Category Archives: love

On Mom and fishing

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mom and son fishing

I saw this and it reminded me of the story of Mike, my mom, and the man we call “the Troll.”

We were on vacation after my senior year of high school (I think it was after senior year?), and Mike really wanted to go fishing in the Potomac river. So, he found a brochure, called the guide, and scheduled it.

Mike and Mom took the train from Philadelphia to Doylestown (pronounced: Dulls-ton). Then they met the Troll and he put them in his truck and took them on a drive. My mom later admitted that she was terrified and though they were going to die.

The Troll kept looking over his shoulder at stuff along the road, while taking his eyes off the road, explaining that he lives with his mom during the winter months. He would eventually take them to a spot along the river – the same spot where he camped/lived during the summer months.

Mom wouldn’t let Mike out of her sight, and got worried when the Troll took Mike around a bend in the river and back to his camp (turns out he’s just a weird dude and not some crazy psycho-killer). She said that sitting in the hot sun on a log all day without a book was one of the most miserable experiences of her life, but she was glad to go because it meant that Mike got to go fishing. It’s a way funnier story when we re-tell it, so have Mom and Mike do that for you someday.

It’s that maternal love that you never let go of. (I had a maternal love moment the other day and then cried – because the love was too much and it had to spill out of me via tear ducts – because of how perfect Carlos’s feet are. That’s how I know I’m a mother – even if it is just to a cat – and how I know that love like that is way stronger than you can comprehend.)

And this picture, for me, reminds us that sometimes we have to do terrible things for the people we love.

For me, this means cleaning out my room at my mom’s house. It’s been my room since I was three, and now she wants it. Selfishly, I do not want to let her have it. I also don’t want more stuff at my house, since I have never been able to master the adult habit of organization. Instead, I know that all of the stuff will languish in piles or boxes in my closet or around my room.

I wish there was a picture of that I could post.

I also wish I could accurately describe the face that I’m making right now. It’s an equal mix of disgust (for cleaning), sadness (for clearing out my childhood room), disdain (for my mother’s demands), and shame (because I should have done this years ago). Mostly, it’s just a lot of nose wrinkling mixed with whatever procrastination looks like.

Procrastinating. I’m still doing it. I keep telling Mom that I’m not going to budge on my room until she sews my favorite pencil skirt. Maybe I’ll just stick to that. It’s a little bit like nuclear disarmament, but not. We just avoid the subject during diplomatic missions (or visits, whichever you choose to call them) and carry on.

But I did promise her that I’d make some headway tomorrow. Which means….she’d better break out the sewing kit and get that gorgeous black skirt back in my rotation.

On Swisher, anxiously

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His plane touches down next Wednesday. I’ll be at the airport waiting. Last time he flew in was marvelous – he saw me and hugged me and kissed me right at the baggage claim. I was too excited to even think. I was wrapped in a hug when I opened my eyes and saw a grandmother smiling at us. I knew then.

This time is different. This time it’s so much more. This time will be strange because ten days after I pick him up at DIA, he’ll be picking me up from the Midway. Then we’re doing what we’re calling “The Trial Road Trip” which he imagines will be miserable and I imagine will be a wonderful adventure. And then, for the next few months at least, he will be in the same city as me for the first time in two years. I’m thrilled. I’m beyond thrilled. I’m also incredibly nervous and excited.

I think he’s terrified, and if he’s smart, he should be.

Katie Barry in Chicago

On what I love most

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Oh yeah, cat post! Why? Because I can.

I was reading an article about the ethics of ear tipping (the process by which they mark neutered feral cats before they release them back into the “wild”) and it got me thinking about Carlos. and moths.

Moths. I’m not big on moths. But Carlos is. He’s so quick and agile as he does his predator stuff. I’m not big on killing either, but watching him hunt is fascinating. He’s so focused, so intent. And deadly.

The other night, Mike and I got so wrapped up in trying to chase down a moth for Carlos that he first got scared and then lost interest. So the two of us wasted about ten minutes of our night only to turn around and realize that the cat had walked out of the room and we’d lost the moth. Excellent work, team. I think I’ll leave bug catching to the professional from now on.

 

On Gender and Ambition, dejectedly

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(I still have backlogs of articles I’d like to address, so hopefully I can start posting and writing my critiques, comments, etc. soon!)

Madeline sent me this link last week and I thought I’d share the article with you.

Before you read it, know this: I’m a huge believer in the idea that there can be successful co-parenting, or successful relationships, or marriages full of good sex (or all of those things combined with monetary comfort!).

While I don’t think I’d last too long as a stay-at-home mom, I also don’t imagine my future to be full of trying to work 60 hour weeks and then awesome parenting while my husband just hangs out.

Note to readers: this is all coming from my childhood. My extreme paranoia about terrible husbands stems from my past experiences. My mom worked her ass off trying to support us all financially (and put my brother and I through private schools) while my dad didn’t take on the additional burden of stay-at-home dad (including, but not limited to: laundry, cooking, dishes, cleaning, childcare, etc.) even though it would have been well within his means and skill set and would have drastically improved the parental-contribution-to-the-family-via-work balance that did not exist.

Admittedly, my memories have been lost to my own subconscious erasure as well as the emotional tints that seem to color our own recollections of the past. Therefore, I can claim no exact memory validity yet still claim personal memory legitimacy. Whatever. You try to recollect and see for yourself how difficult it can be.

Regardless, as a young, twenty-something woman, I do feel pressure. Tons of pressure. Some of it is self-inflicted and some of it stems from a whole host of other influences. That pressure to succeed drives my work ethic, my independence, my stubborn sense of self, and my panic about the future. (Always panic, that’d be my motto.)

I always read the comments, too. Sometimes they’re far more enlightening than the content of the article itself. Since this one only has three, it wasn’t difficult to get through them. Here’s the lengthiest (is that a word?) one:

BRYANROBB
I expected more from you, Good. This is terribly one sided reporting, and borderline misandristic to the likes of Jezebel. No wonder men don’t want to marry, every which way we turn we’re getting boxed and blamed. Did you ever stop to consider that the older men who make more than their women counterparts are the last vestiges of a bygone era? Soon they will retire, and as the women age through the system it is very likely that these young women will make more than their male counterparts. Also, give me the kids over cut throat corporate America any day. The two earner model is the cause of our failures as decent parents, all so we can afford more stuff? I don’t care who works and who doesn’t, but someone needs to be home with the kids in the formative years. And sure, I’m definitely for subsidizing child care. For single MOMs and DADs. Too bad almost all low income entitlements go to girls and men are exempt. Stop waging war on men for Pete’s sake.

I don’t disagree that this article is very one-sided. But then again, there’s not enough space in the world to give equal time to discuss women’s ambitions while simultaneously deconstructing the reasons that men may feel maligned by the media and neglected about the social pressures they face.

This article isn’t about men.

The only time that the author (whose posts I generally adore, by the way) could REALLY use some more statistical reference is when she says,

And while women are consumed with the problems of “work-life balance”—trying to maintain a successful career while raising a family—men seldom feel as much pressure or face as much doubt about their ability to “do it all.”

I don’t know that she’s entirely correct in making that assumption. I’d argue that men are feeling the pressure to “do it all” but instead of being accepted, they’re facing the same social stigmas that have kept gendered activities as segregated as a 7th grade school dance for so many generations.
Regardless of our new stances on equality and whatnot, we are failing to accept that there are differences. In our quest for equalization, we’ve neglected so much about individuality, about personality, about biology, and in doing so, we’ve created a situation that’s arguably far worse than before.
Take the emergence of “stay at home dads,” for instance. Advertising for household items is always geared toward women. Stay at home dads aren’t given the same amount of respect. It’s emasculating, I’m sure, to know that people don’t value what you do. But then again, welcome to the flip side of things.
For me, a household has many factors for success. You need cash flow to buy supplies, necessities, etc. But you also need to address the rest of it: chores, bills, laundry, parenting, cooking, shopping, maintenance, etc. Those two elements (the cash flow and the “rest of it”) need to be in harmony in order for a household to maintain successful balance. Communication is key. More than that, all parties need to recognize the importance of contributions made for the common good of the household.
Honestly, the thing that scares me most about this article is the bad sex after marriage, not to mention the extra weight, less money and more stress. But then again, it’s up to those women (obligatory heterosexual bias of the media comment here) to stand up to their husbands and tell them what’s up. I won’t stand for more housework, more stress, and less sex. And he’ll know that before he marries me. If that’s a deal breaker, I will have chosen the wrong man.

Why Are Young Women More Ambitious? They Have to Be


The headline of a new study by the Pew Research Center claims to have discovered “A Gender Reversal On Career Aspirations.” But upon closer inspection, the study appears to imply that young women are more ambitious than men their age across the board. Sixty-six percent of 18 to 34-year-old women rate their career high on their list of life priorities, compared with 59 percent of young men. This figure hasn’t really “reversed,” but it has shifted markedly in the past 15 years—in 1997, only 56 percent of young women felt the same way, compared to 58 percent of men.

Today’s young women aren’t planning to make any sacrifices on the home front, either—they’re prioritizing their personal lives, too. The amount of young women who say that having a successful marriage is one of the most important things in their lives has risen nine percentage points since 1997, from 28 to 37 percent. For young men, that stat is trending in the opposite direction—from 35 percent in 1997 to 29 percent now. More young women than men care about being a good parent—59 percent, compared to 47 percent of their male counterparts. It looks like young women are more likely to be thinking consciously about their priorities, period. Do dudes just not give thought to their futures at all?

Perhaps guys aren’t mulling their life priorities because they trust that marriage, parenthood and career usually work out better for them in the longrun. They’re right about that. When women begin their careers, they earn virtually the same as their male peers (95 cents to every dude dollar), but as they near their early thirties, the pay gap widens—women have kids, take maternity leave, and stall their careers for a few years, or else they get passed over for promotions and yearly raises. By the time a women nears retirement age, she earns around 75 cents for every dollar a man her age earns.

Although marriage is lower on young men’s list of priorities, they’ll fare better when they eventually tie the knot. Numerous studies show that married men are happier, live longer, make more money, and experience less stress, while married women are rewarded with more housework, less money, worse sex and a few extra pounds. And while women are consumed with the problems of “work-life balance”—trying to maintain a successful career while raising a family—men seldom feel as much pressure or face as much doubt about their ability to “do it all.” Women still end up performing the majority of the parenting, regardless of their jobs, and despite public platitudes revering the work of motherhood, the lack of universal childcare and inadequate (or nonexistent) parental-leave policies set women up to fail.

No amount of girl power—or denial—can obscure these deep-set gender dynamics. Women are acutely aware of the need to be especially ambitious in order to succeed—the same extra ambition any marginalized group needs to climb the career ladder and crack glass ceilings. It’s the reason more women are getting college degrees, and the reason why many women try more intently to find a mate at a younger age (although that’s changing). The sexual economy, as well as the professional one, are simply skewed in men’s favor, especially as the years go on. Why wouldn’t they be more relaxed about their life choices?

Photo by (cc) Flickr user gcoldironjr2003.

article source: GOOD

On Chicago, more than happily

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I’ve left so many times, for so many reasons, and every single time, I end up back in Chicago, staring longingly at the lake. It was the lake that brought me there, after all. This weekend was a lot like the weekend that I spent out there in July, but this weekend was so much better.

Chicago-style hot dog

Last week, when I told my boss that I was headed to Chicago for the weekend, he looked at me and said, “Your flight’s on Sunday night, right?” I paused. “Um….no….Monday morning, actually.” He looked at me and laughed. “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” he said.

(Remember the July trip? Waking up at 6:03 when my flight had taken off at 6:00….the long day spent laying on the couch while I killed time until my Monday night flight, a day of work lost, a terribly abrupt goodbye, the uncertainty of it all.)

Leaving Denver after work on Friday is not the best way to go. But then again, weekends are short – you’ve got to make the best of them. I was almost too tired to be excited, but simultaneously terrified that I wouldn’t make my flight. Of course, i had to stop for gas and ended up giving my dinner to a homeless man.

Sitting in my car, filling Jell-O shot containers full of shampoo and soap, I reminded myself why I do things like this. The work-life balance, but more than that. Life, mostly. The most beautiful life is the one that will never make me wonder what could have been.

The TSA was puzzled by my Jell-O shot shampoo containers. They took the bag out and marveled (my words, not theirs) at it before finally letting it go. This was immediately after I had to take cash out of my bra to get through the body scanner. I believe Charlie Sheen put it best when he said, “Winning.”

I’m a Taurus. I’m a very stubborn woman. He picked me up and I was first-date nervous. (Honestly, we’ve only ever been on about 4 dates, give or take, so it’s not like my nerves are entirely unfounded.) He made me dinner while I wandered to find beer. I interrupted him giving me directions with, “I’ll figure it out,” and ended up walking an extra 4 blocks each way to 7-11 (Chicago 7-11’s are the best – no 3.2% beer there!).

I didn’t mind the walk. I love the city.

Lights at the Congress Theater

Saturday day was him working for a bit and me going to see my friend Anne. Then it was double-date concert night. I’m not a huge fan of dubstep – it sounds like robots dancing to me – but we went and saw Bassnectar at the Congress Theater. It was loud, crowded, and fun. Some girl stepped all over the side of my heel though (until this happened, I wasn’t aware that it was possible to step on the side of a heel, all the way up to the ankle), which has left me bruised and grumpy. His brother and his girlfriend are great! We made brunch on Sunday morning, and I watched Back to the Future for the first time, curled up on the couch under a Cubs blanket.

Bassnectar

Not our best picture, but the only one I have!

Lights at Concert
I felt old for the first time. I know I was not the oldest person at the concert (by far), but I felt somehow removed from the crowd. My dress and sweater made me look like a librarian (no offense, Maddie, just making generalizations) compared to the neon halter tops and short shorts all around me. I don’t do this sort of dancing and I was entirely out of my element. By the end of the concert, I was tired of getting danced into. I was tired of dancing (that so very rarely happens) and I was tired of hearing sounds. I had so much fun, and I adore his brother and his brother’s girlfriend, but I don’t know that I’d be so willing to attend a repeat of that event. I’m glad that he understood.
Chocolate Chip Cookies
On Sunday, after a quick visit to his grandparents, we had dinner at his mom’s house. Last July, one too many “princess party drinks” (White Russians) had me doing some pathetic-late-night-love-drunk crying on his porch once we got home. His impression of that incident is nearly accurate and is hilarious – ask him to do it some time. (It’s just like the “I’ll go to DU, I swear” freshman year of college pleading, except two notches less hysterical. Maybe.) This time, I was (quite willingly) banned from drinking any. I would like to insert the fact that I’m also a lot more confident about his communication skills and where we stand, which is conducive to a no-tears environment.
His mom pulled him outside to tell him that I was too skinny before she made me eat second helpings on pasta and finish my giant hamburger. Then she walked me through making cookies from scratch.  “Beat the shit out of the butter,” she told me, after I’d failed to beat it quite fluffy enough. “Just set it on high, and walk away. Don’t watch it. Come back in five minutes.” It was terrifying, but so rewarding. I made something!!
I love his family. They’re so much like mine, sort of. Except his is definitely a little bit louder. Imagine four kids instead of me and Mike – it’s like that. It’s loud and chaotic and I feel right at home. His dad’s roommate, who I adore, came to dinner, too. We played Catchphrase, girls against boys, after dinner. The girls won quite soundly. It was the perfect ending to the trip.
DIA This time there were no tears. There was only the promise of “next time” – we’ll spend more time with his grandparents, we’ll cook again with his mom, we’ll get to see each other sooner rather than later.
This time felt good. I don’t know if it will be good forever, but for right now, it’s good, and I’m learning to accept those good things and stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because in time, it will.
This time, we woke up at an ungodly hour and crept through the sleeping city toward the airport. I was too tired to think about crying. He stopped the car in the second lane, using a giant, hulking van as a reason to do it (it is Chicago after all, most things go) and came around and wrapped me in his arms. There were whispers, quick conversation as he got back into the driver’s seat and I grabbed my bags. I shut the door and turned away. I didn’t look back, not even for one last glimpse as he drove away. I never look back. My smooth exit was marred only by the automatic door not working. I walked up to, so close I could have rubbed my nose against it, only to curse quite loudly when it failed to open. The automatic door marked exit was much more accommodating, and soon enough, I was standing in the long line to get through security.
Home sweet home and early for work! It was a very successful Monday morning.

On Hurt and Hope, intangibly

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Hurting other people is something that I try never to do. Emphasis on try. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, and through the hurt that I cause (regardless of intention), I hurt as well.

Sharing hurt is never pleasant. Suffering, regardless of cause, is painful but entirely unavoidable. A life well lived is full of moments of pure joy and pure pain, emotional and otherwise.

I’ve been doing quite a bit of reflection. I’ve come up short. It’s hard to try to help someone hurting heal, particularly when the hurt they’re feeling is entirely your fault. It’s hard when you’re hurting, too.

But to keep at something simply to avoid suffering isn’t a wise course of action either. Sometimes the hurt is unavoidable. To be free and live the life I want, I must ensure that my needs are met. I must ensure that I am doing the very best I can to become the person that I so badly want to be, the best person that I can be.

“You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.”

There are no words of solace, there are no words to soothe, to mend, to heal. The honest core of me and the apologies proffered are the best that I can do. And yet I still hurt because I know the hurt that I’ve caused isn’t easily mended.

“Better than a thousand hollow words, is one word that brings peace.”

Everyone has their own motivation in life, their own driving force. They carry with them their experiences and the wisdom that they’ve gained from those experiences, both failed and successful. Love and life are so similar, so miserable in their sorrows, but so miraculously wonderful when they work. And so very worth it.

Hope is the only thing that can drive healing. My hope for the best is guiding me right now; it’s the one thing I am entirely certain of. To hope is to be invigorated. That hope will drive away sorrow, or at least mitigate the dull numbness edged with daggers that circles the heart and threatens to overwhelm.

“No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.”

Moral of this story: Ugh, walking the path sucks, but you just have to keep on keepin’ on.

On the Bad Thing

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Yesterday was not one of the best days of my life. When it was finally over, the tears wouldn’t stop coming, and I sat curled in the front seat of my car sobbing. I drove, and the tears pooled in my eyes and slid swiftly down my cheeks. I tasted them. They tasted like sweeping sadness. 

Sometimes, there’s nothing wrong with a relationship. But I was feeling that slow nagging at the back of my mind. It was probably just timing. Busy season has been too busy for too long. I’ve been in my own personal hell of trying to plan the rest of my life. I’m constantly coming up short, and this lack of ideas is causing me to panic. I told him yesterday, as we lay in the park, that I’m not the best at reaching out for help in times like these. Instead, I panic. My mom tried to sit next to me last night, to comfort me, and I waved her away. There are some things best felt alone. Things like pain and panic and sadness. They are too personal to share with physical touch. It is much better to remove yourself. 

I felt like a stranger in my own house last night. I haven’t slept there in nearly two months. My mattress doesn’t remember the curve of my back, nor does my bathroom know where to find my toothbrush. I’m glad to be home, I think, but as I tried desperately to fall asleep last night, I wished that he was with me. Carlos waited by the door for a while, then realizing that he wasn’t coming home, came and curled up to sleep next to me. He didn’t say goodbye to Carlos last night. It was would have been much easier had I not had to chase and grab and package a terrified cat while crying. He didn’t say goodbye.

Maybe I gave up too early. I sobbed in the park and wished that I hadn’t made up my mind. I sobbed and wished that we could just go get dinner somewhere. Maybe this will be a good thing. Time will tell. Right now, I am empty inside. It’s so hard to give up good love in favor of a good life, but I told him that I’d focused so intently on making him happy that I’d entirely neglected myself. And even though I do love him, I want to love myself. I want to be happy again. We had created our own little world, which was entirely lovely, but we forgot that the rest of the world needed us, too.

This hurts. And it will hurt for a long time. I can only hope we’re moving in the right directions, whatever they may be.

I’m so sorry, Kev.

On Chicago, belatedly

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Lately, my life has been one of those hectic, crowded places. Sometimes, I worry that there’s not enough room for me.

Last night, after work, I cancelled plans to meet a friend and took a long bath instead (apparently, it’s possible to literally steam the cover off of a Vogue magazine). Carlos has been very much not in the mood to love me lately, so I’ve decided that we both need a change of scenery and will be relocating back to my apartment this weekend. That was supposed to happen last night, but instead, I laid on the couch and did absolutely nothing. It was wonderful.

Tonight is a lot of rearranging. I haven’t had my car since I left for Chicago; it’s been languishing in Mom’s driveway. I need to get that back, obviously. Kevin is going up to the mountains this weekend, so he’ll need his car and I very much miss driving Simon, who feels so much less like a Mack truck than Kevin’s SUV. I need to get myself ready for the weekend. Sadly, I wish I had exciting plans to report, but instead, I’m babysitting nearly every moment that I’m awake. 3 families. 4 “shifts”. 3 days.

I’m always excited to babysit. I never view it as work, really, but it does tend to take up quite a bit of time. I’m going to put the money toward my New York trip next weekend, which I am absolutely thrilled about.

Anyway, I feel like I never get to properly describe my Chicago visits. I get too busy with everything else and reminiscing about the trip falls by the wayside. Chicago was wonderful. It was a perfect weekend. I saw a lot of people (of course, I didn’t get to see everyone I wanted to see, bummer), and had a blast.

I ended up helping with a music video shoot on Sunday, so that was exciting. I got to stand on the rocks in one of my favorite places in Chicago (no, not the Bean, the Peace Garden!) and dance around awkwardly while wearing a wig and some rather scandalous clothing. It helped that the weather was beautiful that day.

Between the shoot and the airport, I stopped at Swisher’s.  There’s nothing like saying hello to a friend’s parents while your makeup looks like you’re going clubbing at 3 in the afternoon. Thank goodness for makeup removal wipes – those things are amazing. Carry them everywhere when you travel. Just have them on you at all times. They’re all-purpose cloths sent from Heaven.

Saturday, I went to Wisconsin with Anne. We went to see the Mars Cheese Castle, which used to be this amazing, kitschy place but is now just a touristy castle – they seriously redid it to be a castle, but they do have $1.50 meat sticks, so you know I was happy. I also got some white cheese with cranberry in it, a 6-pack of Spotted Cow from my favorite Wisconsin brewery, and some chocolate. (I’m attempting to recreate the experience I had with the Fairview cheese from South Africa and can’t do it. The white with the apricots was some of the most amazing cheese I’ve ever tasted. I can’t get close.)

After we were done at the Cheese Castle, we were like, well, we drove all the way out to Wisconsin, we should probably drive some more. So we googled. Anne found http://www.custardlist.com, a website which lists the daily custard flavors around the state. Seeing that some place called Oscar’s had m&m and cookie dough, we were off toward Milwaukee. Yes, it was better than Kopp’s (although Kopp’s makes some darn good custard), and I got two scoops for less than $2.50.

Saturday night, I went to play with Patrick and Maddie, who had a hotel room downtown. (Maddie’s explanation of why they couldn’t stay at his apartment is one of the funnier things I’ve heard lately.) Anne’s apartment has a problem with hot water, so I was relieved to find that the Embassy Suites was fully stocked with towels and all the hot water I could want. (I did want, so badly.) Swisher met us for happy hour and then we went out to a bar nearby. I was exhausted, so we ended up back at the hotel with snacks and wine. It was the perfect night. I was sad because my friend Adrian was having his annual “Fried, Fried, Fried” party – it’s exactly what it sounds like – and I was looking forward to eating all the things. However, I would never make it up to the North side. Instead, I fell asleep on the couch at the hotel.

Being back in Chicago was like suddenly realizing that you lost something. I have lost my memory of the street names (not all of them, but finding myself staring at the Chicago theater on State street and wondering which way to walk was a disconcerting feeling); I have lost the flow of the trains, my balance as they stop. I felt my hand reaching out to clutch the pole in a panic as we slid into one of the stations. Being back was like going home. Swisher took me to the train, took me down Lake Shore Drive. I used to drive that every single day. This time, all I could do was stare around. The park. The lake. The river. The buildings. There’s something wonderful about the way the city looms above you, around you. It sinks into you, a little. You’ll never be able to take that bit of Chicago away.

I remember being in love when I was 19. I remember the way that I threw myself into it; the way that logistics stopped being paramount; that no distance was too far, no amount of separation too much. I want to love the way I loved when I was 19. It was pure. It was admittedly one of the most imperfect relationships you could imagine, but it was so real, and it was all-encompassing, and it was beautiful. When did I lose the ability to throw caution to the wind and jump in?

On Being Really Happy (and liking it)

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Valentine's Day Dinner

(Mom wanted a picture)

How it started:

I was joking around with a friend on Facebook about all of the spam that we get from Twitter (It’s stuff like, “I’m 21 and single, want to chat?” – Gross and very annoying), and I told him that if I really wanted to find that kind of a date/casual encounter, I’d get on Craigslist. And then I realized that it’s really because of Craigslist that I know Kevin.

Last summer, one of my friends started looking for a new place to live. She found some roommates on Craigslist and after a brief interview process, was selected to be a member of their household. I started hanging around at their house more and more, and one day, one of the roommates told me that I should meet his friend Kevin since he thought we’d be a great match (Kevin’s sarcasm and my cynicism plus lack of filter were apparently enough to go on). I was like, “Uh, no thanks” (mostly because set ups are so awkward and never work).

Conveniently, we were both at the Halloween party that they threw. His first memory of me is me looking like this (keep in mind that I had the flu):

Halloween

Kevin later admitted that when he first saw me, he was convinced that they’d hired a caterer for the party, so I’m glad that I have this personality thing to fall back on when my sex appeal fails me.

Present-tense

It’s been almost four months now, which makes no sense. It’s like it either just started, or has been going on forever. Looking back, everything just sort of aligned at the right times. Of course I’m terrified, but I’m also thrilled. Seriously thrilled. I sincerely hope that I make him as happy as he makes me. He’s smart and willing to engage me (and by engage, I mean listening to me rant about whatever it is that I’m in the mood to rant about that day) in discussions. He’s sweet. He loves Carlos (and more importantly, Carlos loves him). He’s spontaneous. He likes my family. He respects me. He’s patient when I’m falling down mountains. He trusts me enough to let me drive. We’re total opposites who just happen to have a lot more in common than I thought.

Rather than worry (which I’m so prone to doing), I have decided to just embrace this experience. Like jumping feet-first off the Bloukrans Bridge.

Bloukrans Bridge

(Never again)

It’s better than bungee jumping – less panic, less leg-shaking, less terror. It’s an adventure. It’s the best kind of adventure – the kind where you fall asleep at night knowing that it’s going to start all over again the next day.

Thank you, Craiglist. You can be super sketchy, but you’re alright with me.