this is the part where Boyfriend goes berserk.

Our arguments always start innocently enough. Meaning: Boyfriend and I are doing something innocent (ie. watching TV, eating dinner, drinking adult beverages) and I start them because a) Boyfriend is so easily provoked and b) I am so easily entertained.

Take the other night, for example. We were laying on my couch flipping through channels when we found a nice treat: the very beginning of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Delight of delights, we caught it in its first five minutes. I guess it's bad luck on our part, but we always manage to catch the tail end of really good movies. I'll be flipping through the HBOs when I'll see what looks like a good hour of The Princess Bride. When I click on it, I'm immediately disappointed to see the credits rolling. As you wish, my ass.

So we watched the entire movie, even though it was edited for time and interrupted by commercials. Ferris Bueller is that good. As Rooney is caught, Ferris is not and the school bus drives away, I instigate (ahem, I meant "accidentally initiate") an argument.

"You know, if we were in this movie I don't really think I'd be Sloane. I'd have to be Ferris."

"You absolutely would not be Ferris! I would be Ferris!! What are you thinking?"

"Well, I'm typically the outgoing one, the social one, the spontaneous one, the one who shakes things up and schemes. And you're more... not Ferris."

I can see him consider my points and realize they have validity. However, he doesn't want to admit to any of that. He says:

"That's not true. Not even a little bit. I am so Ferris. If I'm not Ferris then who would I be? Sloane?"

"Well, let's see... you're a self-proclaimed neurotic. You're not terribly social and prefer the company of yourself or your girlfriend to the company of crowds. Your favorite thing is to next-step and plan ahead. You like routine and order."

"I'm not Cameron."

"I never said you were Cameron."

"It was implied."

"It most certainly was not. I'm just saying that you're clearly not Ferris."

"Well then, who the hell am I if I'm not Ferris and I'm not Cameron?"

"I never said you weren't Cameron."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

"Exactly."

i am The Other Woman.

My creative director and I always joke around about how I'm his work-girlfriend. We spend so much time together that it's all too true. We love each other's company, always laugh at each other's jokes, and spend more time with each other in the day than we spend conscious hours with our significant others.

However, today our "affair" was taken to a whole new level when his wife called him this morning and said "How, exactly, do you think it makes me feel when I see an email print-out to Not Lisa on the kitchen counter that simply asks 'will you marry me?'"

Some back-story: a few months ago, Creative Director had to take a trip with a few of our clients. Unfortunately, they had only enough money in the budget to take one agency person with them and Creative Director was their man. He gets uneasy when it's just him and the clients, as he has no filter and needs an account service person (see: me) to keep him in check. He also has no talent for entertaining clients, despite being the gay man that he almost is.

To help ease his social anxiety, I sent him a fairly comprehensive list of restaurant choices. They were categorized by client mood (varying from "I want to eat well on the company dime!" to "I'm going to get nipple clamped if my expense report is high.") and food genre, then punctuated by a Google Maps link giving him directions from the hotel to the restaurant. Obviously, the only appropriate reply to this email was "will you marry me?"

Fast forward to four months later, yesterday evening. Creative Director is going through his back-pack and pulling out (hee) any paperwork that he no longer needs. He doesn't think to actually put the trash in the trash can (creatives distract easily) and leaves it in a stack on the kitchen counter for his wife to accidentally find the next morning.

Three words come to mind: bless his heart.

All I could tell him when he recounted the story was "That's what you get for being such a whore."

Luckily, his wife really isn't mad. We have met and think each other is delightful. She also knows there is no reason for alarm. But, because she is so delightful, I do know that she's not going to let him live it down for the next couple of weeks.

However, there is one thought that is a bit unsettling... why did he take the time to go into his "sent" folder and print out the email with his reply at the top, rather than printing straight from his inbox the email that I sent him with the restaurant selections?

I posed this question to my friend Ryan who merely said "STOP the over-analysis." But where's the fun in that?

He also then said "I can't handle you right now. I have to go see my therapist and find my center again."

the re-invented walk of shame

I just experienced a whole new different walk of shame. And the sad thing is, I immediately thought of it as blog fodder.

I live in a fairly hip and young area of Dallas. One of my most favorite perks of the hood is the close proximity (see: stumbling distance) of several of my favorite bars in the city. Come Friday night, the patios are full and plenty of merry-makers are slutting around in their tight jeans looking for the next real estate mogul to buy them a vodka soda. It's a hoot.

However, tonight I have deemed myself sick and am looking forward to a nice night in with the Puppy and my Slanket. But as for sustenance... what to do? Luckily, amongst all the trendy hot-spots there is one beacon of flourescent-lit stability and convenience: the Henderson Grocery. I trekked on over in my sweatpants and fleece, pitying the poor girls who deigned to get all gussied up just to go out and search for dudes. They were in heels! I was in tennis shoes! I am a single gal about town who can't be bothered with Friday night nonsense! If I want to stay at home and be sick, so be it!

After I walked out the door and faced the two-story patio across the street, I realized that I was embarking on the new school walk of shame. I walked right on past all the porch-dwellers and valet guys carrying my fun Friday night in a brown paper sack: a box of macaroni and cheese, a bottle of wine and a pack of Parliament Lights.

I should probably go back and get some AAs for my vibrator.