Memorial Day

Memorial Day weekend is over, and at this time last year, so was my relationship. Seems like a lifetime ago. I almost feel like I imagined it. Him. The ring. The move. Everything.

And then I remember… I didn’t.

That weekend was 72 long hours of misery. I was in a town where I knew no one. And anyone I DID know would surely have noticed that I no longer had my ring on. I wasn’t prepared to handle what that meant.  I was frozen.

So I stayed alone inside a condo in limbo. I’d unpacked most of my stuff, but not everything. We’d started painting the place, but never finished.  It was torture -- waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now, here we are a year later.  My family and friends have been so sweet about checking in on my schedule this weekend (and I love them for it) because they were worried about me.

But I’m actually good.

It’s been a YEAR. FINALLY! So I can stop thinking, “A year ago at this time, we [insert incredibly sad memory].”  I’m positive he moved on AGES ago -- before we even broke up, I'm guessing.  And I’d be lying if I said I never thought about him. I do.

(Not in a get-back-together kind of way -- you don't get to set someone's life on fire and come back from that.  Ever.) 

But whenever I do think about him, it annoys me. I look back at how devastated I was, how much blame I gave myself, how humiliated I felt. I was sick to my stomach. Used. Spent.  What I really wish I felt was anger!

Here was a grown man who came on like gangbusters, aggressively pursuing me at all stages of our relationship to the point that he proposes after just 7 months. His family even threw us an engagement party! He lets me give up my whole life to move in with him, and then has the nerve to change his mind.

Me and YOU? Oh.  Yeah... not so much.

There was virtually no emotion.  On his end, anyway.  The best explanation he could muster was that he was “done.”  He thought as a couple, we worked on Tuesdays and weekends, but we did not work every day.

Newsflash: Relationships are every day. So are marriages.

Anyway, you might recall that my very first breakup post was named for a song that I couldn’t get out of my head. Let You Down by Dave Matthews. I don’t even know what the lyrics mean, to tell you the truth. Interpreting songs has never been my strong suit. But “I let you down” rang in my ears over and over and over again while I packed my things.

At the time, I couldn’t find a picture to depict how I was feeling, so it’s the only post I’ve ever written without one. I won’t post a picture here either, but I will post a video:




Every time I hear Rolling in the Deep by Adele, I wish this song was invented at the time of my breakup. It would have been a FAR better anthem. She gets it. The anger over what could have been. And what never was.

“We could have had it all.” I understand THAT. And don't think I haven't been tempted to "lay his shit bare."

The fact is, if we could have had it all… we would have. I wish I knew this back then, it would've saved me a lot of tears. But I know it now.

All these months later, I'M the one who's "done." Finally.


tags: breakup

Thinking Out Loud

I thought about not writing this post, but I have a confession to make.

I cried 3 times this week.

The 1st time, I was on my way to work, crossing 42nd Street, near the Vanderbilt entrance of Grand Central. Forever, by Chris Brown was playing on my iPod (I like him when he's not beating women or destroying property or generally being an ass). The 2nd time, I was sitting on my couch, watching the Big Love series finale. Bill Hendricks (spoiler alert!) was dying on the ground, and using his last breath to ask for a blessing from his first wife, Barb. The 3rd time, I was in my office, reviewing a video submitted by a groom-to-be for a contest we are running. The guy was talking about his first date, and how he “just knew.”

At first, I couldn’t understand why I’ve been so emotional lately. I haven’t cried in ages! Besides, I just got home from a super fun trip to Wilmington and Philly with my good friend. My parents were about to come into town to meet my new little nephew for the first time. Work’s been insane, but is going really well. I’m still totally loving my iPhone. And, of course, Dancing with the Stars is back.

What could possibly be wrong?

Then, I realized a year ago today, I moved in with my ex-fiance. And all those things -- that entrance, that song, that show, and that first date feeling when you think you “just know” -- reminded me of him.

During my last week in the city, he brought me flowers, like he did most every Tuesday. If I’d known that would be the last time he'd give me flowers, I would’ve paid more attention to what they looked like. But I do remember that I put them in a glass pitcher because all my vases were packed.

Piles of cardboard boxes, stacked 6 feet high, were scattered all over my apt. So rather than order in that night like we usually did, we went to dinner at the Italian restaurant up the street. We shared a square pizza with double pepperoni. Our usual order.

I remember so clearly sitting across the table from him. I was trying to soak in every minute of our last day in NYC. Of course we’d be back, but never again as 2 people on the verge of beginning their lives together. It was such a HUGE step for me, but I was absolutely certain it was the right one. Even though we didn’t have a wedding date yet, we DID have a moving date. And at the time, that was all I needed.

He insisted that I hire movers, which was a good idea in retrospect. So I spent my tax return on it. That was like free money anyway, right? When moving day came, we decided it was best to divide and conquer – I was with the movers in NYC, he was with my brother and a van up in CT, transporting all our extra stuff to a storage unit. About halfway through the day, we met up outside his condo. He and my brother were waiting for everything to arrive so they could make another trip to storage. I hopped out of the taxi I’d taken from the Stamford train station, and I was smiling from ear to ear.

My brother would later tell our mom that he’d never seen me happier.

It was around 5pm that night when my ex finally came through the door. I was in his condo, surrounded by my boxes. He went for the couch and I snuggled in right beside him. I wanted to kiss and pop champagne. I wanted to jump up and down and celebrate. I wanted to take a picture to remember that moment forever.

He did not. 

He said moving stressed him out. So there was no kissing, no champagne, no jumping, no photos. Thinking about how crushed I felt that day still brings tears to my eyes. Obviously. And, as you know, it was all downhill from there.

Like I said earlier, I thought about not writing this post. In part, because I'm doing SO much better and dwelling in the past over a relationship that wasn't real is unhealthy. Plus, I haven't cried about this breakup since November when I was contacted by someone who was connected to him.  Hearing from this person was totally shocking, but ultimately reaffirming and kind.

It provided me with some closure, for which I was grateful, but it stirred up a slew of old emotions too. 

So to write about this relationship again now, all these months later, means admitting that it still gets to me. I guess the truth is, it does. But not in the way you might think.

What upsets me most, is that I’ll never get to experience that first time again. The moment I’d been waiting my whole life for: Two lives becoming one. To think something that carried such incredible meaning for me was treated so carelessly and dismissed so casually makes me upset.  And it makes me angry.

I'd really love to stop remembering these painful milestones.  Just wipe my memory clean.  Because even when I don't think I'm thinking about it, clearly on some level I still am.  Maybe it's inevitable, but I hope I just need to start making new memories in order to forget the old ones.  And then I can close this chapter. 

For good.

But for now... it helps to write about it.  Thanks, as always, for listening.


tags: breakup

Time

Six months ago today, I took my engagement ring off. Well, actually, slammed it down on a coffee table, if you want to be accurate about it.

It seems like yesterday, and like a lifetime ago.

If you told me when I woke up that my day would end like that, I'd have laughed, even though we’d been “off” since the minute I moved in. We weren't always like that, mind you. For the majority of our relationship, we were great.  But once we lived together, we stopped communicating (except to bicker about home improvement), he stopped bringing me flowers (he used to give me a bunch every Tuesday like clockwork), he took off the ring I’d given him (which he once said meant so much). He refused to attend family functions. He stopped opening doors, holding hands, you name it.

Whether he lost that loving feeling on his own, or it was a reaction because he thought I'd lost it first, one thing was clear: He was not interested in me. At all.

Our entire relationship went downhill the day the moving truck pulled up. At the time, I spoke to friends who said this was normal -- part of the growing pains of living together. I spoke to him about it too.  And at first, he was apologetic -- I deserved better, he said. Then, he started ignoring the situation entirely, like it was all in my imagination. Finally, we started to argue.

I’d just assumed we would work everything out. Instead, it blew up after just 2 months of living in his home.

What’s funny is I actually thought things were getting better.  We’d just celebrated our 1 year “winkiversary” with a day trip to Mohegan Sun and then had brunch in Stamford. Money was tight, so instead of getting him the biggest external hard drive I could find for his extensive music collection (a thoughtful, if not romantic, gift), I settled on a card, which professed my love for him and reiterated my commitment to our relationship.

Two days before I took my ring off, he made a detour on the way home from picking me up at the train station. I’d been coughing for a while, so he decided it was time for me to see a doctor. “Someone needs to take care of you, for a change,” he said. As it turned out, I had bronchitis, but when we left the dr's office, I felt better. He does care about me, after all, I thought.

Then that very day, May 27th, I’d purchased his Father’s Day gift -- 2 season passes to a water park out on Long Island, where his family has a house. One for him and one for his daughter. She’d talked all winter long about taking me there so we could ride on the lazy river and eat churros together. I’d probably only have gone a few times at most, but since they spent summers out there, I thought they could really make good use of the tickets and have some fun.

I look back on that now and wonder when exactly he decided I wouldn’t be around come summer.

The end of my relationship began with a very simple question: “What are we doing this weekend?” It was Memorial Day and I was looking forward to a few days off, together, to continue what I thought was us reconnecting.

“I’m going to Long Island,” he replied firmly.

Something about the way he said it just didn’t sit right with me. So I paused a minute and asked, “Wait, YOU’RE going to Long Island, or WE’RE going to Long Island?”

“I’M going to Long Island,” he repeated. And with those 5 words, my world began to crumble.

He needed some space, he said, to decide whether or not we should continue this relationship. Nevermind, that the place he was going to clear his head would likely be chock full of people, dogs, and a baby. He didn’t need quiet time to think. He needed to get away from me.

Not long before this, I’d gotten an email from the catering manager at Metrazur, the restaurant where I’d hoped to host our wedding reception. It overlooks Grand Central Terminal, the same place where our relationship began. It would have been a lovely and romantic place to get married (pity you couldn’t make it). Anyway, she’d invited us to come in for dinner to try their food out before putting any deposits down. At the time, he brushed it off, but that night, he brought it up again.

“And YOU want us to have dinner there?” he stood to emphasize the point, practically laughing at how naïve I was. “WE’RE NOT GETTING MARRIED!”

Well, this was news to the World’s Dumbest Fiancée! At that moment, the tears stopped and my blood began to boil. I could not believe my ears. In the very same spot where he once proposed, he ended our relationship. Talk about coming full-circle.

I yanked the ring off my finger, slammed it down on the table and yelled, “Well then why the FUCK am I wearing this?”

I never saw the ring again.

I spent that weekend alone, in his condo, while he was off “thinking.” He left me his car, but I had nowhere to go. Pathetic, I know. Whenever I’ve told this story to my family and friends, invariably, the person asks, “Why didn’t you call me??”

The answer is that I thought he would come back.

I don’t know what it’s like for guys, but for girls, I think Hollywood has us convinced that guys come back. Time and again. Generally with grand romantic gestures. You know how it goes. He does something rash, he is miserable, the music swells, and he admits his life would be nothing without her. Then they kiss. The end.

Well, maybe I AM a moron because I truly thought the same would happen with us. I didn’t want to bring everyone into the drama, only to have him come back, sorry and looking to reconcile. “Yeah, um, you know that guy who made me cry that you now hate? Ooops, just kidding! Oh, and thanks again for the soup tureen -- the wedding's gonna be awesome!”

No! I wanted them to like him! So I said nothing, until I knew it was over.

That took a week.

An excruciating week. I wanted to fight for our relationship and fix things. He did not. I said I still loved him. He wasn’t sure. In the end, he wasn’t conflicted. He wasn’t emotional. He wasn’t sorry. And he certainly wasn’t the guy I fell in love with. He was just done. “Turned off,” in his words.

It’s funny, because he came into this relationship like he'd hitched a ride on the Acela. I came in on a Schwinn. Anyone you talk to would agree, I was so cautious. He set the pace on EVERYTHING -- and it was fast. He arrived at every relationship milestone, big or small, before I did. And while I was always playing catch-up, I actually enjoyed it, in a weird way. I’d finally met a guy who was upfront about how he was feeling. I could trust that, and just figure out how I felt. Knowing this, I suppose I should have seen it coming that he would also be the one to end things.

That’s a milestone too, right? Maybe more like a tombstone…

Anyway, I know, there are 3 sides to this story -- my side, his side, and the truth. I’m sure I made mistakes and I'd imagine that in his mind, the way he broke up with me is justified. And who knows? Maybe his family and friends were as glad to see me go, as mine were to see him go. He had a few big issues looming over his life before we ever met. None of which were my doing. But all of which I stupidly tried to help fix.

Big mistake. 

We haven't had any contact since June, and I suspect we won’t ever. To me, he's a heart-breaking memory. And I’m pretty sure I’m dead to him, if he thinks of me at all. It's just as well. I suppose if he’s done me ANY favors in all of this mess, it’s that. None of those pesky, regrettable text messages or phone calls that drag on for months  In that sense, it was a clean break. But only in that sense.  And while my relationship ended 6 months ago when I took my ring off, it wasn’t until I moved back into my own apt that I officially started thinking clearly.

I got my life back in August. Now it’s time to move on with it. Again. To meet new people. Again. To date. Ugh.

Again.

I should probably issue an apology to the first 5 guys I meet. It won’t work out. And it’s not them -- it’s me. No REALLY, it’s me. I wish somebody made dating palette cleansers. Just pop a few to wash away the past and be minty-fresh for the future.

The thought of dating anyone new once made me sick to my stomach. I still don’t love the idea, but it’s time. Time to dust off those dreadful online dating profiles and open the floodgates to all freaks and losers who live within a 50 mile radius. Maybe I'll find a gem in there.

You know, winter’s coming up -- if I’m lucky, I’ll meet a guy that still believes in that grand romantic gesture. Like peeing my name in the snow.

And when things get more serious, and I’m ready to invite him over for dinner, I’ve got just the dish. There’s a famous recipe called Engagement Chicken. It originally came from the Barefoot Contessa. Legend has it that staffers at Glamour magazine would whip this up for a cozy dinner at home with their boyfriends, and poof! He’d pop the question.

I won't be making that.  But a hearty helping of PLEASE Don’t Be An Asshole Pork Chops just might be in order.

Wish me luck...


tags: breakup, dating

Home Sweet Pineapple

I moved back into my old apartment this weekend. It feels good to be back in NYC. I don’t belong in CT anymore. Maybe I never did.

As you know, this was my 3rd move in 5 months. Losing everything at once -- my home, the man I loved, and the family we were creating -- was almost unbearable. So there isn't a big enough word to describe the relief I'm feeling right now.

I am home. Finally.

I have my stuff back. Finally!

And I can move on -- FINALLY -- from what has been the worst summer of my life.

It's almost surreal.  I feel like I want to swallow my key so no one can take it away from me. And I just might (if I smother it in cheese first).

I lived with my brother, sister-in-law, and niece for 10 weeks.  Ironically, that's EXACTLY as long as I lived with my ex-fiance. Hardly seems like any time at all, in the scheme of things, you know?

I know the only way I was able to get through any of this was with their support. Welcoming me into their home without any idea of how long I would need to stay was an incredible gesture that I will never forget. They were there for me in ways I didn't know were even possible. It definitely brought us closer together.

I will miss so many things. Our Sunday family dinners. And watching Sesame Street every morning with my niece. Actually, I won’t miss any of those things because I’ll be back often -- but as a visitor!

Now, I know there’s been some concern over whether coming back to my apt would stir up too many memories, but I’m glad to say it’s no more than usual. And I haven’t cried in 2 days. That’s got to be worth something, right? Plus, the building made some changes -- they removed the doors from my kitchen, changed the kitchen sink faucet, gave me a new peephole, and new blinds. The roof deck is now open. They even paved 2nd ave for me. And I’ve replaced all of my bright red accessories with things that are soothing blue.  It’s like a totally different place. So I can totally forget.

Sort of.

Anyway, when I decide to try this relationship thing again -- IF I decide to try this again -- God help the poor guy. Seriously. Aside from my brand-new RAGING trust issues, there are about 50 people he's going to have to assure that he won't break my heart or else they just might break his legs.

Eh. Maybe I'll save everyone the trouble and just become a nun.

But only if I get to keep my apartment.

PS: If you’re wondering what’s up with this picture, it’s Spongebob Squarepants’ home because I’m also thinking of a very special Spongebob fan who turned 8 today. Even though I can’t be a part of her life anymore, I hope she knows I loved her very much and would have absolutely adored being her step-mom. I hope she doesn't miss me at all, but I miss her tons.

PPS: Now that my life is back in order, I can officially look forward and stop looking back. This means no more posts about my breakup or my relationship. You can be the judge of how successful I am at that...


tags: breakup, city life, family

Birthday Wishes

Today is my birthday.

I love my birthday. While I absolutely hate aging, the presents and the cake help me forget that fact. I guess that’s the point.

I moved into NYC on my birthday weekend in 2008, exactly 2 years ago. I was turning 35, which sounded SO old at the time. Mid-30s. Ick.

I’d been living in Pine Brook, having spent the better part of the previous 3 years taking care of my mom. My parents just retired to Florida back in 2005, when she came down with a severe case of rheumatoid arthritis. It’s a crippling auto-immune disease, which attacks the joints and makes even the most simple tasks -- tying your shoes, buttoning your shirt, cutting your food, walking -- incredibly painful, and sometimes downright impossible.

Her illness came on like a freight train, and I did the only thing I knew to do. I brought them back home.

Those 3 years were tough, no question, but it was worth it, because with the help of chemotherapy, my mom is now doing much better managing this illness, and my parents are now back in Florida full-time. So my birthday weekend in 2008 was a time of celebration -- a fresh start for all of us. We were all getting our lives back and starting on a new adventure -- me in New York and my parents in Florida. It was exciting!

And it WAS a great year -- my mom’s health improved, my beautiful niece was born, and I’d met someone.

Last year, when I turned 36, my birthday fell on a Monday. August 3, 2009. I’d just come off a weekend of celebrating with my family and friends in Fairfield, CT, and was taking a train back to the city on Sunday afternoon. My ex-fiance (my boyfriend at the time), met me on the train as we passed through Stamford. I couldn’t WAIT to see him.

Just a few days earlier, he’d told me he loved me for the first time. We were on the phone, actually saying goodnight, when he blurted it out. I was totally taken off-guard. I even think it surprised him. At the time, I wasn’t ready to say it back -- over the phone just didn’t feel right. But sitting on that train next to him, I knew I too was in love and I couldn’t wait to get back to my apartment to tell him.

My birthday came at an early stage in our relationship -- I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He poured his heart out in a card, where he promised to be mine. Always. He gave me two CDs he made for me -- the beginning of our Infinite Playlist. And he gave me a gorgeous silver cuff bracelet. Those things meant so much to me, but the ultimate birthday present was him. Finally having someone to share my life with. Someone to love. Someone who loved me back.

That was the most precious gift of all.

I’ve been lucky enough to have some amazing birthdays. I’ve gotten cars for my birthday. Twice! I’ve had surprise parties thrown for me. I’ve been sailing on a boat in Newport on my birthday. I’ve gotten iPods and TVs and handbags and presents in little blue boxes. I’ve eaten more cheesecake than any person should (always plain, always New York style, occasionally with strawberries or cherries -- on the side), and each year, my wish was the same: I wished I would find someone to grow old with. And I did! I thought my birthday couldn’t get any better than this.

It was #1 with a bullet.

So here I am. It’s 2010, I turned 37 today and NO part of me feels like celebrating. The card I got last year is packed away in a storage unit in Norwalk, CT, the box is labeled “Don’t Open This.” When I left his condo, I placed the bracelet and a stack of CDs -- each one professing his love for me -- on the dresser, along with a few other reminders I couldn't keep. This was all supposed to be SO different. I was supposed to be days away from getting married to a man I thought was the love of my life. It turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

And now, on Day 1 of a new year, I’m completely overwhelmed by the thought of restarting my life.

Again.

Especially since I just DID that 2 years ago. And there were tears that day, too, but they were happy tears.  I just can’t muster up the enthusiasm for a celebration this year.  I will make 3 wishes, though. And I know you aren’t SUPPOSED to share your wishes, or else they won’t come true. But keeping my birthday wishes to myself didn’t exactly make them come true either. Obviously. So, here goes:

I wish I could not cry once for an entire week. Hell, I’d even take an entire day.
I wish I can find the strength to look forward and trust my own instincts again.
I wish I will find the courage to date someone new and believe what he says.

Maybe by the time I turn 38, these wishes will become reality. Time will tell…

 
tags: breakup, holidays

Grab Your Things, I’ve Come To Take You Home

My apartment search hit a major snag this week.

After combing the city for a new place to call home, I’d finally settled on a brand new neighborhood. The Upper West Side. It would be a fresh start with no memories of tables for two at the local Italian restaurant, or walking down the street hand in hand on the way home, or stopping for a quick smooch at a red light.

A clean slate.

And in that new neighborhood, I found the holy grail of New York City real estate (aside from a rent controlled apartment, which I actually DID find, but it was a 6th floor walkup with no sink in the bathroom -- someone would have to pay ME $1100/mo to live there, not the other way around). I found a brand new building. Ahhhhhh.

New floors that nobody put their stinky feet on. New toilet that nobody put their sweaty ass on. New refrigerator that nobody put their sloppy leftovers in. All. Mine.

Sure, there were some concessions I would have to make. For starters, it was smaller than my last apartment, so I would continue to pay for a storage unit because all my stuff wouldn’t fit. Oh, and I’d need to downsize my bed from a queen to a full because the sleeping alcove was smaller than my last apartment. Plus, I’d need to factor in a commute because it wasn’t within walking distance to work, like my last apartment was. And it was $200/mo more expensive than my last apartment after I’d negotiated that sweet $500/mo decrease. Ok. But it was NEW. I’m a sucker for anything new.

New neighborhood. New apartment. New life.

Did it feel like home? No. But no place I visited did. So I applied for apt 6D. And one day ticked by. Then two. Then four. Then, I got concerned. So my broker contacted the office and found out that they needed to investigate my application.

Hmmm. Well, I did have FOUR different addresses on the application and the support materials: I had a NJ driver’s license with my Pine Brook (#1) address -- that expires in August, and I’d held off on updating it, not for my love of Jersey, but because I thought I’d be getting married next month and would have a new name in addition to my change of address (turns out, um, not so much). On the application, I’d listed my current address as Fairfield, CT (#2), which is true, but because I’ve only been here for 2 months, I had to list my previous address too.  Since that was Stamford, and I was only THERE for 2 months, I skipped back in time and listed my New York City (#3) address instead. But my bank statement had my Stamford, CT (#4) address, the most recent statement available was for June and the bank hadn’t updated their records yet -- we only officially broke up on June 2nd. Turns out my credit report listed Stamford too.

So… it looked shady.

So shady, in fact, that they thought I’d been evicted from my NYC apartment. EVICTED! How f’ed up is THAT???

This breakup just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it? So, they had to validate my banking information. Fine, my bank confirmed I have an account with enough money to cover the security deposit and 1st month’s rent (and not a penny more). And, then my job confirmed that I am employed and my salary is exactly what I said it is. But when they went to confirm my rental history with my old apartment building, nobody would call them back.

That didn’t exactly help my case.

Finally, a full week after submitting the application, I’d had enough. I asked my broker to push it -- to just find out what it would it take to move this forward TODAY. So she did. The girl in the office went to her manager, who went to the building’s owner, in the hopes that he would override the need to verify my rental history. After all, I’m 36 years old, I have a good job and I pay my bills on time. That should be enough, right?

Wrong.

He looked at the application, and decided he felt uncomfortable with it. It looked out of the ordinary with all the addresses in such a short time. Who moves that often? Plus he didn't like my debt (nevermind that a good chunk of it is as a result of all these RIDICULOUS moves).  If I didn’t get evicted, then maybe I skipped out on the rent. What if I did the same to him?

Now, it didn’t matter if my old building returned their calls to confirm I was a good tenant. Now, I needed a co-signer because I was deemed unreliable.

Say WHAT?

I was devastated after hearing this. Ok, fine, so maybe I wouldn’t get THIS apartment. I could live with that. But under these circumstances, what if I couldn’t get ANY apartment, because who’s to say that I wouldn’t encounter the same questions no matter where I applied? I felt sick to my stomach. A person can only take so much, and I’d reached my absolute limit. I came home from work on Thursday night, went straight to bed, and sobbed myself to sleep.

On Friday morning, I went to work in a fog. I texted with a dear friend of mine, who generously offered to co-sign for me. I called my mom, who told me to tell the new building to stick it, and then go back and clear up any trace of that Stamford address -- on my bank statement, credit report, whatever -- then get a Fairfield license so everything would match, and start again. And I had lunch with my aunt, who offered to go to the building with me and explain the moving expenses and why I’d had so many addresses, surely they would understand.

All these options felt awful.

It got me to thinking. Why do I need to restart my life? He didn’t. There’s one less person in the bed next to him. He orders 1 medium pizza for dinner instead of 2. But really, his life has gone on largely uninterrupted. Mine, on the other hand, was shredded... And that's not me being dramatic. It's just a fact.

But what was WRONG with my old life? I got along perfectly fine on my own. Maybe instead of a restart, what I really needed was to pick up where I left off -- before we ever met.

So around 3pm, I googled my old apartment building. At least THEY knew I wasn’t shady and I paid my rent on time. I originally wanted to live ANYWHERE but there, so it was the first time I’d looked it up. But lo and behold, out of the 279 apartments in my old building, there were just 2 alcove studios showing as available -- and 1 of them was my ACTUAL APARTMENT. Like it was sitting there, waiting for me.

I immediately went over to the building. It turns out someone moved into my old apartment shortly after I left. They lived there almost 3 months and moved out only a few days ago. The new rent on my old place was now $325 more per month than I was paying, PLUS I’d already paid a $2500 lease-break penalty to move out back in March, but I didn’t care. So I filled out a new application. And got APPROVED on the spot. 

Co-signer my ass…

I won't be moving in for a few weeks, while they paint and clean the apartment.  So he gave me the option to come back later to sign the lease. “No thanks,” I said, “I’ll sign it now.” He said I could come back next week to drop off the 1st month’s rent. “No thanks,” I said, “I’ll write you a check now.” I even booked the elevator time. I don’t trust ANYTHING anymore. I was leaving nothing to chance.

I’m the kind of girl who looks for signs. If it wasn’t enough that my actual apartment was available, or that I'd originally moved into this place 2 years ago almost to the day, or that the check I wrote was #2873 (28 is my apt number and I was born in 73), or that the doorman greeted me with a giant, “welcome home!” when I entered the lobby, then all I need to do is look at the name of the building’s leasing agent to know this is the right move. He is the same guy I renegotiated my rent with last August. The same guy I gave my notice to last February. And the same guy I signed my new lease with on Friday.

His name? Paul.

You know, I lost a lot in this breakup. Too much to mention here. But the biggest loss was my home. Intentional or not, he took that from me.

I’m taking it back.


tags: breakup, city life

The Perfect Storm

This morning I received an automated email reminding me about a concert I'm going to tonight. Cool. Except one thing...

I'm not going to a concert tonight.

In February, my then fiance told me how much he wanted to see Dave Matthews again this summer. I knew he couldn't afford the tickets at the time, so I bought 4 -- 2 for us, and 2 for his sister and brother-in-law, as a thank you for some tickets they'd given us.

This was the second set of tix I bought that month. The first was to Peter Gabriel, who played with a 54-piece orchestra. We saw him together at Radio City back in May. It was an incredible show (save an excruciating appearance by Lou Reed, who butchered Solsbury Hill beyond recognition). I only wish we were getting along that night, or it would be a good memory. In hindsight, it was the beginning of the end.

At the time, I would have rather put all that concert money -- about $600 total -- towards something for our wedding. A dress. Our rings. Save-the-dates.  Only we didn't HAVE a date, not officially, anyway.  And I wanted to make him happy. Besides, Dave Matthews and summertime go together like chocolate and peanut butter, and this was a Saturday night concert at Citi Field. He didn't exactly have to twist my arm -- it sounded like fun.

It also would have been an anniversary of sorts: last July, we saw DMB together for the 1st time.

I still remember sitting at my desk a year ago when the text came in, "Are U free on July 21?" He booked this date with me a few weeks in advance of the show. I don't even think it was July 4th yet. I took that as a good sign that we would still be together by month's end. (Remember, we'd only started emailing last May, and didn't meet until June -- who knows what can happen in the early stages of a relationship.)

My butterflies and I had a quick conference and agreed I should say YES. So I did.

On July 21, 2009, I rented a car after work and drove out to Jones Beach. "I'm in red shorts," he said. "You can't miss me." When I arrived, I called him from the parking lot and he found me over by a fence, totally lost. He looked adorable and hopped in the car. We made our way over to where his sister and brother-in-law were. He'd already saved a parking spot for me.

I remember being SO nervous to meet his family, praying they would like me. But there was really nothing to be concerned about -- they were just lovely. There was an easiness to our relationship which started that night and lasted through many double dates to come.

He poured me a Bud Light in a red plastic cup, and we chatted away.  We had chemistry to spare. It began to rain while we were in the parking lot, and he handed me a navy blue windbreaker so I wouldn't get wet. I was charmed by how thoughtful he was.

On the walk over to the stadium, through parked cars, over sandy hills and winding roads, he reached for my hand. I remember thinking it was the first time we'd ever really held hands. He and I were slowly becoming "we."

It felt right.

Once inside, our date reached a new level. In a packed stadium, we were in our own little world.  It seemed as though the rain showers were set in time with the music. A deluge during Don't Drink the Water was epic. While #41 played, it was a soft, romantic drizzle. We were soggy, but smitten.

It was the perfect storm in the best possible way.

Later that night, I was in the car driving back to the city when I received a text. "BEST DATE EVER!!! Can't stop smiling :)" it said.

He had tickets at Jones Beach the next night too, that time with his youngest brother. During the show, while I was sitting at home on my couch watching TV, in came another text -- with a picture of a stage glowing with red lights. "U should be here with me," it said...


When I left last month, after gathering my belongings from a home we were supposed to share, the new tickets flashed through my mind. But I'd handed them to him when they arrived, and wasn't about to ransack his room now looking for 4 tickets. Besides, what would I do with them? I can't even bear to listen to DMB's music anymore, let alone go see them live. Too many memories. Too much sadness.

I don't know for certain, but I imagine he will be at the show tonight. And whether the seat next to him is empty or not, I hope each song brings back a flood of memories -- and regret -- if not regret for the breakup itself, then for how he handled it.

We deserved better. I deserved better.

Where’s a Psychic Octopus When You Need One?

I've traipsed all over this city in the sweltering heat looking for a new place to live. I've found some dumps. I've found some snoozers. And I've found some gorgeous apartments.

But so far, I havent found a home.

If I'm being honest, I suppose there's some part of me that is resistent to moving on -- in part because this will be my 3rd move in 5 months (and yes, it is as mentally, physically, and financially exhausting as you might imagine).  But also because I don't even know what I'm moving on FROM, anymore!  I still can't understand what happened, and now, some eye-opening revelations about him from my own family and friends only underscore the fact that the man I thought I would marry never actually existed. 

But I know the only way I'll ever feel like me again is to move on.  And that begins with new digs.

So I ask you, how am I supposed to cram all this new baggage into your standard NYC shoebox apartment? I already had 100 boxes to begin with (no joke).

I've gotten my choices whittled down to a handful. And since my judgement is total crap these days, I've gotten plenty of opinions, too. But what I'm really after is some advice from someone who has built a reputation on picking winners. So here is my open plea to the animal kindgom:

Paul, you eight-legged oracle, will YOU help me choose an apartment?

(and pipe down Mani, the fortunetelling parakeet -- YOU are a cheap knockoff)

In lieu of a country's flag, I respectfully submit colorful subway artwork to help you identify each choice. You probably already know this, given your abilities, but these are ranked in price order from low to high -- not in preference order (don't even get me started on what you get for the money -- if I stayed in CT I could lease a 3BR 2BA apartment AND a car for what I'll pay for an NYC studio).  Oh, and I don't know how you roll in Germany, but you should also know that the following buildings have the basic necessities: a doorman, elevator, air conditioning, laundry and a dishwasher. 

If I could live without those things, I'd go camping.

And now, I place in your plexiglass box the following 6 apartments in a town I sorta love:

Midtown West/Chelsea
Apartment: 32D alcove studio, 540 sqft
Pros: modern building, great amenities, awesome view
Cons: shady-ish neighborhood, closets in a dumb spot, cheap kitchen

Midtown East/Murray Hill
Apartment: 6M studio, 650 sqft
Pros: I know the owner, easy commute, 5 closets
Cons: pre-war, no renovations, mini kitchen used for heating up takeout & not much else

Midtown West/Hell's Kitchen
Apartment: 7B alcove studio, 575 sqft
Pros: corner unit, stainless/granite kitchen, easiest commute
Cons: tourist central, crap view, creepy Peeping Tom window in shower

Upper West Side/Lincoln Center
Apartment: 6D alcove studio, 500 sqft
Pros: new luxury building, I would be the first tenant, cool amenities, great neighborhood
Cons: soooo small

Upper East Side/Yorkville
Apartment: 30F one bedroom, 675 sqft
Pros: bedroom actually has a door, terrace, awesome view
Cons: pain in the ass commute, neighborhood kinda deadsville

Midtown East/Sutton Place
Apartment: 14C one bedroom, 700 sqft
Pros: bedroom has a door AND can fit a dresser, ample closet space, nice amenities
Cons: soooo expensive


So there you have it.  Paul, what say you? Sprechen sie Englisch? Any tingles in your tentacles?

Send me a psychic mesage. If you help me, I promise never to eat calamari again.

Presto-Change-O

I'm in a funk. You know it. I know it. We ALL know it.

I need a change.

About 2 weeks ago, I started the painful process of cancelling our wedding gift registries (more on that below). Nobody wanted their actual gifts back (bad mojo, no doubt), so I kept those. I left some new things behind at his condo -- a BBQ grill, margarita maker, bucket of cookie cutters, everyday dishes. They were all things I'd purchased off our registry myself. For us. And I didn't want to keep the items when I couldn't keep the family I bought them for.

I mean, who wants to sit at home alone and hunker down to a flame-broiled breakup burger on breakup dishes, washed down with a breakup-flavored margarita, followed by a couple of fresh-baked breakup cookies for dessert? No thanks.

The one thing I did return was our china. I adored the pattern. LOVED it. Something totally different, mix and match. Cheerful. Classic. Unique. He swore we would never use it, but I pictured us having holiday dinners and celebrations on these plates for years to come. I had two full place settings (down to the bread and butter plates), and a coffee/tea set from my parents. I hated to do it, but since I will never complete the service for 12, I brought them back to the store and turned my beautiful china into a $400 Coach bag.

Like magic.

That got me to thinking... there are other things I'd like to change over the next few weeks.

Here's my hit list:

1) New cell phone

Mine might as well have his face on it. Every time it rang, buzzed, or dinged, it was generally him. And every time I hear it go off now, it makes me sad because it's anybody BUT him. So I think it's finally time to make the switch. Goodbye Verizon. Hello iPhone.

2) New hair

I used to highlight my hair, but I left it darker lately because I liked the way it looked with his hair. We matched. Ridiculous, I know. So I'm booking a trip to the salon for some summery locks.

3) New ring

One of my best friends bought me a new ring the day I moved my furniture out of his condo. It was to replace the one I "lost," she said, and to remind me to keep my heart open. It was such a touching gesture. For Christmas, I'd given him a man's ring that I used to wear and I'd engraved it with our initials -- I think I'll replace that one too. Possibly with something sparkly.

4) New color palette

My whole house was beiges/browns with bright pops of red. And while all of my stuff sits in storage right now, when I DO eventually unpack, I know I'll need something more soothing than red. Something fresh. Serene. Thinking pale blues and greens.

5) New curtains

These were a HUGE point of contention in the weeks leading into our breakup. Don't ask. I need to set them on fire and start again. Anybody got a match?

6) And obviously, the biggest thing I need is a new address

As comforting as it is to have family willing to take me in, I can't really start to feel like myself again until I'm back in my own home.

Now if only someone would perform a magic trick on my bank account, I could actually BUY all of these things right now.

I didn't invent this concept. A colleague at work said when she broke up with her boyfriend, she went right out and bought a pair of 3-inch heels, after wearing flats for years because he was short. Another friend's sister sold her never-worn wedding dress on eBay and took a vacation.

I think we all need a little magic in times like these. Something new to distract us from what (or who) is no longer there.

It's all an illusion anyway.

And on a side note, if you are ever in the unfortunate position of having to cancel a wedding gift registry, I can say Macy's was incredibly good to deal with, Crate & Barrel was ok, and Bed Bath & Beyond was beyond horrible -- after the in-store people couldn't help me, the customer service agent on the phone had the nerve to ask if I was sure I wanted to cancel, just incase we got back together. Ummm... GFY BBB.

And since Wedding Channel posts your information all over the internet without respect to your privacy and then goes out of its way to make it difficult to contact them when you want to take it down, here's their phone number as well: 877-335-5252.

Thanks, Google. You're pretty magical too.

Spent

Well, it's over. The Love Truck rolled through town and we collected 226 video love stories over the course of 3 days.

That's a whole lotta love.

While the event itself was a success professionally... personally, it was an awful lot like Chinese water torture. Hour after hour. Person after person. Couple after couple. Day after day. 226 stories with one thing in common: Love.

drip. drip. drip. drip. driiiip... drip.

When things were busy (which luckily, was most of the time), I was able to just focus on doing my JOB and not think about what people were actually SAYING: "It was love at first sight." "I never thought it would happen to me." "I met the love of my life." "My soul mate." "It was simply meant to be."

One guy even told me how he'd met his now fiancee at Grand Central -- right by the clock. "How romantic is that?" he gushed while waiting for his turn inside the truck. "I saw her standing there, and I just knew."

Somehow, I was able to just nod and smile (even though Grand Central was exactly where WE met for the first time, where we "just knew," and where I thought we would marry in August). I think I was able to ignore this dagger sticking out of my chest because there was a line of people waiting to share their own stories.

There was work to do.

But when things were slow, or when I was alone in the taxi ride back to the hotel each night, it was another story. I could say I didn't let it get to me. That I shook it off. That it's been 3+ weeks since my relationship officially ended, when my life imploded, and I'm doing fine. I could say I didn't cry once. Not in the taxi. Not in the shower. Not outside Dean & Deluca in front of a man eating what appeared to be a gyro.

I could say all those things. But they would be lies.

I'm searching for the jokes here, but there are none. And to top it all off, Day 2 of Love Truck was the anniversary of our 2nd date. Did I know the actual DATE off the top of my head? No. But I do know Michael Jackson died about 20 minutes before we went to dinner. So the wall-to-wall coverage of the 1st anniversary of his death on Friday brought back a FLOOD of memories for me, too. They had nothing to do with MJ. They were all about that 2nd date.

I remember where we went. I remember what we wore. I remember what we ordered. I remember every detail of our conversation that night. I remember our walk back to Grand Central like it was yesterday. And I remember being filled with hope. With possibility.

With love.

What a difference a year makes. Like I said... I'm spent.

A Shameless Plug... Again

It was about a year and a half ago that I last blogged about something I was doing at work. It was Valentine's Day. And I was throwing 14 weddings. Again.

I typically shy away from writing about my job, in part because a few colleagues actually read this thing. I don't need to become a living urban legend: Girl Who Got Fired Over Work-Related Griping in Personal Blog.

But today, I feel compelled to share what's happening this week for 2 reasons:
1) it's just a cool event and I'm psyched to have pulled it off, amidst all the chaos in my life, and
2) it's such an ABSURD thing to be doing, given all the chaos in my life

In my dating days, I likened working at a bridal website to working at a leper colony. Guys didn't want anything to do with it. But I've recently realized what's infinitely worse than being single while working in bridal is having your relationship/engagement crumble before your eyes, while working in bridal.

Ouch.

Not a day -- not an HOUR -- goes by without rubbing salt in this particular wound.

Just last week I was in a meeting. We were looking at some product samples, and amidst all the hoodies and candles and picture frames, were the exact same wedding invitations I wanted to use (a lovely Kate Spade number with cheerful yellow or green flowers), and the exact same toasting flutes and serving set (the classic Vera Wang Love Knots) that we actually received as engagement gifts.

Everything I do professionally revolves around helping other people plan their weddings. Right now, if I were to sum up my job in one word, it would be excruciating.

Anyway, back to my shameless plug!

It's a project I've been working on for months -- called The Love Truck. And don't go getting the wrong idea. The shaggin' wagon this is not.

What this IS is a glass box truck that will be parked in Times Square, Union Square, and Soho over the next 3 days so that we can... wait for it... videotape people sharing their LOVE STORIES!

The irony of this is not lost on me.

Anyone who has NOT been kicked in the butt by love should come visit us at the truly adorable-looking Love Truck (and please bring me one of those new Starbucks frozen strawberry Frappucinos and/or a Dunkin Donuts watermelon Coolata -- they look delicious and if I drink them superfast, they just might give me a brainfreeze to dull the pain).

If you're not in NYC, or not into public displays of affection, you can also upload your loooove story straight to the site. The top-rated videos will each receive cool prizes, so give it a whirl. We could even rig it so that you win!

JOKES -- just jokes, people (and by "people," I mean lawyers).

That may be precisely the kind of thing you get fired over.

Let You Down

I don't know how to say this. I can't even find an image to depict what I'm feeling, so this is my first blog post without one. I'm just going to rip it off like a bandaid:

I'm not getting married anymore.

And just like that -- poof -- my future, my family, my home, my wedding, my precious ring, and the love of my life have simply disappeared. No one is more shocked than I am. I wish I could say it was mutual. But it wasn't.

When he asked me to marry him back in December, I came up with a slew of adjectives to describe how happy I was. I said it was "super-terrific-happy-HUGE-totally awesome-fantastically wonderful-can't even believe this is happening-somebody PLEASE PINCH ME news." Those same words held true when I moved in with him a mere 2 months ago.

And as I've spent the last week sobbing, packing, and moving out of the home I thought we were creating together, I came up with a whole new list of adjectives to describe how I was feeling.

You can use your imagination, but one remained, "can't even believe this is happening."

It's funny, before we met, I'd resigned myself to the fact that I likely wouldn't ever get married. So when I was over the moon about our engagement, it wasn't because my marriage clock was ticking and he just fit the suit. It wasn't a "to-do" to check off a list. Quite the opposite. I never HAD that list before him. It was because of him that I could even imagine becoming a wife and a mother. That I could finally have the kind of life that came so easily to everyone around me. That it was MY turn.

I told myself it was worth the wait. And it was.

It took everything I had to get out of my own way and fall in love. I was SO guarded. But there comes a point in any relationship where you have to make a choice to move forward. To trust someone completely. To have faith. So, I leapt, and he caught me. Willingly, I think. But I must have become too heavy along the way, and he let go.

So now here I am. Devastated, numb, humiliated, and alone.

I could rehash for you the myriad things that went wrong, or second guess every move, or play armchair psychologist, or dole out blame. But honestly... what's the point? It won't change things. And it certainly won't help me put my life back together.

Really, all I can do here is question my own judgement. I'm a smart girl, so how did I not see this coming? I've been on my own for most of my 36 years, so how did I allow myself to become so dependent on someone else? And I believed this was forever, so how can I ever expect to go down this road with someone new and NOT be constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop?

In the end, I think I let myself down. My bad judgment has had a sickening ripple effect across my life, and the lives of my family and friends. And I'm crushed. CRUSHED. But in the moment, I guess I heard what I wanted to hear and saw what I wanted to see.

I don't plan to make this blog all woe-is-me now. That's not what you signed up for. And frankly, that's not who I am. I WILL cheer up and post my random thoughts about silly things. As cliche as it sounds, I will get my groove back.

Eventually.

It's just that when I created the "getting married" tag for this blog, I never in a MILLION years thought my last post in that category would be about the end of our relationship. I assumed the last one would be about our wedding. How foolish I feel. I've been told repeatedly that he's done me a favor by ending things now. Surely, I can see that this is better than if we were married, or had a child. But it still hurts like nothing I've ever experienced before.

So I'll just end this post with a heartfelt thanks to everyone who has listened, comforted, packed, driven, supported, hugged, and housed me over the last week. Your kindness means more than you know.