

"I lost my virginity when I was 13," the Alpha Girl with the immaculate bone structure and pulled-back hair intimated not so softly. "And it was beautiful and wonderful, and the perfect time for me. But I was worried about telling my parents. I was afraid I'd be punished because, you know, sex was bad."

The Alpha Girl continued the story even as I tried not to hear, and rather to focus on the risotto before me:

"We were in the woods in a sleeping bag; the wolves howled...." (At this point, I was trying to physically restrain myself from laughing.) "When I have kids, I'm going to let them drink at the house, because if they're going to do it, I'd rather them do it at home rather than drive somewhere and do it." (I rolled my eyes and contempleted having my tubes tied.) "If they want to drink, we're going to sit down and have a conversation about it. We're going to learn about how beer is brewed. We're going to learn about the different regions where wine is made." (I laughed audibly.) "And if they want to smoke pot, they should do it at my house. I mean, I don't have a problem with drugs as long as they're natural, like pot or magic mushrooms."

I had to turn my attention away at this point. It was just getting too funny. I did hear, though, one woman at the table tell a legitimately harrowing story about her first sexual encounter, and I won't tell it here, because it's hers to share. Their conversation moved on to current relationships. One of them knew the sous chef at the restaurant, and they were all having problems with their own boyfriends/lovers/crushes. I tuned it out as best I could, but then:

"You ARE Julia Roberts. You ARE 'Runaway Bride.'" (Another audible laugh from me. Did they not realize that that movie, like, sucked? Hard? Metaphor or not, the use of that movie in dinner conversation should be banned, right along with equally horrible movies such as How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Maid in Manhattan, and The Fifth Element.)

The thing was, these women weren't the textbook definition of dumb, no matter how much I wanted to think they were, with their money and their freshly slaughtered bags and their boys and their strange early sex. It looked like they were genuinely having fun and sharing their lives with each other, and they turned out to be very nice. They asked us about our desserts, and they took a sundae recommendation from me. And I loved that the laughter they provided prevented me from going into my own head after too many glasses of syrah, from berating the Boyf for something trivial, from going -- to put it delicately -- psycho, as I tend to do.

Every now and again, I guess, you have to cut the sorority house a break. A belated cheers to all of you at that table, ladies.