Life after Yes

Life after the engagement:

• Drinks. Lots of drinks. Most of them free. I drank more in the following week than I had all year.


• A birthday! Thirty-two was not exciting. I had so many friends come out to dinner that the restaurant said our party was too big and refused to accept our reservation. This was both touching and stressful as I spent the afternoon calling businesses (and failing). We ended up at a fondue place downtown that may or may not be going out of business, according to the rumors.


• Moving into Abraham's. After he slipped the ring on my finger, he told me he'd never let me move in with him without being engaged. So he knew this was happening since we set a move-in date last October. I thanked him for not letting me be a hussy even though I obviously had no qualms about being one.


• The move itself was terrible. Awful. To even write about it would bring back terrors. It was the worst move of my life, including those half dozen college moves where everything I owned was shoved into the back of a pickup truck and I prayed that nothing would fly out into the highway, like someone else's ironing board I just drove over. The sight of U-Haul trucks gives me rage flashes even though that company wasn't even involved in the move. But, as people try to console, the move is over and I get to live with my fiancè. Even though that means ordering parts off the Internet to get my dryer working again because I watched people drop it down a flight of concrete stairs while I screamed helplessly. And now I'm angry all over again.


• Did you see me work in the word "fiancè"? It took us over a week to start using it, similarly to what happened after the initial I love you. It's there but it's still a bit scary, so we'll just not call it by name.

Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice.

Failed Engagements

• Going to our favorite restaurant that we visit every week and having the bartender deliver my plate of tater tots spelled out to read WILL YOU MARRY ME. I like that restaurant and my tots and all, but I'm glad the bartender talked him out of it.


• While ice skating. Initially sounded cute, but one of this friends reminded him that the only people who go ice skating these days are pre-teens. Kind of awkward for a marriage proposal. Besides, Abraham has never been before and would probably spend more time on his butt than on one knee.


• Having our favorite singer do it during a show. This almost happened. We drove up to Nashville to see him for the weekend, and Abraham had the ring in his pocket the whole time. The venue had trouble getting in touch with the singer to see if he would do it. It would have been awesome, but 30 minutes before the show I spilled barbecue sauce down my silk shirt and it left a one-foot stain. I'm glad all on my engagement pictures don't have me with the world's largest stain down my shirt.

I'm glad it happened the way it did. He proposed in the most meaningful way possible, and it was so simple. So simple that had zero inclination that it was a possibility.

Home Sweet Home

As I was leaving work the following night, I complained to my coworkers about my pending kickball game. The pollen count was so high that the ground was slick with yellow dust and billows of pollen blustered through the air. Just standing outside irritated my nose and lungs, much less playing a game of kickball in a grass field. To quote my friend, people were buying meth to make allergy medicine.

Since we had a night game, Abraham offered to get drinks beforehand. Abraham and his roommate began gathering their things as I stood at the door.

"Don't you want your phone?" His roommate called to me.

"No. We're just getting drinks and going to kickball. I don't need it."

"Are you sure?" Abraham asked.

"It's just kickball!"

At the bar I ordered a double gin and tonic. Abraham ordered a pint of porter. A few friends met up with us, presumably because we had a late game. I downed my gin and tonic and looked hungrily at Abraham's beer. I don't even like porter, but I was jealous at the way he was lazily sipping his, without a care in the world.

At one point in the conversation, I made a grab for Abraham's phone. Abraham recoiled.

"Oh hush. I'm just looking at his profile," I said. We have an open-phone policy and frequently look things up on each other's phones when ours is out of reach.

"I thought you didn't need your phone," he quipped.

"I don't. I have yours." I typed away.

When our hour was up, we headed to the kickball field. The gin and tonic (and stolen sip of porter) had diminished my pollen anxiety. I looked at the line-up. I was the first female kicker and the second kicker overall. This was notable because usually the good people kick first... and I'm used to kicking somewhere around last.

"Why am I so high on the kicking order?" I asked Abraham.

"Because you've improved so much this season," he replied.

To be clear, I get zero special treatment on Abraham's team. I kick last. I get shoved to the back of the outfield when our team is losing. But! But, my kicking had been getting better. I'd been consistently advancing runners or sacrificing for the run. I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The one game I played this season, I played well. I was going to kick second!

We were playing my old team, and I was in a good mood. We always have fun when we play each other. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zero's "Home" began playing; it was my turn.

The Leader pitched the ball to me. Ball. I didn't like the second throw. Strike. The third throw I bunted and made it safely to first base. On the base I danced a jig.

"It's my first time this season on first!" I called out.

I looked at the first baseman. Standing awkwardly next to me was Clemson. He had lost even more weight.

The Leader pitched to the next kicker. More balls. The kicker got walked! I excitedly trotted to second base.

"It's my first time on second!" I called.

"Sarah, go to third!" my team shouted at me from the sideline.

There is a rule that a pitcher cannot purposely walk a male kicker to get to a female kicker to try to get her out instead, so any time a man is walked and a woman is next in the line-up, she automatically gets walked as well.

I pranced to third. This was a fun game!

"It's my first time on third!" I squealed. It never got old.

The third base coach told me that there were no outs so I didn't have to run unless it was a good kick. The next girl kicked toward third. I stayed.

"Now the guy is going to kick deep. Make sure you tag up if the ball is caught," I was instructed.

The ball was indeed kicked deep into the outfield. It dropped to the ground. I ran for home.

As I ran for home, Abe ran in front of the plate and blocked me, just as I did when we first met. Then he dropped down on one knee and held up a poster that read WILL YOU MARRY ME?

But April Fool's Day was last week? I thought, confused.

Then I saw the ring, The big, beautiful, shiny ring. That's how I knew this moment was real.

I screamed. I was running so fast that I had to windmill to stop. And then I burst into tears.

So I am the kind of girl who cries when she's proposed to, I thought.

It was not a pretty cry with a single, solitaire tear running down my cheek, not smudging any of my makeup. Truth is, I wasn't wearing any makeup. I didn't even put my hair up nicely. I was supposed to just be playing kickball!

I stood there with my hand over my mouth, doubling over at the waist and crying a cry that sounded more like a grieving honk. Abe stood up and awkwardly hugged me because it was obvious that I need some amount of consoling.

"Is that a yes?" he finally said.

"YES!" I cried. My nerves were shot. "I'm so glad I had that gin and tonic!"

Both teams cheered. I looked around. Several video cameras were going. Someone honked an air horn. The song had been changed to Bruno Mars' "Marry You." A member of my team handed me a bottle of champagne...

Wait? They knew?

Abraham had planned everything. He approached The Leader and told him the plan months ago before the season even started. Together they picked a night and a time for us to play each other. Abraham said he wanted to do it in front of my old team because we were all friends. Lawyered stood in the outfield and clapped.

Abraham coordinated the plays. It turned out I wasn't as good at kickball as I thought. They let me on first. The Leader was instructed to walk the guy after me to push me to third base safely. The other guy was told to kick deep so I could trot home.

But I'm not that great at kickball, so I never trot when I have a chance to score.

The time Abraham refused to go running with me was because he was coloring the poster board. The nights he played racquetball, he had been ring shopping beforehand.

Abraham's roommate reached in her pocket and handed me my phone. "I thought you might want this," she smiled.

"My phone!" I cried.

"When you grabbed my phone at the bar, I panicked," Abraham told me. "When you left your phone at home, I posted to Facebook that there was a big surprise tonight. I was worried you were going to see it."

AND THEN THE GAME STARTED OVER AGAIN. The fake plays didn't count. My run didn't count. I even made sure my foot was on home plate when I said yes. For naught!

I was so distracted during the game that my special treatment had ended. I was once again placed in the back of the outfield. I was literally staring at my ring when the ball was kicked toward me. Someone else had to get it.

I didn't know the final score until two days later. We lost. But as the ref explained to me when he restarted the game and my run didn't count, I had already won.

Swan Song

I needed to choose a song about my current relationship, but I was currently irritated at my current relationship. Monday I wanted to go running because I had gained two pounds, and Abraham refused to join me. I stared at him slackjawed with just a total Do-you-not-care-about-your-health accusation on my face. Tuesday he went to play raquetball with his friend and didn't get home until late. I felt like I hadn't seen him in days. And now I was supposed to pick a song about how I felt about him. I posted the question to Twitter instead.

I need a song that describes my love life. Go!
— Sarah LovesMeNotBlog (@LovesMeNotBlog) April 8, 2013

"You need to pick a song," he reminded me in bed that night.

"Mmm hmm."

"Is the song in that book you're reading?" he teased.

"Sure." I flipped the page.

And then I felt guilty and put my Jodi Picoult down. I scrolled through iTunes on my phone, which only has about 100 songs, with the intention of just picking one of those and being done with it.

"Oh, okay!" I said. "This one."

It wasn't a bad choice, actually. It was Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zero's "Home." It was a song I liked that Abraham also tolerated. Plus it was upbeat, which you need for a sports game; mushy wouldn't do.



Abraham nodded. "I thought you would pick a worse song."

"Oh, I considered it."

The unspoken conversation we were having was that he thought I would pick a song about getting married. The truth is I've spent about every other day of the past three months talking about getting married. Not in a when-are-you-going-to-do-it way, but in an equally annoying this-is-what-we-should-do way.

Eating at our favorite restaurant: "We should have the rehearsal dinner here."

Talking to a friend: "Tell me how he proposed!" even though it was two years ago.

Talking to the friend's sister: "When do you think you will get engaged?"

Yes, I was that girl. And I fully knew how annoying I was being to a boy who told me he'd would propose within 2013. It was January and February and March. I had a ways to go. And yet, I couldn't stop talking.

"So why didn't you pick a worse song?" he asked.

"Because it would confuse people. 'Oh, you're getting married?' 'No.'"

I opened Youtube. "I was considering this one and this one and this one."

"The first two are so slow."

"I know! Not practical."

"I remember the last one though."

I previously had showed him that video several times, maybe tearing up while doing so.

Abraham went back to his laptop. I clicked on a new video and held my phone in the air.

"We're going to the chapel, and we're going to get married," the Dixie Cups crooned.

Abraham snorted. I considered that I had punished him enough with the marriage talk for one day and put my phone away. I picked up my book again and glanced at Abraham. He was downloading the Bruno Mars song.

"What are you doing?"

"Punishment song for [the guy we don't like on our team]. His girlfriend watches all the games, so this will screw him over."

"You're mean."

And then I went back to reading my book.

Crash Into Me

The first time I met Abraham was in 1999. I had just graduated from high school and was working that summer as a lifeguard at a neighborhood pool. Abraham was a year out of college and living in the Florida panhandle. He drove his rickety 1988 Plymouth Horizon 270 miles North to attend the same concert as me. We were separated by 130,000 people.

The second, third, fourth and fifth times I met Abraham were at another handful of concerts of a local one-hit wonder. By that time we had both moved to the City. He was our favorite performer. We were separated by several hundred people.

The sixth time I met Abraham was in the summer of 2011. We were playing in the same kickball tournament, although our teams never played against each other. We we were separated by 100 people.

The seventh time I met Abraham was at a house-warming party of mutual friends. This time we were separated by 20 people.

Maybe that's how fate works. It starts with 130,000 people and narrows the circle of people until there are 2,000 and then 300 and then 90 and then 20 and then he's crashing into you during a kickball game.

Whenever our favorite artist is back in town—which isn't a frequent as he once was—we see him. At the last show he reunited with his original band on stage. I went crazy. I turned around breathlessly and looked at Abraham.

"Do you believe in fate?"

He shrugged.

"Because in this moment, I do."

Everything was so perfect and magical in that one moment. This band I had been seeing since 1998 was back together and on stage 14 years later. The people surrounding me had changed; the number had shrank until I got it right. I was now cheering with Abraham and his friends.

When was the earliest moment in time you and your significant other could be placed together?

Out of the Woods

Abraham's bedroom smells like wood.

I guess I should stop calling it Abraham's bedroom. Next month it will be my bedroom as well.

Truth is, I signed that lease to buy me 6 more months in my apartment, and I haven't spent a single night there. I've been at Abraham's house (I mean, our house). Katielookingforward referred to my lease as an insurance policy. "You can 'waste' money on rent for an apartment that you don't use, because that kind of waste I consider insurance," she commented. "I think it would truly be wasting your money for you to move in now, have something possibly not work and then have to find a new place to live!"

We made the decision to live together and then extended it by six months. It cost me roughly $7,000. It was quite an expensive insurance policy, but I don't regret a penny of it. Because I know in my heart that we are ready. I could have moved in six months ago, but I would have had reservations then. I don't have reservations now.

The delivery men came last weekend with our new bedroom furniture. The new furniture is made out of solid cherry instead of that particle-board crap Abraham used to have, which is why the room smells woodsy. I was able to buy the furniture since Abraham helped me with the ski vacation.

Abraham inhaled. "I like the smell," he admitted.

I went back to my apartment, which now feels uninhabited and ghostly. The halogen lights in the kitchen burned out. The garbage disposal stopped working from disuse. I wrote a letter for the work orders. Then I went to my old dresser and stuffed my clothing into suitcases to bring to Abraham's house. My house.

I crossed my bedroom to the nightstand and began emptying it. This nightstand will be Abraham's when I move. In the bottom drawer were my self-help books: He's Just Not That Into You, Be Honest--You're Not That Into Him Either, Quirkyalone, Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man and others. And others. The list goes embarrassingly on, and the titles only get worse. I didn't get rid of these books when S moved in. I must have known in the back of my mind that he wasn't the one.

But I'm ready to get rid of them now. It would be disrespectful to bring them with me. They've helped me over the years, and I'd like to pass them on. Every week, I'll post about one book and select a random commenter to win the book. I'll inscribe it if you want. And if no one is interested in the book, it will be donated to Better World Books for socially conscious book buying.

I rushed out of my apartment as quickly as I came. It's not home anymore.

Black Diamond

The scene was the same: when a coworker asked how my ski trip went, she'd ask while staring at my bare left hand. Every time.

"It was the best vacation I've ever had," I'd respond, trying to ignore the glances.

"So he didn't propose on top of the mountain?" one asked.

"I was so sure it would happen," another consoled.

"The ex-boyfriends come out of the woodwork because they know you're about to be engaged," my boss advised.

***

I knew it wouldn't happen on this trip. We were surrounded by 20 of Abraham's closest friends. Considering his private nature, it wasn't the right environment for him. I said as much.

"My coworkers think you're going to propose this trip, but I told them they were wrong."

We were sitting in our usual bar with our usual plate of hot wings the night before we left town. Abraham slunk in his chair. Really slunk. Like just-received-bad-news slunk.

It dawned on me at this moment that I don't need to tell him everything.

But I kept talking anyway.

"I told them they were wrong. We're going to be with a whole mess of people. And you're going skiing and I'm not, so it's not like we're going to be on top of a mountain together or anything. Plus the pressure is kind of off considering my conversion timeline."

That was another point. I'd been visiting several synagogues both in person and online, searching for a conversion class that felt right to me. The class I decided upon is one neither affiliated with a temple nor a sect, so we can be educated first without being guided by one temple's mission. Abraham liked this approach too. But the class doesn't start until August, and it runs 5 months, which means I won't convert until next January, which means the wedding will be after that.

Abraham didn't say anything. What if I ruined the proposal? I decided to not mention it again before any future vacations.

***

We had a great time on the trip. It was one of my favorite vacations. In the end, I paid for my flights and Abraham paid for my lodging and food. We split the activities pretty evenly.

Abraham took me dog sledding, which was something I've always wanted to do, but I never put much thought into it because I didn't know it was something I could actually do. I cried happy tears as the first sled of huskies howled and ran into the woods. I could barely listen to the instructor. I kneeled in the snow and played with the replacement Femme Fatales as mine was on vacation with my father. Abraham said it was his favorite moment of the trip, watching me be that happy.

I trust Abraham. He will propose when he thinks the time is right. To give him a specific timeline would be to not trust his judgment. And I trust his judgement wholly and completely.

He chose me after all.

For Love or Money

Every year Abraham goes on a ski trip. As soon as he got back from the last one, he informed me that I would be going on the next one.

"The trip this year is going to be in February," Abraham emailed me and attached a long string of planning correspondence.

"Yeah. Sure. No problem."

I didn't really think anything of it other than my fear of powdered snow. I learned to ski in the South, which consisted of my middle school teacher attaching me to skis and then pushing me down a hill covered by a fake grass mat and a garden hose. I've been skiing a few times in North Carolina, but even that was fake snow. I've never been in powdered snow.

When Abraham added me to the planning emails, I started understanding the cost of things: the plane ride, the rental SUVs, the ski chalet. It would cost $800 just to get out there, not including food and rental equipment and lift tickets or any activity we actually want to do in the Rocky mountains. This was a $1,200 vacation, and we weren't even going to Europe.

I looked at my bank balance. I could afford it. I could write a check for it. But then I wouldn't be able to afford the bedroom furniture I had been saving for when Abraham and I move in together. And when I move in with him and his roommate, it's going to be cramped enough as it is without factoring missing furniture where I was planning to store my clothes. It would be another two or three months after I move in before I could order the master dresser.

While Abraham was sitting on the couch and looking at cabin rentals (minimum requirements: 5 bedrooms, ski in/ski out on the mountain, private hot tub), another email arrived:

"Sorry, guys. Looks like flights went up again since we last checked."

I gritted my teeth. This was getting expensive.

"What's wrong?" Abraham asked.

"I don't go on vacations like this. My vacations are weekends away at friends' vacation houses. Or a $250 cruise. I'm not used to spending this much money."

I dropped my head. "This was my furniture money."

Abraham knew how much I wanted the new furniture. It matches my current bedroom suite and is seemingly only available on the Internet because it's a few years old. The only reason I didn't buy it earlier is because it wouldn't fit in my apartment's tiny bedroom.

"I want you to have a good time and not worry about the money," he said. "I don't want you to not participate in things because it's too expensive. I invited you on this trip; I'll pay for lodging and whatever activities you want to do while we're there."

It was a lovely gesture, but I was embarrassed nonetheless. He's paid for hotels when we've gone to his friends' weddings, and he paid for my airfare when we went to meet his family, but this is different. This is a vacation.

I've always supported myself. My parents never paid a single bill of mine. If I couldn't afford something, I wouldn't go. I'd complain to my mom that I was missing out on things with my friends, and years later I found out that my friend's parents still support most of them. They couldn't afford it either, but did it anyway.

I value my independence. I'm proud of my independence. So it makes me uncomfortable to accept Abraham's money. He jokes that it will soon all be mine anyway. Which does raise a valid point: soon there will be no his and mine, but ours.

In the meantime Abraham pays for certain things and won't accept money from me. I'll write him a check and he won't cash it, so I've resorted to dropping the money in his PayPal account without telling him. I don't want him ever to feel like he's carrying me or that I'm a burden.

Never be rude to your mother

I was laying on Abe's bed when the phone rang. It was my mom. I rolled my eyes. We had already spoken three times that day, and Abraham just got home from work. I wanted to visit with him.

I picked up the phone and sighed. My mom prattled about the movie she had just seen. She had recognized the actor from a previous movie.

"Why are you quiet?" she asked.

"I dunno. That was a scintillating story." I replied.

I was being a sarcastic butthole and I knew it. I didn't want to talk on the phone again. And if I let it go to voicemail, she'd just call every two minutes.

Instead of joking back with me, my mother's feelings were hurt. I was crushed.

About five minutes later the phone rang again. Just when I was finally able to talk to Abraham about his day. It was my mom. Again.

"Oh my god!" I shouted frustrated.

"Hello this is Cindy. I'm a nurse. You're mom's been in a car accident...

She continued with the details, but I couldn't hear them over the sirens of the firetrucks and ambulances.

"... she's being taken to the hospital."

I got off the phone and started looking for my shoes.

"You're going now?" Abraham asked. "We don't know what's wrong yet."

"My mom's going to the hospital. I'm not leaving her there by herself."

That's the difference between men and women. Men help by action; women help by caretaking.

Abraham drove me to the hospital. It was a rainy Friday night. The emergency room was filled with weirdos. We were ushered to her room.

"Is this because I was mean to you?" I joked as I entered the door.

She didn't answer me. She was in pain from the airbag and steering column. My mother, who I had been horrible to, had blood on her favorite sweater. There were droplets of blood on her brand new leather handbag she was so proud of. I picked up the bag, spat and wiped it clean.

"Was there blood on it?" She asked.

"No."

My mom doesn't know what happened. A car appeared in front of her and she t-boned it. She doesn't know the type of car it was. She doesn't know if the other driver was hurt. She was trapped in her car.

An officer entered the room. He must have been straight out of boot camp He issued my mom a ticket for running a red light. She argued that she was traveling with the flow of traffic. She had never received a ticket nor been in a car accident. He was curt and ignored her pain.

"He could use some improvement on his bedside manor," I observed loud enough so he that could hear me.

The accident was at 5:45 pm. We left the emergency room at 1:30 am. It took that long for one X-ray and one visit from one doctor. My mother was fine. The car was not.

Abraham drove my mother and me back to her house. I still had to get my dog and pick up my medication so I could stay with her. And then I had to find an all-night pharmacy. It was after 3 am when I got to bed.

Lesson learned: never be rude to your mother.

***

Abraham came over to the house for lunch the following afternoon. With him he brought a bouquet of flowers and a get-well balloon.

"My mom told me to bring flowers with me. I said the flowers wouldn't heal her, and my dad agreed, but she was so insistent that I told her I would say they were from her," he told me.

Once again, the difference between men and women.

"You set the bar high. Now everyone's going to feel like a jerk when they show up to visit without flowers," I kissed him.

My mother asked for Abraham's parent's address so she could thank them properly.

"My parents said they got a letter from your mom," Abraham told me a week later, somewhat embarrassed.

"Did they tell you what the letter said?" I asked.

"No."

"It said as thankful as she was for the flowers, she was more thankful for the person who brought them. She told your parents to be proud of you and that they must be wonderful people to raise someone like you."

Abraham beamed from ear to ear. I'm not sure I'd ever seen him smile so fully. It reminded me of a child's smile after she gets a certificate for perfect attendance in school. That simple, unabashed joy.

He was right to be proud of himself. My mother's words were true.

Ring in the New Year

On New Years Eve, the girls and I sat around a table while the boys watched a movie.

"2013 is going to be a big year," I smiled.

"I want to be the first to get engaged. Oh damn, we're out of Jello shots," announced Jenna. She looked at her sister Katie. "I hope that doesn't hurt your feelings, but I want to be first."

"Well you've been with Government Mule longer than we've been with our boyfriends," I sympathized.

"Yeah but he says he doesn't want to get married while he's unemployed," she frowned.

Government Mule has recently passed the one-year mark of unemployment.

"And that's perfectly understandable," chimed in Harvey.

"Abraham and I were updating Facebook all Christmas Day to see if you got engaged," I told Katie.

She frowned and shook her head. I couldn't read her expression. I don't know if she was disappointed or just didn't like talking about it or something else. But usually she's the most vocal about wanting to get engaged.

I don't really like talking about it. People's questions about where I want to get married and how soon do I want to wait before children make me uncomfortable. I'm not engaged. Yet. Nothing to get excited about. Yet.

And maybe this is where I sound like a brat, but I'm also the most confident in my relationship over Katie's or Jenna's. Katie's boyfriend has agreed to go ring shopping, but he still threatens to postpone engagement every time she talks about it. I'm not even sure Government Mule is doing everything he can to look for a job.

Meanwhile Abraham just flew me up north to meet his bubbie and to get her blessing. Which she did abundantly. She spent so long telling Abraham to hurry up and get married that he picked a pretzel out of her dish on the coffee table and slipped it on my finger. The day after he spoke to my father, I caught Abraham looking at pictures of engagement rings (I couldn't contain my squeal that time). Abraham's mother just asked him how big of a wedding I wanted.

My time is coming. I am quiet in my confidence; to be anything else would feel boastful. So I didn't tell the girls about Abraham speaking to my father or looking at diamond rings or about our families' excitement. When the attention is turned on me, I change the subject.

"So if you get engaged this year, will you also get married this year?" I asked.

"Yes," Jenna and Katie both agreed. "Before football season."

Maybe I'm superstitious after all.

Things I wish I didn't overhear on Christmas

• I was laying in bed at 10:30 pm in Washington DC. The flight didn't go so well. There was so much turbulence that the insides of my stomach had become the outsides of my stomach. Twice. And there were no barf bags on our row of the airplane, so Abraham and I were the collateral damage. The airplane steward meekly handed me a wet paper towel. To make things worse, the traffic circles of DC had me resting my head out the window of Abraham's sister's car. So I was laying in bed while the rest of Abraham's family was visiting in the living room. I heard two words very distinctly, "Propose" and "Christmas," followed by an exasperated Abraham, "SHHH."


• Propose... Christmas? But Abraham is Jewish. I knew he wouldn't propose on Christmas in front of just one half of my broken family. My mother didn't put up a tree this year. My father told me no one else was coming to his house on Christmas. I put the thought out of my mind, and, frankly, I forgot about it.


• We had finished Christmas at my mother's house and I began the hour-long drive to my father's. Abraham was pretty insistent that I find a gas station to stop at so he could buy some beer. It struck me as odd because my mother makes him more nervous than my father does, and he didn't even drink at my mother's. Abraham got beer and began drinking it immediately at my father's house.


• By this time we had been traveling extensively for the past 6 days visiting our different families in 4 different states. I was fatigued. My head drooped into the couch pillows with my cosmopolitan in hand. I was fighting a bad cold. Abraham said he was going outside to visit with my father while he grilled the steaks. Abraham is shy and has never spoken to any of my family one on one, but I wasn't being any worthwhile company myself.


• In the car while we were driving home, Abraham announced that my father wanted to meet his parents. Apparently my father even offered to drive halfway up the East coast to meet them. My father is a very outgoing person, and I was a little surprised I didn't hear my father say this five times at the dinner table. I never heard him say it at all. 


• Abraham's mother kept phoning him. Once when we were at my father's house, once in the car as we drove home and once again when we reached his home. The only person to call like that is my mother, not his. Abraham walked out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Usually he talks to his mom on speakerphone.


• And then it hit me: the beer... talking to my father alone outside... my father wanting to meet his parents... his mother's incessant phone calls... the secrecy... propose... Christmas... 


• Abraham had asked my father permission to marry me.  

Reindeer Games

I didn't know I was dating a Grinch.

Okay, that is neither an entirely fair nor accurate statement. He's not a Grinch. He's a Jew, and Christmas is not his holiday. Within the next year or so, it will no longer be my holiday but a tradition I celebrate with my parents.

But Abraham, he hates Christmas. He cannot walk past a trimmed tree or holiday decoration without making a snarky comment. He groans at every carol. And don't show him the Lexus commercials with the big red bows. It's enough to make him shout in anger.

I don't know his reasoning for hating the holiday. My guess is that it's so commercialized and in your face and excluding of him.

I love the holiday. Christmas will be the hardest thing that I will have to give up when I convert. I love making cookies and drinking hot apple cider. I love acknowledging the season by decorating the house. My Christmas dishes are the only thing I inherited from my paternal grandmother. (I'm not getting rid of her dishes.)

I thought about it. I can still make the cookies and drink the wassail. I can still acknowledge the season. Hang a blue wreath on my door. But the one thing I cannot part with is my Christmas tree.

My Christmas tree is my living history. It has the ornaments I collected throughout the years. The one of my alma mater. The dangling picture of the Femme Fatale frightened next to a very unconvincing Santa. The fabric gingerbread man from my childhood. I just can't give it up. I feel like to give up my tree would be denying who I was and where I came from.

Abraham and I are supposed to be creating a life together, not me melding into his life. So when I very carefully explained the importance of the Christmas tree, he sighed and agreed we could have one. I ordered a beautiful, handmade, stained-glass Star of David for the tree topper. I dug out of the closet his single ornament of South Park's Kyle holding a Menorah and hung it front and center. This tree wouldn't be mine; it would be ours.

This morning, before I went to work, I admired our tree. And then I looked closer. Abraham had purchased his own ornaments and hung them up without telling me. They were shiny plastic stars and bells of his alma mater.

"They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games," I whispered softly.

Ghosts of Boyfriends' Past

I've been having this dream lately where I successively date a few of my ex-boyfriends. Ghosts of boyfriends' past, if you will.

In my dreams time has elapsed since I've dated them. It's present day in my alternate universe. We indeed broke up like we did in real life, but for some reason we are getting back together.

***

My first love is fat. He's severely overweight, just as he was in high school before we had started dating. He may be even heavier. The reason he's so fat is because he's eating his feelings. He's not happy and I'm not happy with him. We know we aren't right for each other, which is a shame.

It really is a shame that we didn't make it. He was a pretty thoughtful boyfriend until he joined a fraternity and started drinking so much in college. He and alcohol were a bad mix, as his father was an alcoholic. It was hard watching the descent into alcoholism watching him transform from someone I loved into someone I didn't.

I didn't start drinking until we broke up, and he told me I had finally become the person he wanted: drunk. Obviously there are lingering issues there. But the beginning—the person he used to be—there was no reason why we couldn't have lasted.

But here he is in my dreams fat and unhappy. Whatever the reason is, we just aren't right for each other. He's not quitting on me though, he's just eating, eating, eating. Containers of icing. Raw cake batter. And it's up to me to pull the plug and let the relationship die.

***

Mark, the reason I started this blog and the person whose existence I forget about the most (seriously, my parents mention him and I'm like who?), is back. I usually call him up after all of these years. Seven years, to be exact. And I call him up after seven years, not knowing a thing about him or where he is in life, and I ask to get back together with him. He sighs. He's reluctant. But he agrees.

Apparently he still has his old job and he's holding a training with the sales staff. Then he's on the road for work. Then he's visiting his parents. He never has time for me. I never see him in my dream: he's always on the other end of the phone line, very similar to our relationship. Finally I wised up to realize that he's not seeing me because he doesn't want to see me. He's back with me, but not the way I wanted him to be. I call him up and break up with him on the phone without ever seeing him.

***

Valdosta looks at his phone. "My favorite bartender is serving tonight," he says as he makes a grab for his coat.

"But you just got here," I protest. He literally just got here. I was cutting vegetables for dinner.

Valdosta shrugs. He'd rather be drinking with his friends.

I'm disappointed. I'm beyond disappointed. This is the first time I've seen him in two weeks and it lasted less than 10 minutes.

I look down at the white laminated counter. "You don't like me anymore, do you." It wasn't a question.

"No," he says quietly. This isn't like the first breakup where he tells me he cherishes me. This is cold. If I had left things alone with him, I could have had nice memories, but I had to drag it out.

It's awkward in the kitchen. Valdosta leaves and I feel empty and ashamed.

***

I begin to slowly wake. I'm cognizant enough to know I'm laying on someone's shoulder—my boyfriend's shoulder—but I'm not cognizant enough to know who that is.

I open my eyes like Christmas morning. It's Abe. I sigh with relief. I like this boyfriend. This is a good boyfriend.

Although, I'm tangled up in him in a curious way. My head is on his shoulder, and my hands are digging into his sides as if I'm trying to grab his ribs. My face is smooshed into his neck. He's snoring, which is really, really loud with my face pressed into him.

I shake him awake. I'm not gentle about it. I wanted the snoring to stop and I wanted to interact with him to prove he was real.

Abraham wakes up. I watch him cautiously. He looks at me and he smiles. He didn't question why I abruptly shook him; he just smiled.

I don't think I was ever so happy to see someone in my life.

Interview with Abraham

What did you think of me when we first met? You didn't get that home run in kickball.

I thought, I'm so awesome, I just kicked it over everyone's heads and I'm about to score, oh wait, why is this chick standing on home plate, oh crap, I can't stop, I'm gonna run her over...and BAM.

Did you know I was The One when I was throwing up in your bathroom?

I had my doubts, but you were in the top five for sure.

What are you most looking forward to when I move in? I bet it's getting rid of half of your stuff. You can admit it. This is a safe place.

 I'm looking forward to spending your rent (errrr love) money on upgrades for my condo!

(Edit: I refuse to let him call it rent because he's my lover, not my landlord.)

Anything that I didn't ask that you want to address?

Not yet, ask me later.

What do you think your blog name is? Go on, take a guess. 

Brad

Do you have a question for Abraham? Perhaps one that he could answer when he's not busy at work?

The Bathtub

I don't know why Abraham laid against the bathtub awaiting the inevitable that drunken night. Perhaps because that's what I did. I was in unfamiliar surroundings and the toilet was too far away and I was running out of time.

I destroyed his bathmat only for it to be resurrected in the washing machine. The morning after Abe's birthday, I again lifted the bathmat off the floor and threw it in the wash.

Upon further inspection, Abraham had also taken out both shower curtains. I offered to wash these as well, but he said they were too old to salvage.

So we bought a shower curtain from Bed Bath and Beyond. And this shower curtain is the first thing that is ours.

Life Comes Full Circle Alright

This time last year Abraham and I would spend most of our time lying in bed together. We laid on his creaky hand-me-down mattress under the safety an ancient navy blue comforter. His flat, lumpy pillows left something to be desired. But the company was nice.

Every few days that we saw each other, he'd roll on his side and face me. "My birthday's coming up," he'd say "But it's not a big deal."

I knew by his frequent mentions that it was a big deal. Abraham knew he liked me--he thought of us as together by that point--and he wanted me there.

So I went. I sat at a table at our bar as friends approached him with shots. There were a lot of friends; there were a lot of shots. At the end of the night, he climbed into my car and I took him home and gave him his present.

He was less excited about his birthday this year. Thirty-six was older than he was ready to be. We pleaded with Abraham to make plans until he sighed and said we would just go to the same bar.

There were less people around this time as it wasn't one of our usual nights there. I asked the bartender to make Abraham the pinkest, fruitiest, girliest drink he knew. Someone else iced him, which is presenting him with Smirnoff Ice. But he mostly drank beer this night.

Abraham got drunk. Despite not having shots, he was drunker than he was last year. I think it was because we have calmed down quite a bit over the last year; we don't drink as heavily as we used to.

Abraham fell into my car and then kept telling me to drive slower. I was driving 35 mph. When we got to his house, he walked into his bathroom and plunked down by his bathrub.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

"Preparing myself."

Within a minute he had his dead in the tub, vomiting.

"That's good, baby, let it out. You'll feel better." I called from the other room.

Despite the hour, I picked up my phone and texted South Carolina Bestie: Guess who is lying on the bathmat and yakking in the bathtub. Hint: it's not me.

Within a few minutes I stopped hearing him throw up. "You okay?" I called.

No response.

I peeked in the bathroom. Abraham was snoring on top of his pile of dirty laundry.

Hahaha she replied. Life comes full circle alright :)

Roommates

The roommate sent Abe a text and asked what was going to happen when I moved in to their house. I guess to her it was not a matter of "if" but "when" after I took a couple of sick days last week and puttered around their house instead of going home.

Abraham told her that he was okay with whatever she decided to do. If she decided to stay, her rent would be lowered and I would take over my portion of the bills.

"I like having her here and the place is plenty big for the three of us," she wrote. And when she found out that everything would be cheaper, she was ready for me to break my lease today.

Abraham gave her my move-in date. Everybody was happy with the arrangement. Three adults and two dogs living in harmony. Well, almost.

The only tension in the house is between the two dogs. Specifically, from the roommate's lap dog toward my big, lumbering Femme Fatale.

In my experience, the Femme Fatale doesn't care about little dogs. She could take them or leave them. When they bark and chomp at her, she holds her head back and peers at them, almost amused. She doesn't engage because she knows they aren't a threat.

That isn't to say the two dogs haven't squabbled. They have. I'm of the philosophy to let the dogs figure it out on their own to establish a domination order. But ever since the squabble, her dog has steered clear of the Femme Fatale. Won't get within 5 feet of her. The Femme Fatale hasn't realized this. She walked into the roommate's room and laid down and took a nap with them. When it was time for the roommate and her dog to leave, she called to her dog, who was cut off from the rest of the room by the Femme Fatale. Instead of walking by her, she jumped on a couch, then to the bed, and from the bed she jumped to her master. I don't think the Femme Fatale woke up.

Minutes after the conversation about me moving in, the roommate couldn't find her dog. She called to her without response. She searched the rooms for her. As a last resort, she walked into Abraham's room. Behind the bed laid the Femme Fatale, as was her habit during the day. And next to her under Abraham's bed was the roommate's dog. The roommate assumed her dog was trapped again and scooped her up. A few minutes later the dog was missing again. The roommate again found her sleeping next to the Femme Fatale under the bed. They had become besties.

The roommate has given her approval. The dogs gave their approvals. It feels official. I'm ready for the next six months.

I like that we took our time to arrive to this decision. I like that we made the decision to live together and then extended it by six months. Our decision isn't based on time or money or roommates. It's based on one thing: our desire to be together.

Exposed

I remember reading this post about a girl who disclosed her abusive past and her weird sexual habit that may or may not be related to it. And the comment section just broke my heart. There is so much judgment from all sides of the story. Someone is judging the girl. Someone else is judging the boyfriend. Someone calls a commenter a "Yakety Sax of rape."

The comment that I found myself agreeing with though was:

You see those pictures of trees that are bent in weird angles because of something that happened to them when they were saplings? Well, they are perfectly fine, strong trees now, and no need to think they are weak just because they got bent went they were young...

If I were her friend, I would tell her she unfortunately should have kept her mouth shut. She should practice saying, "My childhood was really rough. I don't talk to my father/parents/family anymore." And then drop the conversation, unless it's with someone who can handle knowing it. And just because someone loves us, doesn't mean they can handle it.

Just because someone loves us, doesn't mean they can handle it. But of course about 200 other people claim that could never be a healthy relationship. I disagree.

The reason I decided to tell Abraham was because it was starting to affect the two of us moving forward together.

***

I stripped off all of my clothes and crawled into bed. I wanted to be naked when I told Abraham the truth. I wanted to be exposed. Nothing between us.

Abraham instead went into the kitchen and ate a late dinner. I waited. Eventually I heard him turn out the lights and lock the door.

"Mmm," he said as he saw me unclothed in bed.

Abraham stripped down and joined me. He turned on his side and gathered me in his arms.

"I have a story for you," I began. It was a nonchalant opening for what would come.

"A story!" he said playfully.

I nodded.

Abraham watched me. "It's not a good story, is it?" he pieced together.

"No."

"You're shaking," he observed.

I stopped. I was. From head to toe, my entire body was quivering like I had been dunked into icy water.

"I'd like to tell you about the boyfriend I lived with once."

Abraham was quiet. He was listening.

"He was an alcoholic. And not the kind of alcoholic people accuse each other of being in college. He was a real alcoholic. The kind who threw up and shook if he didn't drink enough of it. I grew to hate the sound of the aluminum-can pop top because I heard it 24 hours a day.

"We weren't supposed to live together. My apartment had a terrible leak in it, and water would fill buckets every time it rained. It was summertime, so it rained a lot. They kept trying to fix the leak, but the plaster would fall on the counter with a great splat and water would pour through. Every time. They decided to give me a new apartment.

"Then my grandfather died. Instead of picking out the new apartment, I was out of state burying him. My boyfriend worked with the leasing company and reserved me a larger apartment. And when I came in to sign the papers, they wouldn't let me sign without him. I cried to the leasing agent. I didn't want him on my lease. I told her that my boyfriend didn't live with me. He has his own apartment. He gets mail there. And I think if I had any other leasing agent, things would have been fine, but she told me I either had to have him sign the lease or I had to move out of the apartment complex entirely, giving me only three days to find somewhere to live. So I called him and asked him just to sign the damn papers. I wasn't even worried about it. I always paid my bills on time so this wouldn't affect him.

"He lied. About two weeks after he signed the papers, he told me he was being kicked out of his apartment by his landlord. I now know this was a lie. He had broached the subject of living together before and I turned him down. But he said his landlord found a new tenant, and he had to be out and he was already on my lease..."

"How long had you been together?" Abraham asked.

"About four months."

He cringed.

I took a deep breath. That was the easy part.

"He didn't have a driver's license because of all the DUIs he had gotten from driving drunk. I told him he couldn't take my car because if he got into an accident, I would be liable. It didn't stop him. I had to sleep with my car keys under my pillow, or else he'd take my car in the middle of the night. And if I didn't put my purse under the bed, he'd go in there and take money. One time I came home and found a basket with 50 DVDs I had had been pawned.

"And he drank. All the time. He would get delirious and angry when he drank. He used to spit on me, like he would collect spit and project it on me, and tell me he hated me."

Abraham gasped in horror. Like that had been the terrible part.

I told the story the only way I knew how, by telling it exactly how I had written it.

I told him this.

And this.

And then this.

As I was telling these three stories, I felt no emotional connection to them. I felt like I was reciting a script that had been written by a roomful of writers. This was a story that had been written for me; it was not my life.

As I finished the last story, my voice began to crack and tears slipped down my cheek. It was  time for him to respond.

"That's a long time to keep a story like that," he said.

"It's not a story you tell just anyone."

He nodded in agreement.

He told me I was strong for getting out of the relationship and going into therapy and doing all of the work myself. He said he was confident that I had learned and moved on.

He said he wish he knew sooner. He would have just held me tighter all of this time.

I wept. I was so embarrassed that this was my story. I was embarrassed that there was even a story to tell him.

"I'm sorry I'm not perfect for you."

"You are."

He then made a joke. I wish I could remember it. It was light but touched on what he just heard. The joke was perfect.

I laughed.

"I'm glad I can still make you laugh," he smiled.

"Do you still want to live with me?" I asked.

It was his turn to laugh. "Of course."

***

The following week I signed the new lease. My move-out date is in six months.

The Worst-Case Scenario

Time flies. It had been some weeks since we decided that my lease that would keep me in my apartment until November 2013 was completely ridiculous. Besides, the Mayans would probably get us by then.

Abraham was going to talk to his roommate, but she'd been out of town for work. And the more we talked about it, the more I warmed to the idea of living at his house with his roommate there. As my mother pointed out, all three of our housing costs would be non-existent.

"We could vacation. In Puerto Vallarta," I dreamed aloud.

"We can vacation in Puerto Vallarta now," Abraham pointed out.

"Yes, but I wouldn't have to take it out of savings. We could just, like, go."

So I told Abraham that I was fine with whatever he and his roommate decided. I could always store my extra furniture in the basement of my mom's house. I was worried about Abraham's closet space, however, because it's no match for my shoes. Maybe I'd have to be a bit more seasonal and store that at my mother's too. But Puerto Vallarta...

My new lease date starts at the end of October. Abraham shrugged and told me to just pick a date. All it was was a matter of me sitting down with my leasing agent.

I hemmed and hawed all morning. Talked to my coworkers. Talked to my boss. Pick a date. Pick a date to leave my apartment, the last place I'll ever live alone. The last place that will be mine. Hand the keys over to my safe haven from the world.

I felt anxious. Just pick a date already! I sat quietly in my car instead of driving to the leasing agent. Why was I feeling so anxious? Because the last time I lived with someone, it was pretty much worst-case scenario. And Abraham didn't know that he would be living with someone who had a worst-case scenario past.

No, I couldn't move in with Abraham until I told him about S. He had the right to know with whom he would be living.

Year One

"Happy eve of our anniversary," Abraham murmured as he drifted to sleep.

I love how confident Abraham has become over the past year. In the beginning he had a wall built of shyness and insecurity. He's done a complete 180. I watch him with a bit of out-of-body experience as he reaches for my hand or kisses me in public, a rule he has since withdrawn. He could not be more comfortable with me and our relationship. I feel the same way, but I had an easier time with it.

"Can you believe that the roommate and her boyfriend still haven't said 'I love you'? They've been together nine months!" Abraham once said smugly.

"Oh yeah, because you handled that real well," I smirked. "I guess they're not moving in together if they haven't said it yet."

The next night we were snuggled up on the couch watching a concert of a performer we both love. Abraham disrupted the snuggling and the blankets by getting up.

"Unh!" I cried.

"Sorry! Time to switch the laundry!"

He disappeared and I kept watching the concert. Abraham returned and knelt on the floor with a single red rose.

"It's midnight. Happy anniversary."

A year has passed since I spent that horrible first night throwing up in his bathroom. When Abraham heard how all of my friends got together (which includes a story of one guy peeing in the corner of a girl's room), he felt much better about the bathroom yakking. I, naturally, backdated our relationship to that night as a way to smooth over my indiscretions.

"Awww!" This is the confidence of him that I love. "When did you have time to get this?"

"When you were out at Book Club." He handed me a card. The A's in Sarah were replaced with sappy hearts. The card itself was light and funny, which is what I expect from him, but underneath he had written that this had been the best year of his life. I was touched. I didn't know he felt that way.

I was also caught with my pants down. It was officially our anniversary and I didn't have anything for him. I was going to handle that in the morning.

Morning came and Abraham got up with the alarm. I rolled over and snuggled in his space in the pillow. I had taken a much-needed week off work. Abraham left the room and returned with an entire bouquet of flowers.

"Awww, why are you so nice?" I cried. Once again, my pants were down as it had only been eight hours since the last giving of flowers. We made plans to meet for lunch.

I found a Hallmark Gold Crown store. Cards are difficult for relationships. We're not married, so most anniversary cards don't apply. I did find a small section labeled Love, which seemed to fit better. I picked up a card that read "Beer drinkers make better lovers" and knew I was done.

In my apartment I located a map of North America I had received randomly in the mail and had kept. I drew a heart on every city we had visited together, which was quite a few. I folded the map and put it in the card. I didn't know what he was doing for a gift, so I gambled and wrote in the card that I would get him Green Day's Uno, Dos and Tre when they become available: his favorite band.

Then I drove to my mother's house and picked up a signed, framed poster of our favorite local singer whose concert we were watching the previous night and hung it in his room on loan.

He loved the card, map and upcoming CDs. He chided me for storing signed band posters at my mother's house.

"I ordered something for you, but it isn't here yet," he disclosed.

"You've already done so much," I said.

We went out to dinner, hibachi at my request. Unfortunately we were seated next to America's Worst Family: a man with his four children and his new, younger girlfriend. Abraham and I completed the table of eight. The children were either texting on their phones or calling their mommy. When they weren't doing that, they were sneering at the girlfriend. The father was oblivious, playing on his own phone.

The hibachi chef was frustrated, trying to put a show on for eight with only Abraham and I watching. I was horrified at the kid's treatment of the girlfriend and her response to them as well. She'd get caught up in their taunting instead of taking the high road. By the end of the meal, she put her head in her hands, close to tears.

I grabbed her arm. "Are you okay? Those kids were really rude to you."

She looked at me wide-eyed and then to the father. "DID YOU HEAR THAT?! SHE SAID YOUR KIDS WERE MEAN TO ME."

I leaned to Abraham, "We have to leave. Now."

He got up from the table. The father made eye contact with me and I just shrugged like an asshole. She was supposed to do that in the car, not when I was sitting there. Unfortunately the father was oblivious to the whole scene as he was on his phone and didn't see anything that was happening. When she initially complained to him and asked him for help, he acted like she was crazy, which is why I said something in the first place.

"Would you like some of my birthday cake?" he simply offered, still ignoring the situation.

"No, we're leaving." Abraham said. "Happy birthday."

Abraham wanted to go back to our bar for after-dinner drinks, the spot where we first spoke. The place we eat dinner at once a week.

I shuffled through my new purse. I didn't have my ID. It was in the bag I just changed. I pleaded with the doorman. I'm 31; I don't look 21. He said if someone inside could vouch for me, then I could get in. Abraham went inside a grabbed a manager who said it was okay. But inside the bartender refused to serve me and then security came and got me and escorted me out of the bar.

I got escorted out of a bar for not having my ID. At 31 years of age. At my regular bar. On my one-year anniversary. Ugh.

I hated feeling the shame like I did something wrong. Instead we went into the bar next door, owned by the same people as the bar that removed me. The security guy kept watching me drink through the window. Fuck him. We had one drink and left.

Abraham didn't drive the normal way home from the bar. He took the back way.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Cops," he explained.

He drove to the spot where we first kissed behind the bar and stopped the car. "You believed me, didn't you?" he smiled.

He opened my car door and pulled me to the spot: next to the dumpster behind the bar. He kissed me. We made out. I knocked teeth with him again.

"It really was the best year of your life?" I asked.

"Yes. Do you think we can make next year any better?"

"It'll be hard, but we can try."