There was a play. A personal crisis. Another play. A new job. Another play. A wedding. A move. Another wedding. A dead transmission. And this month we have another wedding, a graduation, and a potential personal crisis.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to say that this has even been that bad of a year. I’ve had many good things so far in 2010. They just happen to be big things, you know?

Something I’ve noticed this year is how, occasionally, a very big thing can come from a very small person. People who are petty, vindictive, or mean-spirited can manage, with surprisingly little effort, to really try and tear things up for other people.

I guess I’m naive, but I don’t understand it. I don’t understand the draw of hurting someone just to be hurtful. I’ve seen it several times and from several people this year. Men and women, younger and older. It doesn’t seem to be relegated to any type or race or religion. It’s just something that pops up in people unexpectedly.

And it’s sort of like finding out that you’re susceptible to a rare genetic disorder after being healthy for your whole life. There was no real way to see it coming.

Did you know that it was Tony Nomination Week? I did. I got my Tony nominations emailed to me and everything. And have I posted about it? Has there been even one squeal of disproportionate, girlish delight? No. You can be darn sure that it had to be something big to get in my way if it’s overshadowing Tony Nomination Week.

I think that I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by the enormity of 2010. It’s almost like it’s a perfect storm. You know what that is, right? There was even a George Clooney movie about it a few years ago. It’s when several rare meteorological instances occur at once, creating a storm of intense magnitude. I think I feel like maybe I’m on the edge of that perfect storm. So many things are swirling around right now that it’s possible that the storm may collide and create untold damage. Or, possibly, things will dissipate and the air will have that great “just rained” smell.

I’ll try to keep you posted, one way or the other.

I don’t know if you can all fully appreciate what that means in the world in which I live. Allow me to put this in context. My longest relationship, pre-Irving, was 3 months. And that was in the seventh grade. (Technically, it was the end of seventh grade and two months of summer vacation during which we didn’t see each other because we lived in different neighborhoods, but we hadn’t officially broken up, so I still count it.) That means, for those of you keeping count, that the longest relationship of my life until now was about 15 years ago. (Excuse me a moment while I recover from my age shudders.)

Since that fateful relationship oh-so-many years ago, I took a break from dating for a while. I had a 2-week boyfriend in eighth grade and a 2.5-month boyfriend in the eleventh grade. Then I went back on hiatus until I was 24. At 24 I tried again. I won’t say that it was all bad. In fact, there were some nice boys mixed in. But despite efforts, nothing managed to last more than a couple of months. One came close to 3 months, but he was actually out of the country and scarcely communicating for the last month, so it’s sort of a stretch.

My point here, in case we’d forgotten, was not to lament the brief romantic exchanges of my earlier years, but to celebrate the fact that I’ve actually managed to hold on to this romance for 6 months. And my, what an interesting 6 months it’s been.

First, I had an out-of-town trip that started two days after we met. Then I insisted on dating other people for a while because I liked him and didn’t want to freak myself out by being all “relationship-y.” Then I had another out-of-town trip for which he actually took me to the airport and picked me up from the airport. Did I mention that the drop off was at 4:00am? Let’s see….then I started hearing about engagements from sisters and actual marriages from the brother. (Incidentally, Irving was with me as I learned about most of these wedding events. Nothing says “perfectly normal early relationship sharing” like, “Crap! Everyone I’m related to is getting married and I’m going to die miserable and alone because no one will ever love me because I’m insane. Oh, I’m sorry. Did I just say that out loud? Again?”) Also, in these 6 months, I’ve had a theater festival, a death, the loss of a job, the start of a new job, our initial “I love you”s, and now an impending move. He’s had his own drama, but that’s his business. My point is, we’re still kicking after 6 months of nearly non-stop drama.

One more thing to clarify, if you don’t mind. While the drama has existed outside of the relationship, when it actually comes to how things are with him, there is no drama to be found. In fact, most of our evenings together would probably not rate on anyone’s drama scale. On an average week night, I get home around 6:15. I begin to make dinner and by 7:00 we sit down to a simple meal and watch Rachel Maddow on MSNBC. (Have I mentioned that he’s a screaming liberal as well? Yay!) After dinner, we discuss some options for the evening and then usually have a bowl of ice cream and watch a movie or, on occasion, I’ll work on a project while he works on a project and we sit in contented quiet, talking only when there’s something to say.

If the picture I just presented seems a little too perfect, a little too contented, or a little too ideal, then you’re just jaded. I assure you, I couldn’t have come up with it on my own. In fact, when trying to imagine what the ultimate relationship would be like, I never let myself take it that far. It seemed too farfetched, too unbelievable. I never imagined I’d find someone who would wrap his arms around me while I made dinner or who would wash dishes next to me as I chopped vegetables. I never pictured someone who would sit through an MGM musical and swear that he enjoyed it. I certainly didn’t expect ice sculpting festivals and mountain drives and flowers and foot massages. I couldn’t have asked for someone as caring and as sweet and as considerate. I never expected to be with someone who routinely makes fun of me and yet manages to make me feel better on days when I hate the world.

I’m not trying to gross anyone out with my icky love stuff. I’m really not. I just want to be excited about the fact that after 6 months with this guy, I truly can’t imagine being with anyone else. Ever. So hooray for me for lasting this long without self-sabotage, self-doubt, or poor choices ruining things. And hooray for him for sticking around and proving again and again that I made the right choice.

This whole adult relationship thing is hard work. Not only are you battling your own persistent insecurities, but you’re battling theirs, too. Not only are you reeling from your own past, but you’re accepting theirs as well. Now, I have discovered that once you’ve hit that “I love you” part, you don’t mind their past or insecurities all that much any more.

It’s like watching your favorite movie. There might be a scene or two that you’ll get up and get a drink or go to the bathroom because you don’t care if you miss that part, but at the end of the day, it’s still part of your favorite movie. How about this example? I love Frank Sinatra. I intend to walk down the aisle to his voice someday (I would walk down the aisle to him personally, but he up and died before I could sign up to be the fifth Mrs. Frank). I can’t honestly say that I love every song he ever recorded. The man was in music for more than 60 years and released hundreds of songs. Even if I’m not in love with all of his movies or all of his songs, that doesn’t mean he isn’t still my all time favorite singer.

Oddly enough, for me the hard part isn’t worrying about your partner’s stuff. It’s worrying about how they’ll handle yours. It seems like a no brainer for me to say that I love him and that I want him just as he is. Despite that, it blows my mind that he feels the same way. Drat these insecurities!

Still, three months later and I’m really happy. For me, this might be a record in length of relationship. At least, since high school.

On to the gushy stuff that I wanted to share.

The other morning Colorado decided to skip ahead a few months. Yes, it’s October, but if you looked out the window on Sunday evening or Monday morning you’d think either a) nuclear winter or b) Colorado likes to screw with people. Either would have been correct.

On what was predicted to be a sunny, 54° fall day, we were instead treated to freezing rain, fog, and bitter wind. Now, being the freakazoid I am, I like those kinds of days. I stayed in my jammies for most of the day, I made a chicken pot pie (from scratch, of course), and I had a cute boy who (for reasons I still can’t quite figure out) watched An Affair to Remember with me.

But wait. There’s more!

The next morning I suddenly remembered what it is about freezing rain, fog, and bitter wind that I don’t like. My car was neatly dressed in a sheet of solid ice. It was lovely, in an I-don’t-really-need-to-go-to-work-today-do-I? sort of way. Mainly, though, it was just frozen.

Because I was running late in the morning, as I so often do, the cute boy offered to help by starting my car for me. I tossed him the keys and began to frantically search for my ID badge (already nestled in my bag, of course).

A few minutes later I realized that he hadn’t come back in yet. Given my history, you’ll agree that it’s not ridiculous that I had a moment of “did he just steal my car?” panic. I walked outside to see what was happening and I saw a sight that still baffles me. In fact, I think I would have been less shocked had Sasquatch asked me for a sweater in an Irish accent than I was by the view I had.

Not only had he not stolen my car, he was scraping the ice off of my windshield for me. My frozen, ice-covered car was being warmed and scraped for me. Now, I can’t be positive, but I’m pretty sure that at that moment little cartoon hearts began popping around my head.

Here’s the real kicker, folks. He didn’t see what the big deal was! As I gushed in the cold air, momentarily forgetting that I was running late to work and that I wasn’t wearing a jacket and that I probably looked a little stunned with my jaw hanging slack and the cartoon hearts running into each other, he looked a little nonplussed and explained to me that it’s just something he wanted to do. No big deal.

I’m telling you, a girl could get used to this. Fingers crossed that he doesn’t get sick of me in the next few months. Let’s at least wait until the spring thaw.

I am pretty sure that as I write this… I’m in a relationship. I think I’m actually with somebody. This is totally new stuff. He likes me. He’s nice. And I actually like him as well. As you can imagine, I’m a little shocked by all of this. It’s not just new. It’s utterly unheard of.

Don’t get me wrong. There are still plenty of crazy issues at hand here. I have 27 years worth of relationship drama sitting just above my shoulder, waiting to break the delicate thread of optimism that’s holding it all above me. We live in different towns and have competing schedules. We are still getting to know each other and there are lots of things we have yet to discuss.

On the side that doesn’t have the issues there is the fact that we get along pretty well, have similar (or at least complementary) taste in music, and I think he’s pretty cute. Plus, he’s seen bits of my crazy (poor guy once watched me applaud macaroni and cheese and cheer for a floating blueberry) and is still here. Impressive, huh?

The only real snag is that I’m nuts and I’m terrified I’m going to mess it all up, or that there is some big issue just out of reach that is waiting to come crashing down on my head. Why the pessimism? Why the nagging feeling that dread is lurking just around the bend? Years and years of reinforcement.

So for now, fingers crossed. Let’s hope I can navigate my way through this without any severe injuries. (We all remember the stream of depressing “my heart is broken and I hate the world” posts from a few years ago, right?) Wish me luck.

While all of Salinger’s writing is beautiful and expressive, there are some moments that have stayed with me for reasons I don’t fully understand.  Of all of Catcher in the Rye, the passage that I remember the best is that of Holden talking about his brother in the first few paragraphs.  Before his brother, DB, went to Hollywood to start “being a prostitute,” he was a writer of short stories.  This passage about Holden’s favorite story has been something I carry around with me for years:

“He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was ‘The Secret Goldfish.’ It was about this little kid that wouldn’t let anybody look at his goldfish because he’d bought it with his own money. It killed me.”

I don’t know why I love that so much, but I do.  I think of that moment in the novel whenever I think of Catcher in the Rye.  I also think about it whenever I find myself clutching to something that I want to treasure alone.  It’s not often that happens, but sometimes you just don’t want to share.

There are things in life, be it bad choices that we’re still glad we made, tiny rebellions like wearing purple nail polish into your uptight Republican office, or side hobbies that don’t seem to fit your otherwise logical life that just belong to you. The can carry you through an otherwise rotten afternoon or make you smile at your own tenacity.

Growing up as one of a large family, I had very few things that were truly mine until I was grown and gone. It was just a natural side effect of being one of many. I have no complaints about that, but it means that as an adult, on occasion, I have dug in my heels to own something just so that it would be mine and no one else’s.

That’s why I love the goldfish story. In that entire novel, with all of its character depths and subtle ironies, it’s the two line passage about a little boy who hides his goldfish from the world that I remember as the most moving part of the novel.

In the last few years I think I’ve felt that my goldfish keep getting out. Someone sneaks a peak and suddenly it isn’t quite as special anymore. My private little moment is suddenly floating, belly up at the top of the bowl. Nothing is quite as disheartening as flushing that down the drain, my friends. I need a new goldfish. If it happens, don’t be hurt if you never know about it. After all, that is sort of the point.

Please don’t think I’m a diva or that I have any idea that I’m too good for laundry.  I just hate it.  I hate washing it.  I hate drying it. I really hate folding it.  And for some reason that I have yet to figure out, despite years of therapy and a pile of laundry baskets, I especially hate putting it away.  It sits there in a corner in my bedroom, looking at me all judgmental-like.  It’s a problem.

Recently I started thinking about what love is.  Really and truly at the heart of the matter (pardon the cheesy heart comment), what is it?

For me, true love would be a man who does the laundry for me.  In return I’ll make him dinner or rub his feet.  I’ll watch bad movies and he’ll sit through Fred Astaire with me.  He’ll open my eyes to some weird sport and I’ll convince him to go see Wicked.

But mainly, he’d do the laundry.  Not because he felt he had to, but because he knew it would make me happy not to have to.  That, in my opinion, is real love.

Where is the man with the dryer sheets and the key to my heart?

Today this went into a new direction.  This morning I had a list of errands to run.  For some reason, I decided to start this all by going to the Y.  Yes, I decided to exercise before running around town.  Because I knew I’d be working out, I didn’t shower this morning.  Instead, I pulled my hair back into pig tails and tossed a headband on to cover up the grossness.

Two sports bras (yes, two), a stained tank top, and my workout pants and I was ready to rock.  I did my 45-minute workout and while I can say that I felt great afterwards, I didn’t look so hot.

Then came two different stores before walking through the Wal-Mart frozen food aisle.  This is where our story takes place.  As I was perusing the frozen pizzas, staring at them longingly, a tall, good looking man with ripling tattoos and a faux hawk walked by.

He turned to me, and with no lead in, no preamble, said, “You look radiant, by the way,” and then walked off with a smile.

Radiant. Radiant?  Really?  I think my “glow” was the sheen of sweat from the 85 degree weather outside, but other than that I don’t really know where that came from.  In 27 years I’ve never been called radiant and today, looking like this, I heard in standing in front the Stouffer’s frozen meals.

I had a moment or two feeling weirded out.  Then I began wondering if someone was behind me.  Then I thought maybe he was stoned.  Then I decided to shut up and take the compliment.

Apparently, I look radiant today.

A few compliments here and there to strip away defenses and suddenly the prey is confused, disoriented, and intrigued.

At this point the DOM has two possible options: strike or disappear into the wild.

Stay tuned to see how this exciting episode continues.

Because yes, it continues.

I got the Amelia Earhart toy!