Utter madness in New York this morning. I can’t get over those pictures of trees split in half, sidewalks slabs upended, and cars crumbled. Brooklyn and Staten Island seem to have gotten the worst of it but, hey, I’ve lived in both those places! That sort of thing doesn’t just, like, HAPPEN in those places! Even my two-hour trek to work — without subway service — was a minor inconvenience in comparison (and, really, my job is d-u-l-l these days … damn all my sources for going on vacation in the Hamptons or Tahiti or wherever the hell sources go in August).
The only thing that made me antsy was not being able to reach my boyfriend. He leaves for work at 6:30 am — right when the worst of the storm hit — and he didn’t answer a text or e-mail. Of course, in the end, he was just swamped with work, and I worried for nothing. But still. It’s my job to worry. That’s what girlfriends are for. He made me feel silly about it, but he actually admitted once that he likes knowing that someone cares about what he’s up to on a daily basis. You know, besides his mother.
Take our drunken spat from two weeks ago (I forget what prompted it). Scene: the back seat of a cab, driving home from a Lower East Side bar.
“Come on, you know I’m the best thing that ever happened to you,” he said in a huff.
“Well,” I spat back, jabbing my finger at him, “I think I’M the best thing that’s ever happened to YOU.”
“I agree.”
Stunned silence from me. “You …” I laughed tentatively, “agree?”
“I think we can both admit that our lives are better because the other is in it,” he said. “And really that’s what relationships are all about.” He shrugged. “And sex.”
Even our fights turn me into mush sometimes.
