Not much there

For months I had draft posts filling up my Yahoo Notepad. I carried around a notebook to jot down inspiring sentences or thoughts while I was on the subway or in class or walking home. Everywhere I turned, there was a new idea for a blog post filling my mind but simply not enough time in the week to write about everything. I've been trying lately but the thoughts and the words and the sentences just aren't coming.

Even when I've been given a subject and told to just WRITE, I'm at a loss. The lovely Z tagged me for a "Six Random Things" meme and I've thought about it for two days and can only come up with three things. My bloggy mindset is just not there.

Instead of regaling you with tales of nonprofit marketing or therapists or whitewater rafting (actually, I'm going this weekend and it's going to be an adventure and maybe I will tell you about that tomorrow!), I will do the damn meme. Well, half the meme anyway.

Random Thing #1: I check the weather forecast multiple times a day (typically 10+). The weather can dictate my mood and it obviously dictates my activities, and I like to know how to plan. The predicted high temperature on Friday? The overnight low on Sunday? The percent chance of rain on Tuesday? I WILL KNOW. (Am crazy.)

Random Thing #2: In order to fall asleep at night, I must be in The Position. The Position is: laying on stomach, right cheek to the pillow (which means I'm facing left), left arm on pillow above head, right arm to my side, feet crossed at foot of bed. If I'm sleeping with Mark, I fall asleep in The Other Position which is: right cheek on his left shoulder, left arm draped over his chest, left leg draped over his left leg, right arm to my side. I was thinking about The Position last night as I was settling into it and I realized that I truly cannot fall asleep (as quickly) any other way.

Random Thing #3: I never get rid of jeans. Unless they were grossly ill-fitting or had a large hole in the crotch, every pair of jeans I've owned since high school is currently in my closet or in a bin under my bed. Occasionally I don't want to do laundry and want to "save" my good jeans for the weekend, so I resurrect some old favorites. Recently, I sported a pair of dark-wash Gap Long & Leans, circa September 2002.

And this is where I'm curious. Do you get rid of jeans or old clothes if they're still in good condition? Are there any pieces of your wardrobe that you occasionally resurrect? If so, what are they and when are they from (the older, the better!)?

Because I know you've missed my weekend recaps...

There were two non-glorious parts of my weekend and because I just can't let a post go by without finding something to whine about, I've got to get it out. My phone, my four-month-old, rather expensive phone, stopped working yesterday. It didn't get wet or dropped, but it won't turn on and no amount of messing with the battery or charger has helped. Although I like to pretend that I'm angry because I need the phone for work, it's really because I'm addicted. There. I said it.

Also, my final grades for the semester were posted online. I took two classes and got B+'s in both. While I want to be disappointed and angry that I didn't get two shining A's, I know that it's because I really didn't put in an A's worth of effort. I half-assed a lot of both classes, I didn't attending tutoring sessions when I should've and I compiled papers during episodes of Gossip Girl. My summer semester starts tomorrow and dammit all, I'm going to get A's in both of these classes.

Despite the two little blips in my Sunday evening, my weekend was one of those that you look back on and remember the little things that made it so wonderful. Friday night I was caught up in a sweeping hug and with his arms wrapped tightly around me, Mark lifted me off the ground and spun me in a circle in front of my apartment, in a very movie-like fashion. The two weeks felt like two years and neither of us could wipe the gigantic grins off our faces.

Later that evening, we sat in a cozy corner of a local Peruvian restaurant and talked over sangria and roasted chicken and avocado salad and I was overwhelmingly happy and content. I literally felt overwhelmed with his presence, I felt alive after two weeks of being alone.

I ran a 10K in Central Park on Saturday morning, and Mark was able to watch me for the first time this year. Actually, he saw me cross the finish line for the first time ever. I beat my last 10K time by almost three minutes and Mark snapped a few photos of me sprinting towards the end (not posted here for obvious - red face, profusely sweating, goofy smile - reasons). When we met after I made my way through the masses, he wrapped me up in a sweaty hug and exclaimed how proud he was of me and that he didn't realize how inspiring road races could be. I've yet to convince him to run with me.

After bagels and showers, we made our way to the southern-most tip of Manhattan for a (free!) ride on the Staten Island Ferry. I've never been to Staten Island, nor do I have plans to go in the near future, but it was a beautiful day and the hour round-trip boat ride was thoroughly enjoyable. We leaned over the edge, breathing in the (probably highly polluted) sea breeze and sunshine, and discussed plans for the rest of the weekend.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with shopping and cookie-making and Indiana Jones-watching until we got hungry for dinner and made our way to an amazing neighborhood Italian restaurant. It was our first time eating there and the service was impeccable, the food outstanding and the atmosphere warm and chic. We talked literally for hours and neither of us wanted to leave when the bill arrived at our table.

Sadly, my roommate decided to come home on Saturday evening, so our lovely romantic evening was cut short, but we woke up on Sunday ready to create another great day. Over a (much too) large breakfast of pancakes and sausage, we decided to go rock climbing that afternoon. I'd never been and Central Park has a great, inexpensive bouldering wall which we both wanted to try. We trekked to the north end of the park and Mark showed me how to chalk my hands and use the various grips and shimmy my way across the wall. I surprised both of us a few times when I made it across and up the wall without jumping off once.

After an hour, we were both exhausted (running does not work the same muscles as climbing, apparently), so we bundled up for the cold, rainy walk to a barbeque joint for lunch and then back to my apartment where we both promptly fell asleep on the couch. Mark had mentioned earlier in the afternoon that he didn't want to leave me, that he may stay the night. And when 9 o'clock rolled around, and we were both cozied under a quilt watching Indiana Jones (AGAIN. His choice, not mine), he decided to stay the night and left at 5:30 this morning. The benefit of falling asleep next to him again and having that little bit of extra time together far outweighs the cost of lack of sleep since I got up early with him this morning.

It's hard to capture all of the little moments that rejuvenated my relationship this weekend in a simple blog post. There really are few words that accurately describe how I feel today, but one of the simplest words of all, a word that we use every day but rarely ever mean? Is how I feel, through and through.

Happy.

Speed limit: SLOW

You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you flip open a test you have (kind of) studied for and the first problem looks completely unfamiliar? And then you frantically flip through the rest of the test, thinking that maybe you were mistakenly handed the exam for a more advanced class? And you glance to the person next to you who is happily writing away on the first problem like it is simple arithmetic, and you begin wondering how much money you would lose if you drop out of grad school NOW? The only word that comes to your mind is Shit.

Why didn't I study this? Why wasn't that on the practice exam? I don't even know what this word means!

Yet, at 8:30 last night, I had trudged my way through the test and left feeling much more confident than I arrived.

I'm usually a fast test-taker, the first one to flip the page and the first one to put down my pen and the first one to triumphantly toss the exam on the front desk and leave the room. Because of that, I usually miss some key words in a sentence and I fall prey to the subtle trick questions of a problem. In reviewing my graded exam, there are typically no fewer than four instances where I want to kick myself for making stupid mistakes. You'd think after seventeen years of schooling I'd learn.

But last night, I took my time. I worked through the problems that I was sure of and went back to review the ones I wasn't. I left the room after about half of the other students had finished, and before I added my test to the pile, I reviewed it one last time and was actually pleased with my work and proud that my first semester of grad school was officially over.

As I bounced up Broadway to the subway, almost giddy with the thought that I'd never have to think about inferior goods and the value of the marginal product of labor and the substitution effect ever again, I slowed my near-running pace.

I realized. I have to slow down. I'm so focused on moving to the next thing that I might be missing what is happening right now. Those key words and subtle trick questions on the exam? I get it, Universe, you've taught me a lesson.

Thinking positive on a rainy Monday morning

(I'm back. Maybe. Just for now? I don't know.)

Last month around this time, I had an emotional breakdown. After Mark had worked 20 extra hours over a weekend, I decided to bring up touchy subjects late at night and ended up in tears for three days straight. And last night? I did it again. Though with fewer explosions and threats to break up with him as last time, it was still messy and unnecessary.

Sometimes I let my mind be consumed with the thoughts that we're not living together, that he's not EVER going to take a step forward with me, that we're simply doomed. And really? It's only because I'm dramatic and have had a tendency for as long as I can remember to think negatively. Charming, I know.

So I decided last night, while staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain patter on the fire escape outside, that I'm going to combat these negative thoughts every single time I have them. Because in reality, I have a wonderful, supportive boyfriend who I am so compatible with, who I fall in love with every time I see him, who is maturing day by day, who is making himself a better person so that we can have a better relationship, who I love spending time with.

For when I'm being negative about Mark and the ridiculous thoughts that I'm wasting my time or that he's never going to take a step forward with me or that I'm going to die single and lonely take over my mind, I'm going to remember why we're together and why being patient is worth it.

*Bottom line, I love him.
*He is finally seeking help in the areas of life where he's struggled before and after only a few sessions with a therapist, I'm already seeing positive changes in him.
*He's making decisions and sticking with them.
*We have a wonderful time together. We know each other in and out and the thought of losing that is really too much to bear.
*If I made a list of all of the qualities I want in a boyfriend, a potential husband, a man, he would fit the bill. To a tee.

For when I'm being negative about living in New York, all alone, woe is me, I'm going to think of all the things I actually like about living here (but am usually too proud to admit to anyone - especially Mark - since I've complained incessantly for the past year).

*I am living in the epicenter of the world, one of the greatest cities in the world.
*I can brag to my children about how their mom spent her mid-twenties gallivanting around New York City.
*The girl at the laundry place calls me by name (the wrong name, but still).
*I can be running at Central Park within 9 minutes of leaving my apartment and I'm a member of a huge running clubs (side note: I ran a 10 mile race yesterday and beat my personal time!).
*I'm close to work, only two subway stops away, and I go to a job that I love every single day.
*I am attending a top 10 university and pursuing a Master's degree in something I love.
*I have more friends here than I do in Connecticut.
*My roommate is annoying and my apartment is small, but she's not really around all that much and my room is cute and it's cheap (relatively speaking, of course).

Temporary

Me: It's not you, it's me.

Blog: But what did I do? You can't just leave me all alone.

Me: We both know that I wasn't giving you the attention you deserved. I've just been so busy and I've even neglected our friends.

Blog: Well, I guess you're right. We aren't what we used to be.

Me: So maybe we should take a break. You know I love you, I really do.

Blog: Will you ever come back for me?

Me: Of course I will. All in due time. I just need some space to breathe for a little while. We were getting to be too much of a chore.

Blog: I'll miss you. And so will our friends.

Me: I'll miss you too. But don't worry, my dear, I'll be back for you soon!

[Drives off into sunset in red convertible, waving scarf in the air, long hair blowing in the wind.]

End scene.

The blues

Today is only Monday. And I am already ready to collapse into a little heap on the floor and close my eyes and wake up when summer semester is over.

I had a fantastic weekend but am now staring at 89 unread work emails, all of which need attention from me, an unfinished final paper and a lot of microeconomics problems that need to be done in preparation for my exam next week.

On the upside, however, I had a great weekend. And in honor of Cinco de Mayo, I give you cinco cosas (five things?) I did this weekend. And maybe later this week I'll tell you more and show some pictures.

Uno. Rode ATVs around the countryside with Mark and my dad for hours on Friday. Also rode a dirtbike and crashed it in a ditch. Have the scratches and ripped jeans to prove it.

Dos. Went to the most redneck bar in the land. Drank the house "specialty" and had some, ahem, digestive issues the next morning. Watched my stepsister get drunk and spill pizza on herself and dance a lot. Sang Toby Keith's "I Love This Bar" while wearing a cowboy hat and never felt so country in my life.

Tres. Stayed out until 4am dancing and hanging out with friends at a bar that played all 80s and 90s music. Bought my little cousin (okay, he's actually almost 22) a drink for the first time. Reconnected with college roommates. Watched Mark be the life of the dance floor - as usual.

Cuatro. Had breakfast with Mark's college buddy after our night out and let him try and convince Mark and I to move to Rochester. Talked with Mark about the benefits of moving up there (DIRT. CHEAP.) and how much we miss our friends.

Cinco. Drove back to New York City. Thought about my work and school to-do lists. Felt terrible that since Mark's name was on the rental car contract, only he could make the 6 hour drive home. Ate McDonalds and felt nauseous.

El final.

One for the team

A few months ago, in an evening of drunken debauchery in the West Village, I somehow ended up with the business card of the Head of Finance of New York City in my bag. I tossed the card the next day, but I had the unfortunate bad judgment to give him my card as well, presumably to talk about my unique line of work (my organization has a very interesting mission in a third world country).

His emails started out innocent enough, asking me about work and school; it turns out he went through the same Masters program that I am. But then they starting getting strange. He sent me his resume. He sent me his address. He asked if I wanted to live with him in Park Slope. He told me all the things he likes about me. I haven't responded to an email of his in months; as soon as the conversation moved away from work, I stopped answering.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. I was walking to the subway very early in the morning; I had left Mark cozy in my bed and decided that I would go into work early to get out early. The police were setting up barricades for the upcoming arrival of the Pope and a guy walking next to me towards the subway struck up a conversation. Do you know what all these barricades are for? I explained they were for the Pope and kept walking. He asked what I did for a living and I told him the name of my organization, and of course, it immediately struck an interest with him.

He said that he's going to that country for work and then my interest was piqued because our organization is always looking for partners in the field. We exchanged cards and sure enough, an email landed in my inbox the next day from him. It turns out that he is a United States Attorney General.

Apparently I have a penchant for randomly meeting powerful, influential men and giving them my card in hopes of using them and their power.

The Attorney General and I emailed back and forth a few times and finally he asked me to get a drink at a bar around the corner from my office last night. I agreed, knowing that I was merely interested in how he could help my organization. Before I arrived, I had forgotten what he looked like and when I walked in the bar, he smiled at me. He was tall. And bald. And smelled of stale cigarette smoke.

He had ordered us a bottle of wine before I arrived and when it came, I had a feeling of dread in my gut. I had to endure a bottle's worth of wine with this boring bald man. We chatted about the third world country and what he'd be doing there and what my organization does there. But then he started talking about dating. And I mentioned Mark. And his hand brushed my leg. And I wanted to die.

Finally, the bottle of wine was gone and he asked if I'd like another drink. I (maybe too hurriedly) said no thanks and got up to leave. He asked if I wanted to take a walk and I said, Yeah, to Grand Central where I have to catch the uptown train.

I really love my job and I want to see my organization succeed and I know that we need all of the support in the country that we can get. I'm willing to work 14 hour days (ahem, yesterday) and I'm willing to meet anyone who can help us.

But going out for drinks with a 37 year old annoying bald guy? Now THAT is taking one for the team. I think I deserve another raise.

Ponderings

Have you ever worked hard to put together not just a presentable outfit, but a really cute one? Then realized that you took the [insert whatever look you were going for, in my case nautical/J. Crew] look to a whole new level [not necessarily a good thing]? Today I stand out a little in New York City, but would fit in quite well on Martha's Vineyard.

Have you ever had someone call you the wrong name repeatedly, despite correcting them a number of times, yet you're still kind of strangely happy that they call you by name? The girl who does my laundry calls me Jennifer, and although it's completely the wrong name, I like walking into the shop and hearing a cheerful, "Hi Jennifer!", knowing it's meant for me.

Have you ever been really excited for something that you're a little embarassed about? Like, for example, you're super excited that New Kids on the Block are coming to a venue near you in just a few short months? I mean, not that I would know, I'm just wondering.

Have you ever had a lot of stuff to carry somewhere and instead of making two trips, you just load fourteen bags on your arms, wedge one box in between your head and your shoulder and kick a large bag filled with laundry down the stairs so you don't have to make another trip? I loathe making multiple trips, so I always load myself up like a pack mule and trudge to my destination and arrive a sweaty, frazzled mess. Except that the pain and suffering of the single painful trip doesn't even bother me nearly as much as having to go back upstairs again.

Have you ever not wanted it to be Friday because you just have so much to get done before then?

Convince me not to get a dog

God, you guys keep me grounded. Your comments yesterday brought me back from the scary thoughts that the devil on my right shoulder was whispering into my ear (Leave Mark, that'll teach him, you don't need him, you could do better.). I just need to be patient.

But not with everything.

In a recent turn of events that means Mark and I may not be moving in together in the next month or so, I've been in a rotten mood, been using foul language and taking a fuck-the-world attitude (attractive, I know). I'm sick of waiting around, sick of wondering when I'm going to be able to do the things I want to do, sick of basing my decisions on other people.

I'm going to get the dog I've been wanting for months. I'm planning on adopting one this summer.

I definitely want to adopt as opposed to buying a dog, and there is an ASPCA shelter around the corner from my apartment that I plan on using to find a dog. I've looked into the monthly costs of owning a dog and I know generally the time requirement of walking, feeding, exercising, cleaning up after and playing with a dog. I have names picked out (can you rename an adopted dog that already has a [stupid] name?) and can imagine snuggling with a cute little doggie as I'm reading or watching television.

I'm a little hesitant, only because I feel like I might be forgetting some of the unseen expenses or responsibilities. Like, what do I do with him when I go away for a weekend? Can I bring him on an airplane? What if he gets sick? Do I get pet insurance? How often does he have to pee? I've heard small dogs can learn to use a litterbox-type thing - is this true?

Many people in New York have dogs and because I love running and being outside, I have no concerns about giving him enough time and space to run. I'm just afraid of the things that a non-dog owner might overlook.

So help. I need dog advice. Should I get one? What are the hidden costs or responsibilities? What am I missing?

Jealousy

My ex-boyfriend, Kyle, the guy I dated all throughout high school and college, right up until the day I met Mark, has been calling me incessantly for the past three days. He normally calls me about once a month to catch up, and he really is a nice guy with no ill intentions, so I usually answer the phone and we chat for ten minutes or so.

When we broke up in the spring of 2004, I knew that it was the right thing to do. He spent 5 years getting his 2 year degree, he worked in a factory making $15 an hour and had few aspirations to rise above that. While that may make some people happy, I strived for more. I had plans to live in London and wanted to have a successful career. We decided to part ways, and it was a truly amicable split.

He's kept me updated on his love life (though I'm not sure of his intentions there) and has been dating the same girl for a couple years. They recently bought a house together in rural upstate New York and because he is a genuinely good guy, I'm happy for them. He asks about Mark and I fill him in on life in Manhattan.

When I saw his name show up on my phone the first time, I was busy and didn't answer. Then I saw it again a few hours later and again that evening. The next day, I had two more missed calls from him and I knew what he was calling about and I did not want to hear it.

He's engaged. He called me from the jewelry store, he called me right before he proposed and he called me again on Saturday morning, after he'd been engaged for 12 hours.

I feigned excitement. I asked him about the proposal and her reaction and the ring.

And after we got off the phone I started crying.

I didn't cry because I miss him or I wish it was me sharing a home and, soon, a marriage with him. I could've had that if I wanted it. But I didn't and I don't.

I started crying because I want to know when the fuck MY man is going to get his shit together and make a fucking life decision. We discuss marriage frequently. We talk about wanting to be married to each other and have children together. Mark is 27 years old. Kyle is 24. WHAT THE HELL.

I mentioned to Kyle that Mark and I are coming home this weekend and he suggested that he and his fiance meet us out for drinks. Apparently, he's suggested this to her many times before and she refuses (understandably, I think). Last night, at their post-proposal party, he asked her if the ring on her finger would make her feel better about finally meeting me and she said maybe (am I the only one who would be angry if my now fiance asked if I could meet his ex-girlfriend within two hours of being proposed to!?).

I am very close to having my great grandmother's antique engagement ring (that just happens to house a very large diamond) sized for my finger, wearing it next weekend and telling them we got engaged this week on our four year anniversary. I just can't take all this engagement shit given the events in my own life as of late, especially from someone who was NOT SUPPOSED TO get engaged before me.

I know it is a bad/weird/evil/awkward/stupid idea and I think it would humiliate Mark and I'm not going to do it. But still...

Apparently, I am a huge loser

Mothers know exactly how to push our buttons. They birthed us, we were once a part of them so they believe it is their god-given right to say whatever they want, without giving a single thought as to their choice of words or the implications of such.

In a conversation with my mom the other day, I mentioned the fact that Mark may be staying in Connecticut and I may be renewing my lease and staying in Manhattan for a while longer (whole other story and no, we're not breaking up and no, I haven't written about it yet but I've tried and it's really hard to find the words).

"I just don't want to see you waiting around for him," she said.

I asked what she meant by that, because to me, living in Manhattan, working at a fantastic job and getting my Master's degree is anything but waiting around with my life.

"Well, you know, you're just getting older," she replied.

"Mom, I am TWENTY-FOUR. That is not old. People in the real world, outside of your religious group and especially in urban areas get married a lot older now."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. But mothers have dreams you know. I mean, every mother dreams of their daughter getting married and having babies."

"Are you saying I'm never going to get married?" I asked, my blood pressure and decibel level rising.

"Well, I just don't know anymore," she said forlornly.

I was silent. I was stunned. I am a huge disappointment to my mother and I didn't realize it.

Mom, I'm sorry that I moved away from our small town to Manhattan. I'm sorry I stopped going to church three times a week and reading the Bible every morning. I'm sorry I'm proud to be a part of the work force and love going to my office every day. I'm sorry I'm getting my Master's degree from a prestigious university. I'm sorry I have not settled into a marriage and baby-making routine. I'm sorry I don't stay home and cook for my husband and iron his shirts. I'm sorry I'm not you.

Wait a second. I love my life and I'm proud of my accomplishments. Am I really sorry that my life is not going according to her plan? No. Way.

In honor of 4 years together, I give you...

Top Four Reasons We are Great Together:

1. We continually teach other things. Without Mark I never would have experienced the bliss that is gourmet food and I thought I had nary a cooking bone in my body. But now? My chicken scampi is better than his mom's (his words). I wouldn't have summitted Mount Washington and wouldn't have become as athletic as I have in the past four years. Without his constant support and confidence in me, I doubt I'd have the amazing job in Manhattan that I do now; his encouragement has pushed me to do things I didn't think were even possible for me.

I think I've taught him to care a bit less about what other people think about him. That it doesn't matter what clothes one wears (though, dear god, he loves those $300 Monarchy jeans) or what college one attends or how much one drinks at parties to be respected. I think I've also taught him how to communicate without getting angry. If I bring up a touchy subject, but one that needs discussion, he's learned to take a deep breath and talk it out, rather then storming out of the room angry.

2. We've faced a number of our own personal demons together. And we made it out, not only alive, but stronger. In four years, we've been through deaths, hairy situations with ex-boy and girlfriends, family struggles and quarter-life crises. We've found the best way to work through things together and there have been few days when we've gone to bed still upset with one another. He is immensely understanding and supportive, and though he still gets confused when I randomly start crying (because I start thinking about my parents' divorce, for example), he just sits quietly and lets me cry.

3. We try new things together as often as possible and share a passion for traveling. Traveling is one of our favorite things to do together, and there's nothing like being in a foreign country where you don't speak the language to bring out the best and worst in a relationship. We've done things from spending weeks roaming the countryside of Italy to running through Disney's Magic Kingdom to catch the best parade-watching spot. He is the perfect travel companion; I plan the trip and he navigates us through it. We try new restaurants together and new activities. We make a great team in racquetball.

4. We have an identical birthmark on our right foot. On each of our right feet, we have a small birthmark in the middle of the arch. The marks are identical, in the same exact spot, on the same exact foot. If that isn't some kind of sign that we are simply MADE for each other, I don't know what is.

And, in anticipation of a great 5th year together, I'll throw in Reason #5:

5. We look pretty cute together.

This title is about a title

As soon as I turned 15, I filled out the necessary forms to get that prized green card. My work permit. I begged my mom to take me around town and wait outside each little boutique and chain store while I ran inside to pick up applications. At home, I sat at the kitchen table, gleefully filling in each form, proud that I now knew my own social security number. After what felt like years but was probably only a day or two, I got the first phone call. From the manager at the Dollar Tree. After an impromptu interview, I was hired on the spot. I was set to begin work the next week and when I asked what to do or wear or bring on my first day, I was told simply, Don't wear jeans.

I loved being a "Sales Associate" at the Dollar Tree. I loved punching in and out and using the cash register and counting money and organizing inventory. I was immensely proud of that store too. I'd tell my family that it was the best Dollar Tree in the area because we kept our store so organized and we got the best merchandise.

I eventually had to leave the Dollar Tree and held a number of jobs filing medical records, updating a website for a travel agency, checking people into a hotel, selling bicycles, selling vitamins and selling Victoria's Secret beauty products.

Then after college came the real jobs. Legal assistant, meeting planner and now? Nonprofit worker extraordinaire. Which brings me to my current dilemma.

I was asked by my new boss to come up with a title for myself that is more reflective of the work I actually do, because my current "Assistant" title just isn't correct. Because I'm the only staff member in the New York headquarters of our organization (by the way, I love that everyone references this office as the headquarters, since I'm sitting here alone, some days in jeans and a t-shirt), I take on a number of different roles.

My responsibilities fall into three main categories: development and fundraising, finance and operations/administration. I do almost everything related to those categories with supervision and assistance from my boss (who's stationed around the world) and the board of directors.

I came up with a number of titles that fit a few of my responsibilities - Financial Controller, Development Associate, Operations Officer - but nothing that is comprehensive.

HELP. I know you all work in a variety of industries and have been exposed to a number of job titles. Does anyone have any suggestions for an appropriate job title for me? I, um, kind of need to have this decided upon for our board meeting (free food!) tomorrow.

(If not, you can just tell me about your favorite job or your first job or your worst job. That would be fun too.)

Four

Four. Twenty-four. Two thousand four.

The day Mark and I met. The day we celebrate our anniversary.

It will be four years on Thursday that we've been together. Four years filled with learning about each other, trying new things, traveling around the world. The best four years of my life so far. I have a wonderful post written in my head, an "Ode to Mark", if you will, but I'm saving that for later.

Mark and I have never made a big to-do about our anniversaries in the past. Maybe once he got me flowers and we probably went out to dinner each year. Quite frankly, I just can't remember.

But this year is different. This year has been the hardest yet - moving away from each other, struggling through a long-distance relationship, making huge changes in our own personal lives - but it's taught me to value and treasure what we have and I feel a stronger connection to him now than ever. And so this year, I want to make a big to-do about it.

I want him to bring me flowers this weekend and I want to make him a small gift and I want to get dressed up for dinner and I want to hold hands and sit close and I want it to be romantic.

But first?

I want him to remember that Thursday is our anniversary. Without a reminder from me.

I casually dropped "anniversary" and "this Thursday" into a couple conversations this weekend and an email yesterday and he didn't seem to catch on, making no mention of it again. I want what I want, but I don't want to say what I want.

Before you tell me that maybe he'll surprise me? He won't. He never has before and he's terrible at keeping a secret, so if he had something in the works I would've likely heard about it by now (which kind of sucks if there is an engagement in the future - it would take a lot for him not to spill the beans!). I usually find out what I'm getting for Christmas weeks before the actual holiday.

Even if it was just a card. A thoughtful card handpicked and written to me. With no reminders. I would be happy.

I just don't want to be disappointed.

My day in the spotlight

The buzzer rang at 9:30 on the dot and I anxiously turned off Full House and ran to let Alessandro into my apartment. He shook my hand then immediately leaned in for the cheek-to-cheek kiss. Minutes later, his makeup and hair bags were unpacked and laying on my coffee table and living room floor. The curling iron was plugged in and I was being styled and primped within fifteen minutes of his arrival.

In the middle of an in-depth conversation about NARS and the worth of good makeup brushes, the door buzzed again and the photographer and his assistants made their way up the three flights of stairs into my apartment.

After Alessandro was finished with my hair and makeup, I pulled the photographer, Greg, into my bedroom and begged him for help. I showed him the six blue and green colored outfits I'd pulled out for the shoot and he rejected all of them on the basis that he had just shot a few other people in similar colored clothes. He pulled open my closet and grabbed a simple white fitted shirt and grey cropped pants, to go with my favorite brown leather slides.

I was immediately disappointed. As he left the room so I could change, I pulled Mark in. I don't want to wear what he picked! It's so boring! I'm going to look OOLLLDDD. He essentially told me to quit complaining, that Greg knew what he was doing, that the photos would be fine.

I grabbed my sunglasses and we walked three blocks to the river-front park to do the shoot, chatting all the while about Brooklyn and restaurants and 80s music. The five of us followed Greg around the park, as he scouted out the best location for the first set. He finally found a gathering of bright yellow flowers, and instructed me to walk along the path towards the camera, smiling and laughing while he clicked away.
Alessandro called out, Have you done this before? You're doing great! Mark reassured him that although I did a little modeling for a cheerleading catalog in high school, that I learned everything from America's Next Top Model and Tyra. Alessandro acted as my "Miss Jay" for the rest of the day.

We moved on to a number of other locations around the park, and I became more and more comfortable in front of the camera. So much so that I said (many times, I'm sure), God this is fun! Oh my god, I could do this all the time! I want to be on ANTM!
The whole shoot lasted only a couple hours, and I was geniunely sad when it was over. I have to admit that I relished in the attention that people gave us in the park and the weather was beautiful and the whole crew was so much fun. It was a perfect day.

The photos will be in the July issue of the magazine and hopefully I'll get a couple prints for myself. Both Greg and Alessandro mentioned that I could be a lifestyle model (Not runway, but in commercial print. I could totally be the next face of, say, Monistat 7 or something.) so of course, now I've got my mind unrealistically set on being a model.

Anyhow, my celebrity-like day is over. Hopefully I'll get to do it again. Because I could really get used to having my own stylist.