Hi, I’m Back

I’m dead-tired today. I landed yesterday at 5 am, crawled under my covers at 6:26 am, and didn’t emerge until ten hours later, which turned out to be a big, fat problem when I needed to go back to bed at a Decent Hour in order to be at work today.

OK, so no one feels bad that I have jet lag. I mean, you shouldn’t. After all, I just got back from San Francisco where the weather was 75 degrees everyday, and I got to drink outdoors on a rooftop overlooking the city, and walk on the beach in November. Plus, on my last afternoon, I even rented a car so I could drive to the Pacific Ocean and just … and just … bask in it.

So there I was, driving my little red car down Geary Boulevard, the windows open, not a care in the world, and thinking, I wish this were my life. I wish I could stay here forever.

Coming home was tough. I mean, sleeping in my own bed is great. Being in the same time zone as my boyfriend is great. No longer having to eat alone in strange restaurants is great. But getting back to the daily grind? Ehhh ….

Not so great.

I really want to go away. I know I’ve been saying this forever. I’ve always worked for international companies, which means that about once the year I get the opportunity to transfer to a new office. And while I always say I want to do it, I inevitably chicken out at the last minute because I’m afraid I’ll miss my boyfriend and not make any new friends and be pathetically lonely and homesick with no one to talk to except the local bartender. So every year I opt to stay in New York, and spend the next 11 months wallowing in regret.

Look, New York is great. I was at a bar Sunday night, chatting with a young couple that happened to be sitting next to me. (Yes, I sometimes drink alone when I travel. What of it?) “What’s the best thing about New York?” the guy asked me. He’s never been here. The question threw me. What’s … so … great … about … New York. Well, nothing, I thought at first. San Francisco is much better. Look at your weather! Your flowers! Your huge organic supermarkets! But then I recanted. C’mon. Everyone knows New York is the greatest city that ever citied. We have the best restaurants, the best bars, the best museums, the best discount airlines, the best subway system, the best shopping, the best architecture, and the best energy of any city. So finally I said, “New York is great because we have everything you could ever want, and we do it better than anyplace else.” And it’s true. New York gets an A+ in being awesome.

But sometimes? I just want average. I want a little baby blue car, a house or apartment where I don’t constantly hear my neighbors, year-round spring weather, and a beach close by. And of course my same job and my same boyfriend and my same salary (but with a better cost of living.) Is that too much to ask?

Greatest City in the WORLD

I want to cry every time I get on the subway lately.  And this is coming from someone who’s lived her entire life in the city, riding the subway almost daily, and a fairly hardened New Yorker to boot.  But lately, every time I’m pushed into an overstuffed car, shmushed under some guy’s armpit (because he insists on holding onto a pole, even if it means sticking his arm over my head), unable to concentrate on my iPod because some teenager is playing his PSP on full volume, and breathing in air that someone else just exhaled … I want to break down and sob.  It’s only happened once — crying because I was so uncomfortable — but I think about it every single day.

I’m not sure what happened to New York.  I can’t tell if it’s me — if I’m getting older and crankier and increasingly “over” the city — or if the city reached a saturation point between the economic downturn of the early 1990s (when I was a kid) and the recent boom years of late.  Perhaps it’s a combination of both.  Or perhaps it’s the single-subway-line neighborhood I now live in; I was on the V-train last Friday during rush hour and remember thinking, I’m not having a panic attack!  I can BREATHE!

I know that I once I move in with Bateman I’ll be able to walk to work.  I savor that thought, and it’s the only thing keeping me from packing my bags and fleeing to rural Kansas.  But everyday, I confront a love-hate relationship with a city I once missed so acutely that my mom would send me the glossy New York Times real estate section in college.

I’m going to San Francisco in a couple of a days; I’ll be there for almost a week.  I am head over heels in love with San Francisco.  It has New York’s energy, its attitude, its quirkiness.  And yet it also has sky and space and breathtaking marina views and bright flowers and year-round spring weather and wineries and colorful buildings and neighborhoods that run from elegant to gritty and don’t all blend together in a tide of Starbuckses, Barnes & Nobles and Banana Republics.

Plus, they still love their cars there.  Just like the rest of California.  Only, you know, they drive Priuses.  And ZipCars.

If Bateman weren’t doing his residency in New York, I’d leave in an instant.  He’s the only “factor” I couldn’t replace if I left New York.  I have friends everywhere; my company has offices across the globe.  I could meet new people, find new haunts, connect with far-flung relatives.  I could be having an Adventure, instead of being suffocated here day in and day out.

Bateman knows I want to leave; I tell him constantly.  And he knows that I’m not bluffing these days either.  I didn’t want to move — not really — when I was offered that promotion in San Francisco, but the seed was planted.  Before then, I never would have even considered relocating, and now it’s my pet obsession (that, and having a car again.)  Given the chance, I think I really would do it, just to get away, just to do something different.  Just to BREATHE again.

“But you have a boyfriend here,” he says, “who loves you.”

How can I give up someone I care about so much it hurts?  The short answer is I can’t.  And maybe that’s where the crying comes from.

On Ice Cream (or, Attack of the Food Crazies)

Bateman, lovie, I adore you with all my heart, but when you bring home a carton of full fat chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, and we eat two neat little servings and put the rest away, and I say, “If you stay at my place while I’m in California, feel free to finish the ice cream,” what I really mean is that I’m going to eat the rest of the container the very next evening because, dude!, I’m starving on this diet, and there’s a carton of chocolate chocolate chip ice cream in my freezer (and not much else, see: diet, starvation). And hence I will be fat. And you will NOT LIKE IT.

That’s all, babe. Miss you LOTS.

The Countdown Begins

I woke up today in another GMNR. You see, I had been eagerly counting down the days until October 26. And I can now say, with October 26 finally behind me, that there are LESS THAN SIX MONTHS until Moving In With My Boyfriend Day. I thought I’d never get to this point.

And sure, it’s still a long way off, but when you consider that I’m only working a single, solitary full week this entire month (thanks to business trips and Thanksgiving), well, time is speeding along quite nicely.

It was a sweet weekend, yesterday especially. Yesterday was our routine of going to the gym together, and running errands together (new Pumas for me!), and cooking Chilean sea bass and mashed potatoes together. And then lying on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and thinking that I’m the only person in the world who gets to be this close to him. I know that moving in together doesn’t guarantee that everyday will be a Moment, but it does guarantee that when we do have those Moments, they won’t end with a kiss on his sleeping head and a whispered, “I’ll see you in two weeks, baby.”

Two. weeks. Yes, I’m excited about going to San Francisco. Yes, I’m excited about getting away from the office, and 70 degree weather, and visiting one of my favorite cities, and ending each busy (but productive!) day with a glass of wine, a guidebook and those big, fluffy hotel pillows.

But still. Two weeks is a long time to go without seeing one’s significant other, is it not?

OK, moving on. I got some ridiculous bite on my knee over the weekend. Apparently the mosquitoes in Manhattan don’t realize that it’s almost NOVEMBER and why the hell aren’t they all dead or hibernating? Also, they’re BIG. This bite must be an inch long. So gross. Be warned.

… And I Got to Wear My New Boots

For Halloween, Bateman and I dressed up as a duo from Beauty & the Geek … a joint costume — how disgustingly cute and couple-y is THAT?

G.M.N.R.

There was supposed to be a post between this one and the last one, but somehow (somehow! it wouldn’t have anything to do with copying it from a Word file, deleting the original, and then copying something else before I pasted it, would it? Naaaaah, who would do a thing like that?) it got lost.

It was mushy. It was about how I’ve been in a Good Mood for No Reason and how the weekend was perfect and how much I love my boyfriend.

I guess there is a reason for the GMNR, though. There’s my upcoming business trip to San Francisco (another one!) followed by one to South Beach (no, seriously.) There’s the new 4 lb laptop I bought that’s just so cute and little and adorable and perfect for all that traveling. There’s the nice weather (well, there was nice weather), complete with running in Central Park and walking arm-in-arm with Bateman in Central Park and twirling around with my arms outstretched in Central Park (ok, not really.) And now I’m eating chocolate-stuffed cookies from Argentina, which of course, don’t have calories or fat or anything because people in Argentina? Are gorgeous. (Also? My coworkers are awesome. And generous. And worldly.)

Speaking of which, one of my former coworkers brought her new baby to the office today. She was pregnant when I started here in June, and now she has this beautiful little son. Also, she looks great — which, I’m sad to say, was my first thought … wow, she looks really great, maybe this having a baby thing won’t be so bad.

Coupled with my newfound marriage fever is my newfound baby fever. I’m not sure where the hell it came from, since I’ve spent the last few years terrified – seriously, struck down with panic — at the thought of having children. But now? I don’t know. Maybe it’s Bateman, and being in love. Or maybe it was the colposcopy and the thought that if I’m strong enough to do that, maybe, just maybe, I’m strong enough to do this. Or maybe it’s how much I love my own family — the way I feel when we’re all sitting together in my grandfather’s living room, laughing, and joking, and playfully teasing each other. And in times of crisis, we support each other.

Maybe this is just what it means to be a grown-up. Maybe it’s that.

Anyway, I’m finding it really hard not to be antsy. I feel like I’m in a holding pattern — like until Bateman and I move in together, until he finishes residency, until we dance together at his friend’s wedding in April … I’m just going through the motions. There’s Big Stuff ahead — I can feel it – but until we get to it, I’m finding it really hard to enjoy the here-and-now.

So a GMNR? Dude, I’ll take it.

Five More

1) My whole body hurts today.  Merry joined me for kickboxing last night, where I pushed myself extra hard because, what can I say, I’m competitive.  There’s something to be said about this working out with a friend thing.  I thought I’d step on the scale today and be all skinny and what not, but alas, no, I gained a pound.  What the hell am I eating?  Was it the watermelon?  Damn you, watermelon … :::shakes fist:::

2) I’m slightly annoyed because I haven’t said more than four words to my boyfriend since Sunday (mostly “have a good night”).  He goes to bed at 9:30 and I get home at 8.  Plus we both like watching prime-time TV.   AND he’s on call today.  Dating a doctor SUCKS.  Do I complain about this enough?  ‘Cause it SUCKS. :::shakes fists:::

3) The weather is unbelievably amazingly beautiful today.  All I want to do is go outside.  Being outside is like crack today.  Or whatever drug makes you want to hug the entire world because, oh my god, this weather.  :::collapsing in a heap of sigh:::

4) I’m not a hugger.  I’m not one of those girls who hugs.  Or squeals.  Or shrieks.  Oh, but?  Remember those old TV shows from the 80s and early 90s, and whenever two people kissed, there was a “whooo” soundtrack?  My mom still makes that whooo noise.  For real.  This is quite embarrassing, and why I can’t watch Sex & the City with her. :::sadly shakes head:::

5) The alternative to being outside is being at work.  Making phone calls to people who most assuredly DON’T want their name in print.  Is “alternative” the right word when being at work is mandatory?  :::sadly shakes head even MORE:::

Ten Things

1) Have you ever worked really, really hard on something only to have your boss tell you that it’s not quite what she was looking for, and you have to start over at square one? That’s been my morning so far.

2) There’s a creepy guy in my office who’s always pacing and drumming on his desk. Last week he asked one of my coworkers if I’d date him. Actually, she corrected herself, “he was a lot cruder than that.” I’m a creepy guy MAGNET, I swear. If someone is creepy, geeky, or just plain loony, chances are, he has a crush on me. THIS IS MY LIFE.

(No wonder I’m so possessive about Bateman. I often wonder what’s wrong with him; he’s clearly the outlier in my relationship history.)

3) Does anyone else care about what they sleep in when they’re alone in their apartment? Last night I was wearing plaid boxer shorts, a blue and white polka dot flannel pajama top, and slouchy socks with yellow rubber duckies on them. One glance in the mirror, and I was like, I can’t sleep in this. This is wrong. I live alone, though. Who’s gonna care?

4) I can’t seem to regulate my own body temperature. I’m never comfortable. I’m either shivering under a dozen old-lady sweaters (seriously, I wear sweaters on top of sweaters on top of sweaters) or I feel like it’s a thousand degrees and I’m tearing off layers to get to my skivvies. Sometimes I think I spent half my life putting on and pulling off clothes. My boyfriend says all girls are like this.

5) I hate skiing. I wish skiing didn’t exist. I wish there were no such thing as skiing.

6) I’m all about the non sequitur.

7) I don’t know how to spell “non sequitur.” Merriam-Webster says that’s the right way. It looks wrong to me. I generally rock at spelling.

8 ) I have a girl crush on Tina Fey.

9) My celebrity crushes include Ken Jennings, Michael J Fox, Jason Bateman (hence the pseudonym I gave my boyfriend), and the judge from Night Court.

10) No wonder I seem to attract creepy guys. It all comes full circle.

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.

To Every Season

I’m usually a jeans-with-Pumas kind of girl, or maybe a skirt-with-ballet-slippers kind of girl, but I’ve never been a wrap-dress-with-high-heeled-boots kind of girl. Except, hiya, now I am.

And I’ve been prancing around Gramcery Park as if I were a goddamn contestant on America’s Next Top Model, checking myself out in every window reflection. And I feel pretty damn hot.

Which is GOOD, since I’ve been in utter and complete denial over the fact that summer is over. And, yes, I know summer has been over for weeks now, but that’s how completely I had turned a blind eye to this seasonal change. I wasn’t even acknowledging that summer might come to an end until about, oh, say, this past Friday afternoon.

Where did summer go? Does anyone else feel like they missed summer because it was here for like a minute and didn’t even have the decency to call and get a drink while it was in town? No, just me, huh? I gotta get out of the office more.

I kind of want to skip winter this year. Is that OK? I’m just not that into it. I’m not looking forward to staticky hair or people sneezing on me on the train or not being able to sit in the park during my lunch break. To be honest, I’m not even looking forward to the things I LIKE about winter — flannel pajama pants, hot apple cider, college basketball (OK, maybe that) — and I just want it to hurry up and pass through so we can get to the better stuff right-quick.

And that better stuff? Is moving in with Bateman. This past weekend, he surveyed my apartment and made fun of my stuff talked about how we’d set up our new abode. And I felt all tingly. I just get the feeling that living together is going to change EVERYTHING for the better; most importantly, it’s going to give us more time together and it’s going to show (because I’m CONVINCED) that we can live together without killing each other.

So WINTER is the only thing standing between me and my shiny, updated, glammed up relationship. And WINTER BETTER DAMN WELL FLY BY.

I’m getting EXTREMELY antsy about winter.

In the meantime, though, PEOPLE, I’ve discovered tights and knee-high-leather boots. And they are GOOD. So there’s that.