obessive compulsive or just an idealist dreamer?

Let me first say that I am not an obsessive compulsive person. I'm a type B personality. I'd rather go with the flow of things that get all hyped up about stuff. I'm late everywhere go... not that that is a good thing but I always have been. I'm not not an uptight person. But I tend to live in the future, or in the clouds, as my parents always say. My entire life I have drempt of what my wedding would be like or what kind of house I'd live in, what kind of man I'd marry.

The other night, Mr. Goatee said something about me being obsessed with how my life, how primarily those details... are going to play out. He said that I need to accept that life isn't going to be perfect, that my dream wedding isn't going to happen exactly how I want it (especially with my mom paying for practically nada). I guess it's true.. I know that every little detail that I have played over and over in my head isn't going to happen the way I hope it will. Heck, my whole life is proof of that. But I don't know how I'm going to handle it when the time comes and I won't be able to dream about those things because I'll have already lived them.

Which comes down to my questioning over whether I'm obsessive compulsive about my future. I was at a bridal fair on Sunday with my friend Sarah, who is getting married in August. Besides the constant questioning "are you the bride?" by vendors (which, what do you say to that? Um, well, no, not really. I live with the man I want to marry and I know it's going to happen, it's in the books, we've got the caterer, but no. I'm not the bride...) I felt a little uncomfortable. Was I uncomfortable that I was in an antebellum crammed full of brides and mother of brides who were fervently snatching up samples of wedding cake and business cards? Or maybe it was that I felt that I didn't have any right to be there... despite the fact that I've been a bridesmaid 6 times and many of my friends have been married for years, I still feel like I'm too young or immature to actually get married. It's like I've dreamed about it so long it should still be off in the distance, something that is unobtainable, something I can always have to dream about. What will I dream of once that is over? I'm not just the idealist dreamer, I'm the impossible one.

Which leads me to the "dream house".. much like how I used to draw miniature brides and bridesmaids dresses on the back of the offering envelope at church as a child, I also used to draw houseplans of my "dream house" during high school classes when I got bored. And, now that a wedding is somewhat in sight, so is my house. Ok, so I know that my two-story white saltbox style home identical to the one in "Father of the Bride" is highly unobtainable right now.

But this weekend Mr. Goatee and I went house shopping. His parents have offered to help us buy a home. A real house. No more nomadic moving from apartment to rental houses. A place of our own. Although I'd love to go back to my cherished historic district downtown, Mr. Goatee is more of a "new house" kind of guy while I'm definitely an "antiques" kind of girl. I want sidewalks and houses that are pre-cold war. I hate cookie cutter housing that predominates the urban sprawl. So we decided to look and try to compromise. The first house we saw was nice, especially for the price, but it desperately needed some work and the neighborhood was on the side of decrepid. The second house, which we looked at this morning, was love at first site. It's not perfect, but I could imagine our things.. us.. filling up this house. I could imagine all the little things I would do to it to improve it, to put my mark on it. It's much more expensive than what we should probably buy, but it's oh so perfect and I know we wouldn't have problems with the resale. I can just imagine a little white picket fence...

And so, now, we wait for word from his parents. We've told them about it, sent pictures, and now I just have to wait and pretend that I'm not aching to sign a contract. I need not be obsessive about this. But I guess when it comes this stage in my life, my dreams are partially becoming reality, and I think it's ok if I'm a little obsessed with that.

stilettos to couch potatos

When is it that you morph from being someone who dresses up and goes out every night with your friends to a homebody who sits on the couch every night, with your socked feet on the coffee table, watching sex and the city reruns you've already seen?

I was asking myself this question last night as I was sitting on the couch with my socked feet up on the coffee table, simultaneously flipping through Martha Stewart Magazine, talking online and watching tv. And I started to feel restless. The cold weather made me think of what I was doing during the winter last year.. about pulling on one of my cashmere sweaters, putting on my pointy-toed stilettos and chandelier earrings and would head out to Innisfree or Catch or Wilhagens. I didn't have a boyfriend, but for the first time in my life, at this time last year, I was dating around. Or at least "talking"... To three different guys. Things were fresh and new and exciting with my job, my house and life in general.

And, so I wondered what had happened to transform myself from stillettos to socks. Had I lost something or gotten so comfortable in my relationship status that I had lost my love of dressing up and going out for drinks? No. I couldn't have.

Truth is, while my life was exciting and new at this time last year, it was horribly unsteady and I was unsure of everything. I was dating three guys, none of which I knew would last until the spring. Now, well, it's amazing how things can change in 12 months. I'm sure of my path in life and happy. But I do miss the stilettos and grasshopper martinis..

So, after spending a Thursday evening vegging out on the couch, with Mr. Goatee playing games on the computer, we decided to go out. I put on my black cashmere sweater, my tweed stilettos, and him his button up shirt. We headed to Wilhagens, played a couple games of darts, had a few beers and a few glasses of wine, and then went home at midnight. Ok, so I wasn't closing down the place or doing the old bar crawl. But as I laid in bed, slowly drifting to sleep with my slight (oh-so-familiar) buzz, my feet warmed by Mr. Goatee's, I thought to myself: I haven't lost a thing.

Mr. Goatee meets the dad

In the past week Mr. Goatee and I walked along the beach, watching surfers in the Pacific, have stayed in the desert of Palm Springs, and have hugged each other in the snow on top of a mountain. It was all part of a trip we took to Southern California. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have family in the state, how I forget how special and beautiful it can be there. Also, part of the trip, was dad meeting Mr. Goatee. They had talked to each other on the phone plenty of times before, but I was nervous about what they would think. Mr. Goatee was nervous, because apparently he didn't have very good luck with girlfriend's fathers in the past. But I wondered what Mr. Goatee would think of my dad... because, well, he's not exactly a normal dad. While my friend's fathers wear ties to work and spend their weekends on the golf course, my dad's idea of dressing up is wearing hawaiian shirts and flip flops. He spends his time creating sculptures and modern art, and building homes for the gay community of Palm Springs. My dad is married, but to a 30-something mail-order russian bride. And my grandmother, bless her heart, is a few marbles loose. Goatee got a first hand-account of her mentality when she wrapped up her silver butter tray and gave it to him for christmas, and when she gave my dad a 12-inch jesus doll. But, I didn't really have anything to worry about. When my dad first got out of the car at the airport, Goatee had a surprised look on his face. Although a little unsure of what to think of my dad, he seemed a little relieved too. And they seemed to get along. Ok, so my dad is a little unorthodox - he's an ex-hippie. But he and Goatee actually seemed to like each other, and dad said that we were lucky to have each other. And he referred to him as his "possible future son-in-law", which he had NEVER done before. So it was a good trip, beach, desert and all. I was nervous about him meeting my family, but I should have also considered my family meeting him. Thankfully, it was thumbs up all around.

A crack in a closed door

It's wierd when you think that one door of your life is closed forever and then when you least expect it, it opens a crack and then you have to close it again.

I sat in front of my laptop computer in shock last week. The first line said "wow." I thought to myself, you can say that again. After seven months of disappearing into the west and never calling me again, after finding about his finished walk only through the internet and discovering he had disconnected his phone, I got an email on myspace.com from the walker.

Holy shit.

He apologized for ending things (or rather, just disappearing and never telling me why). He said he was confused about his beliefs and life in general, and didn't know what to think about things anymore. He said he didn't know how it affected me. Part of me wanted to to scream at the screen and yell "You fucker!" and another part of me was kind of grateful. Not for the way he ended things but rather for what GOOD in my life has happened to me since he walked out of it. I would have been miserable had I ended up with him and not with Mr. Goatee. But still, he should have had more balls. He should have been more stable. He shouldn't have been such a screw up.

I quietly think rude curses against him for all of the sweet things he told me, for making me fall for him. I then write him back, and tell him that the worst part was not knowing what had happened, and that he should have ended things differently. But, I also told him that I hoped he found happiness and purpose in life. And that, while the end was hard for me, I'm a happier person now.

I tried to take the high road. I never heard back from him. But, I couldn't help but do a google blog search on his name. I came across a blog from a girl in his hometown. Apparently they were dating until he met me. Urgh.

I shouldn't have even opened his message, because, as I already knew, as squeeky crack in a closed door is never a good thing. The past is the past and it's better that it remains that way. Old skeletons are better left in the closet.