I wanted Adam. And not in an adult way. I wanted him the way you want your mommy when you skin your knee. I wanted him to make it all better. He believed in me. He believed in me so much, he would trust me to support him. I couldn’t imagine the horror of losing my job, because it would mean I was somehow broken and useless. I couldn’t lose Adam because it would mean the same thing. I wanted to be valued. I wanted to matter.

My voice was breaking when I called him. He promised to meet me out for a drink at Forbidden City. I thought, “Thank God. It looks like we just went through a rough patch. No biggie. Couples weather them all the time. It’s a mere blip, and now that I need him, he’s here for me.”

That evening, I walked inside Forbidden City and looked around the bar. The place was crowded, and there was no where to sit. I managed to squeeze in between patrons waiting to get served and I picked up the drink menu. My eyes were drawn immediately to a cocktail called A Moment of Romance. I didn’t care what was in it. As the bartender made eye contact with me and I leaned forward to place my order, I felt someone run their fingertip across my butt cheeks.

I jerked away from the bar and turned, but there was no one behind me. Ew. I felt like I needed a shower. What kind of skeeve would do that? I felt jumpy and anxious after that, and I couldn’t stop looking around for Adam while I gulped down my drink. A barstool opened up next to me, so I whisked my violated buns to safety by taking the seat. I picked up the drink menu again. The guava martini entitled Happy Together was looking inviting, so I ordered that.

I looked at my watch. Adam was a half hour late. I debated calling him. Nah, I wanted to play it cool. If he wasn’t there in the next fifteen minutes, then I would call. Forty-five minutes was officially Very Late, so I couldn’t possibly come off as a stalker for checking in at that stage. Happy Together slid down my throat in no time and I picked up the drink menu again. Better Tomorrow. I definitely needed a Better Tomorrow.

By the time I was holding my drink glass upside down over my face to catch the last drops of Better Tomorrow, it was time to call Adam to see where he was. I was feeling giddy as I dialed.

He picked up the phone and sounded impatient as he snapped, “Hello?”

“Oh hey, what’s going on!”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Kelly! I’m at Forbidden City. Where are you?”

“Oh, right, Kelly. Hi, I’m sorry, I forgot. I’m actually at the airport waiting for my friend Reginald. His flight was delayed, but he should be landing any minute now.”

“Okay, no problem, I’ll just wait for you guys here then. You think you’ll be about an hour?”

“Yeah, sure, okay. I guess we didn’t really have anything planned for tonight anyway, so sure, we’ll just drop his stuff off at my place and come straight out.”

“Cool, see you soon!”

I had a good hour to ponder this. He forgot. How could he forget? I couldn’t stop thinking about him for thirty seconds, yet he actually managed to forget we had plans. This was not good. Not good at all. Where was that drink menu.

I was caught between wanting to order a drink that sounded ferocious, like The Killer, in an effort to remove the he-forgot torment from my system, or something that would calm me down, like In the Mood for Love. Maybe I had time for both. I’d start with The Killer, because it was a peach-flavored martini, and after all, Adam was a peach.

The drinks were really hitting me and it occurred to me, in a detached way, that I was getting quite drunk. I didn’t even know he had a friend coming to town. Why hadn’t he told me? Don’t you tell someone that you just had sex with when you have a friend coming to town? That seemed like big news to me. I realized that we really were drifting apart, and it wasn’t just my imagination.

Apart. Were we even together to begin with? It had all the signs of a whirlwind romance, but now it looks like it was just the first blush of a new relationship. A crush, really. A crush with good sex.

As I sat at the horseshoe-shaped bar waiting, a scene was developing across the way. An extremely inebriated chick ripped off her t-shirt. Now there she was, in a very small green bra with her large bosoms straining to get out, tattooed arms, and long black hair hanging down to her waist. She had a pretty orange flower tucked behind her ear. She was gyrating like a maniac, and those big boobs were bouncing everywhere.

Eventually the chick jumped up on the bar and was dancing like a stripper. I heard the sound of breaking glass, and then the bartender told her to get off the bar. Some male hands reached up to help her down. She continued her aerobic workout while all eyes in the bar stayed riveted on her performance. I ordered another drink and sipped while I watched the entertainment.

The hour passed surprisingly quickly and I wanted to go to the ladies room to check my hair and makeup before Adam arrived. I wasn’t crazy about giving up my barstool, but I felt it was more important to primp. Once in front of the mirror in the dim bathroom lighting, I saw that I looked awful. My pores looked big, my lips were chapped and my hair was flat against my head. All that drinking did not do a body good. I set about primping and preening, spackling and fluffing. It would do. I worried that my drunken make-up artist skills weren’t up to par, but I had already spent too much time in the bathroom already.

As I came back to the bar, I saw the back of Adam’s head about ten feet away. I smiled and snuck up behind him. I put my arm around his waist, peeked around to his face and said, “Hey, handsome!”

“Hey,” he said, and then turned back to the guy I assumed was his friend Reginald. I stood there waiting for him to introduce me, but they kept talking. I figured maybe they were in the middle of some important conversation. I listened in while I waited and realized they were talking about sports. I could not believe I was being ignored. Forgotten, and then ignored.

I recognized that I was about to have a booze-fueled freak out, and the safest thing to do was to remove myself from the situation before anything happened. I went outside and my hands shook as I called Terry to tell her what was going on. She said, “Kelly, it sounds like Adam probably hasn’t seen this guy in a long time. Let it go. Stand there politely and listen to their conversation, and I’m sure you’ll get introduced. But please, don’t bring on the crazy. Just calm yourself. And have a glass of water, you’re slurring.”

When I walked back in, I could not believe my eyes. Adam and Reginald were talking to the chick in the bra. I swear if she sneezed, her boobs would have exploded and taken out somebody’s eye. And then Adam would get boob shrapnel lodged in his brain. I briefly imagined his death scene before becoming incredibly angry. He could ignore me, but he would talk to the frigging BOOB GIRL? Oh, I was pissed.

I stomped up to him and dug my fingernails into his arm as I said, “You’re talking to her? Didn’t it mean anything to you when we had sex the other night?”

Adam jumped back and looked at me in fear. Genuine, adrenaline-fueled fear. Good, I thought. He should be afraid. I relished the only power I had over the situation and said, “And this is Reginald, I presume. I’m sure you’ve met BOOB GIRL here, but we haven’t met. Nope. No we have not met. Because Adam here hasn’t introduced us, though I’m sure the boob girl was given a proper introduction.” The boob girl’s eyes got very wide and she took a step backwards. I continued, “I’m sure you’ve even met her boobs by now, haven’t they, BOOB GIRL. I’d like to meet them, what are their names? Tom, Dick and Harry? You’ve got to have at least three of them in there.” She turned and walked away.

Adam looked disgusted. I said to him, “Oh, I’m sorry, did I cockblock? Did I get in the way of your conquest there? Good. You deserve it. You practically stood me up, and I’ve been sitting here alone drinking my face off for nine hours. Then you show up and blow me off. And now you’re talking to HER.” I couldn’t go on. I started sobbing. Through the snot and tears, I said, “Well you can forget it. You’re not coming home with me anymore. You had your chance.”

I stormed out of the bar and stood on the sidewalk. I needed to orient myself, because I had to figure out which way was home, but more importantly, I hoped that Adam would come outside after me. I blew my nose as I waited and pulled out my compact to check my make-up. I had streaks of mascara down both cheeks.

I was startled by a small scuffling noise in the bus shelter to my right. It was the boob girl, and she was pretending the upright post was a stripper pole. She tried to swing around it, but was stopped short by the glass.

I stifled a laugh and wiped the black tears from my cheeks as I walked home.

Comments, questions, suggestions? Fire away. 

I’m somehow escaping the worst of the stomach flu-plague. I’ve had some nausea and a little pain, but no big whoop. Steve is not so lucky. I won’t go into detail in case you’re eating.

Last night, I found myself losing steam on this here book project. Nothing catastrophic, but I realized I was just going through the motions and no longer enjoying myself. And I was going back for way too many refills on the red wine, I suppose for the entertainment value. I did make some progress, but I fell about 1,000 words short of my goal for the day, which is about an hour’s worth of writing for me.

The next scene I need to write is juicy from a female angst standpoint. The main character gets into an argument with her crush in a bar because he’s hitting on another woman. If I wasn’t chomping at the bit to write up a dramatic scene like that, well then. Something was wrong. I put my work away and decided to stop pushing myself for the night. I needed some kind of renewal tactic.

This morning it hit me. I’d stopped using my imagination. I used to get all into my head before writing and picture everything as it was supposed to unfold and I would think of luscious nuggets of dialogue or internal monologue and scandalous bits of the scene and then I would be excited to sit down and get it on paper before I lost the spark.

My plan for today is to hit the treadmill and run for 3 miles and instead of concentrating on how much running can suck, I will think about this bar fight and how pissed off and indignant the character is and all the biting things she’ll say, and how her crush won’t really care and she’ll fly further off the handle and be all “Pay attention to meeeeeeeee!” and he still won’t, so then she has to do something dramatic. Something that will make it clear that it’s game over with this crush. Something so ridiculous and embarrassing that she will want to run home and stick her head under her pillow and say she can’t believe she just did that. I wonder what it will be ……..

I’m afraid there may be a stomach bug in our midst. At least it’s not a flesh eating bacteria. I’m a glass-half-full kind of person.

On Saturday morning, Steve and I went foraging for food in the kitchen and quickly came to the realization that our cupboards were bare and we had to make a dreaded weekend grocery shopping trip. Steve informed me that in the three years he’d lived alone in the apartment, he’d never had to make more than one trip carrying groceries in from the car. I’ve ruined his streak with the increase in the number of groceries without a significant contribution of the brute strength variety, but he assures me it’s all worth it.

We had lunch and then I ignored the guilties about neglecting my book for a good part of the afternoon while we cuddled on the couch and watched Bravo’s “100 Scariest Movie Moments.” It was a good day.

I finally sat down to work at about 3 p.m. and cranked out about 3,000 words. I was still woefully behind in my word count, but it was Saturday night, and this meant that we needed to go eat chili at Hard Times Café in Arlington with Todd and Heather. I got the Frito Chili Pie, which should be called Crunchy Salty Goodness That Will Make You Fat. Heather’s stomach was feeling all achy breaky, and so she forewent the bacon and cheese on her fries and had them plain.

She thought that maybe it was something she’d eaten earlier that day. I suggested perhaps the eggs she had for breakfast? Apparently Todd makes delicious eggs (Steve says, “They’re just eggs!”) and so Todd was very indignant at the implication that his specialty could have been at cause.

After the chili and French fry fest – the staff was incredulous that our table of four ordered three heaping bowls of fries; I guess we’re just gluttonous that way –  Mister Days was calling so that Todd, Heather and Steve could take in the sports bonanza on 100 TV sets, while I gaped around the room at the women dressed like Disney-Land hookers in their Halloween garb. [Note to the woman dressed as "sexy Hermione" of the Harry Potter series: need I remind you that character is not "barely legal." You dressed up like a slutty child. I hear "To Catch a Predator" is hiring. A gig like that could help you land the pedophile of your dreams.]

Once the Red Sox were secure in their lead over the Rockies, Heather called it a night. She was feeling like poo. Since I had paced myself poorly in the drinking department, I was happy to head out myself.

Sunday morning, Steve made us whole wheat pancakes for breakfast. He formed beautiful little embellishments: one pancake in the shape of a ‘K’ and another like an ‘S’. After our delightful pancake feast, Steve settled in to watch some football while I finally sat down to write in earnest. I wrote 10,000 words over the course of the weekend. It was quite a challenge and my fingers were tired from typing and I certainly got slower as the evening wore on, but I’m proud that I’m closing the gap on my shortfall and I no longer feel panicked about missing my deadlines, as long as I remain steadfast in my mission.

This morning I got out of bed and headed for the shower. Steve put the covers over his head and burrowed further into our nest. When I was finally ready for work and Steve was still hunkered down, I gave him a little peck and asked him if he was okay. The answer was an undeniable “No.” Steve is afflicted with the tummy scourge.

Advice? Remedies? I need to nurse my honey back to health. Also, Halloween commentary welcome. In fact, commentary of any kind is encouraged.

I gave myself some time to enjoy the glow of the engagement, and I’m sure I’ll continue to glow indefinitely as far as I can tell. But after going for a full week with my head in the clouds, my writing schedule is really beginning to suffer. I know, I know, I’m allowed to give myself a break. But you know the feeling you get when you disregard something that you should be doing -- that little gnawing sensation, or maybe a feeling of dread or uneasiness -- and then you don’t really enjoy the time spent loafing anyway? Yeah, I’m starting to get that.

I realized this morning that my time is only going to become increasingly scarce as wedding planning gets under way. And then within the next few months, I’ll most likely start a new job, which is always incredibly demanding of both time and brain. So the time to write is absolutely now. I’m anxious that if I don’t fall back into my aggressive writing schedule, all these other factors that feel somewhat out of my control will take over and kill my dream of finishing the book entirely, or at least push it so far onto the backburner that it becomes just another thing on the list that feels neglected and therefore gives me heartburn.

One thing I’ve learned from this whole writing experiment is that I definitely fare best by coasting on the speed of my momentum. So from here on out, I will resume seizing my days. I’ve got the same number of hours in the day Leonardo da Vinci had, and I’m sure he could have planned a wedding, gotten a handle on a new job and written a book at the same time that he painted the Mona Lisa, invented the helicopter and gave himself anatomy lessons by dissecting a bunch of dead stuff. 

Day seizing shall now commence in full-speed-ahead mode.

PS: I bet if they had TV back then, Leonardo's biggest contribution to society would be some hot mess of a reality show. Or even more likely, he would have died penniless on his couch watching soaps. Note to self: no TV.

Of course it's all about the man and the woman and their overwhelming love for each other. But I also have some love for this here ring. Steve did a tremendous job, because this wonderful bauble is beyond my wildest dreams. It's absolutely perfect. Better than perfect, if that's possible.

Is this the most crass post you have ever read? I hope so. I had some requests to see the ring, and well, obviously I'm proud of this beut, so like a man flipping open the hood of his muscle car to show off some shiny, chrome engine parts, I bring you: RING SHOTS.
 

Here is my view of the world at this stage, since I cannot. Stop. Staring at it.

I'll give you a tour. Obviously it's three stones. They are oval. OVAL! HE GOT OVAL STONES! 

I worry every time I wash my hands that soap build-up will dull the shine, but I'm afraid if I take it off, I'll lose it.

Please do me a favor and pretend that I don't have old lady hands. Thank you. 

This would be your view -- if you were standing in front of me, and I stuck my hand in your face and went, "Eeeeeeeeeeee!!!"

I apologize for doing this even virtually. Feel free to make gagging noises and roll your eyes.

And again, please ignore the fact that I'm sporting the hands of a 102-year-old. I was not blessed with young-lady-hand genes. 

I actually initially had taken pictures of the ring in the box because i didn't want to show my wrinkly old mitts on the intar-web, but then I realized that it's time to get over it because for the next few months, everyone I know is going to get a good, hard look at their decrepit glory and I think all of you deserve the same treatment.

Enough about that.

It's a purdy ring.