Life, In Three

1) I’m having a birthday party this weekend.

2) My boss suddenly has it in for me.

3) I’ll be in South Beach the rest of the week.

Tattler, out –

Hey! Guess what! I’m busy today!

There’s nothing I hate more than a slow day at work. (There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. I mean, who doesn’t love a good exception?) One, because slow days are, well, quite frankly, boring. And two, because I’ve started to feel guilty whenever I mention reading blogs at work and Bateman gives me this Look, like must be nice to have a job where all you do is surf the internet all day instead of, you know, SAVING LIVES, and I’m afraid he’ll dump me, because why can’t my girlfriend get a real job?

Clearly I have issues. Clearly.

Well, to be honest, I’ve always had trouble with this whole dating-a-doctor thing. First, there was the Bragging Stage, when I had to tell everyone (and I mean everyone – even our cab drivers knew) that my boyfriend was in medical school. That got old fast. He hated that. You’d be surprised how many people treat him differently once they find out what he does. People our age. They address him as “doc.” They make jokes about their blood alcohol levels. They ask him to look at their rashes.

Then there was the Squeamish Stage. That happened around the time he did his ob-gyn rotation. At 3 a.m. one night, my boyfriend delivered a baby. Let me say that again. Slowly. My boyfriend. delivered. a baby. Eww.

Then came the Jealousy Stage. I wrote LOADS of angst-y journal entries about the Jealousy Stage. My last job before this one? I didn’t like it. It wasn’t a good fit for me. I wondered a lot about where my career was going, and whether I was on the right “track.” And here was my boyfriend, about to graduate with a medical degree, with money, power, and prestige waiting in the wings … and I felt like I had nothing to offer in return. (This stage was subtitled the Insecurity Stage. Also: the Why I’m About to Get Dumped Stage.)

Then the Resentment Stage. (He never has any time for me! He thinks he’s such a bigshot! He won’t even write me prescriptions!) You guys remember this one. It was ugly.

And now? I think I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that my boyfriend has this big, important, weighty profession that defines him, and I … have a job that’s decidedly more 9-5. (In the figurative sense. But whether I clock out at 5 pm or 10 pm, I still leave the office … at the office.) On the other hand, I get to sneak him on business trips, bring home “toys” from press kits, and try out fancy restaurants (this one is mostly for me). So I guess it’s not so bad dating a journalist. Plus he gets to see my name in print! That’s gotta count for something.

The Little Things

I started my new job today. The company is British, which might explain why the “kitchen” is stocked with nothing but coffee and beer and there’s a foosball table in the break room. Or maybe the company is just quirky that way.

It’s too early to tell whether I like the job or not – I mean, I plan on liking it, but first days are always exhausting. Also, as proof of how hard it is to please me: even though I complained complained complained about boredom at my last job – and wanted to work long, important hours – now that I’m faced with long hours, I’m already sad about losing that extra time to go running in the park after work. Of course, I can still go running on the weekend – and I’d rather work long hours doing something I enjoy than get out at 5 p.m. on the dot feeling like I didn’t accomplish anything meaningful. And, really, if you want to get ahead in this world, you gotta put in the hours. So it goes.

Here’s something I also hear a lot: working long hours is good when your boyfriend is a first-year resident. This has been one of my ongoing insecurities (he’ll never have time for me!) and Bateman has been various shades of sympathetic and dismissive. “Goodbye, my love, I’ll miss you,” he mocked one morning last week, throwing his arms around my neck as we walked to the train. I rolled my eyes. Then he got serious. “This is not going to work if you resent me right off the bat.” (Then back to mocking, “Hey, now that you’re an important journalist, you’re going to be traveling all over the country – maybe even the world – WITHOUT ME.”)

The thing is, I don’t resent him – but I do resent feeling like a villain for wanting to spend time with my boyfriend. Also while he’s doing his best to convince me that it’s not as bad as it seems and everything will be a-ok! – well, all I really want to know is that he’s going to miss me too. That simple.

I’m Back

It’s been a crazy month. I was offered a new job (right here in New York, whatdaya know) — and I’m taking it — and right after that happened, I boarded a plane with Bateman to spend two weeks in Lisbon, Barcelona, and Madrid. Anyway, I plan to be good about this blogging thing now. Promise. Swear. Pinky-swear. Forgive me?

…

Phew.

I’ve been trying to recap Europe (to my coworkers, to my friends, to my family), with little success. How do I describe Spain and Portugal? Europe was … Europe was …

Well, Europe was gorgeous city views, winding cobblestone streets, and outdoor sidewalk cafes.

Europe was old monasteries, cathedrals, and defensive towers. Europe was modern apartment buildings, Gaudi architecture, and a beach(!) in downtown Barcelona.

Europe was days and days of sunshine and one big downpour in Lisbon.

Europe was standing on the grounds of an old castle on a hill while peacocks (peacocks!) chased each other nearby.

Europe was a Michelin-star restaurant, a tapas bar crawl, and getting addicted to tortilla espanola (otherwise known as the Best Food Ever Invented.)

Europe was hot sex in the shower.

Europe was Bateman holding me in bed on one of our last nights, whispering, “You’re the best, you know that? When someone asks you where you rank, you tell them, ‘I’m the best.’” (“You’re the best,” incidentally, were the three words he whispered before his first unprompted “I love you” last month.)

Europe was laughing during landing — not worrying about the plane crashing.

Europe was lots of wine. LOTS of wine. And deciding there is no place better to drink than on top of something. With a view.

Europe was a sign in our hotel room (on the safe) that said, “Management is not responsible for the eventual robbery in your room.”

Europe was our flight getting cancelled in the shady Lisbon airport and no way to get out of the country that day without dropping $522. Europe was both of us agreeing at the same instant that it was worth the money.

Europe was Turkish baths and our first massages.

Europe was accidentally crashing a swanky rooftop party for Hpnotiq liquor and mingling with the young, hip, and beautiful.

Europe was seeing my new employer on news stands EVERYWHERE. Without, of course, having to worry about work.

… So of course I’m bummed about having to come back. Who wouldn’t be? I already had my first Bateman-is-mine-ALL-MINE freak-out (in my head, privately, thank god) when he went to the beach with his friends the next day (without me, of course, wah, wah, wah, blah, blah, blah.) (And was relieved to find out the next day that I’m actually not crazy, just hormonal.) But the point holds. I’m in a funk. Call it the post-vacation blues.

Separately, I had my goodbye lunch today, and you know how much I now feel like doing work? Yeah, exactly. Goooodbye to me.

Woman of the World

So I need to be straight with you guys.  The LA offer wasn’t an offer per se; it was more like they were asking if I wanted to be considered.  With other candidates.  And I said I did.  Obviously.  That part was true.  Now they’re saying they need a few more weeks to think about things, and am I interested only in LA or perhaps a Chicago position instead?  Right now I’m interested in everything and anything because, hey, after all this moving-related soul-searching, SOMETHING better come out of this.

Also, I’m getting tired of the interview grind: writing the Perfect Cover Letter, photocopying clips and extra resumes copies, getting dressed up in a suit, missing work (you know, shafting the employer who actually pays the bills), taking the editing test, writing the thank you note, and endlessly waiting for the phone to ring.  It’s exhausting.  EXHAUSTING.

Moreover, just like I suspected, I’m all Los-What? after seeing my boyfriend (let’s call him Bateman) again.  I don’t want to think about work (ANY work) — I just want to spend every hour over the next two months lying out in the sun with him.  (Well, maybe not EVERY hour.  I’d be really burnt then, and my red-headed boyfriend would be one giant freckle.)  Fortunately, I’m taking off a whole NINE DAYS this month.  And I will spend the totality of those nine days (and then some) with Bateman.  I just need to get through the days I DO have left.

Make-Believe

There are Legitimate Reasons not to move to LA, just like there were Legitimate Reasons not to move to San Francisco last year. But I can’t say I ever stopped second-guessing that decision. Three months ago, when everything seemed to be going wrong, ALL I WANTED was a dream job in California. To get back that chance. For a do-over on the Road Not Taken. And now here’s my dream job in California.

Unfortunately, though, I also got all my OTHER dreams at the same time — like a romantic trip to Europe next month and the end of a long distance relationship with my boyfriend and a separate interview with another Kickass Company. Why is life so crazy? Don’t the karma gods know I might want these things but I want them ONE. AT. A. TIME? Why do things have to be either all good or all bad?

… Which doesn’t mean I can’t pretend like I’m moving to LA, however. At a party last night, I told EVERYONE about the job offer. (Like, all four people I knew there.) I mean, it’s a really good offer. And it’s LA! It’s glamorous! In my heart of hearts, though, I must not believe it’s actually going to happen. Because later in the evening, as I was talking about the aforementioned end of my long distance torture, someone said, “Well, at least until you move to LA …” And then I realized: Oh, honey, don’t worry, moving to LA is just pretend.

Until I begin to regret it three months from now.

In Which I Get What I Wish For … Sorta

I was offered a job in LA. L. A. L! A! Just to be clear, I didn’t apply for a job in LA. I applied for a job in New York. And they rejected me. Rejected! Apparently they didn’t like me enough to hire me in my own backyard, but yesterday I got a phone call asking if I’d be willing to relocate to California. Just to be clear, I’ve never even BEEN to LA. Not once. Not even when I was a kid, not even the airport.

Part of me is super excited. L! A! The City of Angels. Or, at least, the City of Gorgeous Weather, Beaches, and Cars. My three favorite things, incidentally. And how often does a company offer to send you on a cross-country adventure?

Well, apparently, the answer is twice. Because last year I was in THE EXACT SAME SITUATION. Last year I was offered a promotion in San Francisco, a city I actually HAD visited and really, really liked. A lot. And I turned it down. Because of a boy. (Well — officially — for a number of Legitimate Reasons. But also because of a boy.)

A boy I’m still dating. A boy my dad really, really likes. And because my dad really likes this boy, he thinks moving to California is the Worst Idea Ever. My dad wants me to marry this boy so he can finally have that son he always wanted. Someone with whom to go fishing, watch baseball, talk about medicine, play poker, and barbecue. Also complain about women. (I have two sisters.)

The thing is, when I told this boy about California, he said nothing. Nothing! Or nothing more than: that’s exciting, I hear the weather is nice, now I have to go watch sports. That kind of nothing. How do I plan a future around a boy who goes mute whenever I ask him to talk about Feelings? How much longer can I put my life on hold without some sort of Grand Commitment?

My dad wants me to gamble on my career to pursue my relationship. I’d prefer to gamble on my love life to pursue my career. In L! A!