Letting Go Without Guilt

I have a friend who is teetering on the edge of a breakup. He and his girlfriend have been having issues for several months, and he’s finally had too much. It’s not that they don’t love each other or that one of them is a bad person—it just isn’t working. Or rather, it’s requiring way too much work.

So he’s ready to move on. But he’s struggling with the fact that he may hurt her. He may disappoint his family. Let down their mutual friends. And on and on.

I’ve been there. I sat on that cliff for months, dangling my feet over the edge, digging one hand into a puddle of pride and wrapping the other around a sprig of fear of failure. I didn’t want to move because it would mean I’d made a mistake. It would prove that I’d jumped into something too fast. Blindly. Without knowing the full story.

If I admitted that he was the wrong fit, I’d have to acknowledge my lack of good judgment. I’d have to risk hurting his feelings. And I’d have to tell my family, again, that I had moved 10 steps backwards from engagement and marriage and kids. That was probably the hardest part to deal with.

My friend has been divorced already, so his baggage is even heavier than mine was. He’s afraid his parents will be crestfallen that he is choosing to end yet another relationship. But I think, better that he end it now than lead his girlfriend on—or worse—marry her and then decide it’s definitely not going to work.

The bottom line is that we have to take care of ourselves. We cannot worry who we disappoint. (Note: I believe the rules change after you are married, but dating is a whole different game.) You cannot feel guilty for being true to yourself. For backburnering marriage because the person you are with is not a perfect match. It’s far better to cut things off than live in continuous strife and misery.

I stayed in my ill-fitting relationship far too long and when it ended, it hurt everyone much more than if I would’ve put the kabash on it in those early days.

I guess the old analogy is right: the faster you rip off the band aid, the less it stings.

Mincing Words

This past weekend in beautiful Solvang, California, I met a new pastry that Mr. Wonderful affectionately referred to as “a little doughy ball of pleasure” (to which I of course said, “Oh you’re my little doughy ball of pleasure!” and he said, “Doughy?” Anywhoo…) It’s a Danish breakfast treat called an aebleskiver.

Best word ever, right? I have officially added it to my personal dictionary and have been calling Mr. W, the cats and anything else that strikes my fancy, “Aebelskiver.”

This morning in the shower, I realized you can easily substitute my new favorite word into Lionel Richie’s Penny Lover and Peaches and Herb’s Reunited. (Sing it in your head right now: “Aebelskiver and it feels so good…”)

Past terms that have made it into my everyday vocabulary include:

Krayzelburg: Attributed to Soviet Olympic swimmer, Lenny Krayzelburg, and used as a synonym for ludicrous. I.e. “Getting back together with your db ex-boyfriend would be totally Krayzelburg.”

Radicchio: A synonym for Krayzelburg, this one is derived from the lettuce.

Kife: Back in high school, my friends and I watched The Breakfast Club about 487 times. There’s a scene where Bender (Judd Nelson) says to Brian (Anthony Michael Hall), “Can I have my doobage?” But he says it so fast, it sounds like “Kife my doobage?” We adapted this faux verb to mean “steal.” I.e. “Someone broke into my locker and kifed my Taco Bell hot sauce supply!”

Poptard: This is another newish one for me. I often refer to Mr. W or other friends by the tasty term of endearment, “Poptart.” However, sometimes people act a little retarded—in a lovable way of course—earning them the “PopTARD” moniker instead.

Help me out, folks—what are some of your silly words I can add to my list?

Romantimortification

I debated back and forth whether to write this post, and after carefully considering what it would feel like to put an extremely embarrassing moment out there in front of strangers, coworkers and high school friends, I realized a very important point: this has to happen to everyone.

I do not know how a moment like this can be avoided. Maybe I’m just telling myself that so I don’t feel alone. But it seems to me that every person, at some point in a romantic relationship, will have to jump this hurdle. And maybe for some of you, it might happen like this…

You are away for your second weekend with the guy of your dreams. You’ve spent the entire day drinking wine and acting schmoopy with each other. And you’re laying on the hotel bed, watching the Discovery Channel, resting before you leave for dinner. It’s all fantastic. But you’re feeling a little bloated. So you go to the bathroom. And you think, hmm he’s occupied with the TV, maybe I can very quietly and nonchalantly take care of business without him even noticing I’m gone. Sneaky poo, you might call it. Like the Stealth Bomber, you get in, you get out, you reach for a book of matches in your toiletry bag on the sink, light one, blow it out and turn to throw it in the trash. And when you turn back, he’s standing behind you, rifling through his toiletry bag. You feel your eyes turn saucer-sized at the sight of him. You’ve been caught.

“Did you just stink up the bathroom?” he grins. You whimper out an answer that sounds like “yesh” mixed with “waaaaaa.” All you can do is scamper past him and throw yourself, mortified—more like rigor mortisified because you fall so stiffly forward—onto the bed and bury your face in the pillows. Like a cat, hiding halfway under the couch, you think if you can’t see him, he can’t see you and it’ll all just go away.

But you hear him laughing, “Woo, yeah you did!” And although you try hard to camouflage your face-down, stiff as a board self into the color of the bedspread, he finds you and starts telling you it’s okay. And you can’t help yourself anymore, you start to laugh. And he laughs and he kisses you on the cheek. And then you realize that this probably isn’t any worse than the time you accidentally farted on his leg in your sleep...

This Is Why I Call Him…

Mom: Dirty Talk Ahead. Read At Your Own Risk.

Mr. Wonderful is taking me away this weekend to Santa Ynez. Being the most thoughtful guy ever, he planned this surprise trip as my birthday present. (There’s a whole back-story on this, involving a puzzle and Google Earth, but I don’t have time for that now.)

We’re going wine tasting, so he needs his nose and mouth to be in proper working order—but unfortunately, this week, he’s been feeling like he is coming down with a cold. So yesterday, we were discussing all the things he should be doing to get better (chicken soup, green tea, sleep). Our IM exchange went something like this:

Him: I think drinking plenty of wine will help.
Me: I think having plenty of s*x will help. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mom.)
Me: Maybe we could try to drink wine and have s*x at the same time and you’ll get better immediately.
Him: We could wear Camelbaks so we don’t spill.

And THAT is why he has earned the name Mr. Wonderful.

That’s What Friends Are For

Saturday night, my friend Lara and I had a karaoke party to commemorate our 32nd birthdays. About 45 minutes into the party and 6 minutes into a rousing rendition of Copacabana, I had the startling realization that I forgot to put on deodorant. (I later realized that I had in fact applied Degree, but it was earlier in the day when I had a different shirt on, therefore confusing my armpits' memory.)

Anyway, Mr. Wonderful hadn’t arrived yet, and I was sweating up a storm and really didn’t want to be stinky or have to go wash my underarms in the bathroom sink every 20 minutes throughout the rest of the night. So Lara offered up a brilliant solution.

She said, “Here, rub your armpits against mine and see if you can scrape off some of my deodorant.”

If that’s not true friendship, I don’t know what is. I just hope someone got a picture.

Happy Birthday, Lala!

Statute of Limitations on Dating

I’ve been dying to write about this for a couple of weeks now, but somehow time got away from me. Two Thursdays ago, a familiar old name appeared in my email inbox. We’ll say that name was Ira Rubenstein.

Ira and I met online about 3.1 years ago and went out on about 3.1 dates. On the first date, I thought he was funny (he told me I was so adorable he wanted to carry me around in a satchel – who says that?!) and cute (balding with a nice smile) and I was very taken with his creative career (camera man) and background (Art Center grad). All that mixed with a few glasses of wine led me to break one of my (always attempted) rules of dating: no kissing on night one. I had high hopes for date two, as we had gotten along so well on the first go. But night two seemed to be all about trying to seduce me—complete with some laughable dirty talk and a bit too much groping for my taste (sorry mom). Unsure of how to proceed, I told him I wanted to get to know him (not his tongue or trouser snake) better and asked if we could go hiking on date three. We went, and he tried hard to charm me with his life story, but there was just something amiss. When he called for date four, I gave him my standard break-up line, “I just don’t feel like I’m connecting with you in the way I’m looking to connect with someone.”

I thought we were done. But then he dumped the mother of all ridiculosos on me. He called me one day to tell me that he met Bono. Anyone who knows me knows that I think the sun rises and sets with dear Bono, so Ira was definitely trying to stick it to my sweet spot. He told me that B had flown in on his private jet to do some clean ocean PSA (what?! right—because that’s where his passion lies—in keeping the Southern California ocean clean…). And, THIS IS THE BEST PART, when Ira met my Irish Prince he said, “I’m a huge fan, but I know an even bigger fan.” Meaning me. SERIOUSLY. SERIOUSLY?! WHO WOULD SAY THAT IF THEY MET BONO? No one, that’s who.

So here it is, three years later and Ira emails me to see if maybe we can pick up where we left off. He seems to remember things being really great between us. And I think there should be a law in place that prevents dumpees like Ira from contacting their dumpers outside a 6-month window after the break-up.

It’s different when you’re the dumper. Then it’s okay to track someone down and say, “Man, I was in a bad place back then and I didn’t know what I had when I had it with you.” (Yes, I’ve done this before.) But to email someone who clearly did not want you THEN, well that’s just crazy talk. Or in this case, type.

Worst Blog Ever

My friend Jon just IMed me to tell me that the post below was my worst blog ever. Sorry, Jon but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.