Tripping

This is how I feel about my upcoming trip with David:

Part of me is thinking of that last scene in Say Anything when John Cusack and Ione Skye are on the plane together, and they're excited because they're in love and traveling to (I don't remember? London?) together. Which looks like a lot of fun.

But, still, Ione's a little nervous. John's a little nervous. We're all a little nervous, frankly, because we know what a big step this is for these two crazy kids. And it gets hairy there for a couple of minutes when the plane takes off. So, when that "No Smoking" sign finally goes off at the last second, everyone's relieved.

After that the movie ends, and, apparently, we're meant to understand that their happiness continues, and they land and live together in London--I guess--'til they die. Which is totally fine, because John Cusack has already been wearing that super-long trenchcoat through the whole movie, so he'll definitely be prepared for all the fog and rain.

But, anyway, by the time the credits start rolling, I think it's safe to say that we're feeling pretty excited about the whole darn thing.

So.

On the off chance that that beautiful Say Anything allusion or metaphor or onomonop...onomonip...whatever--if that didn't clarify it for you, what I'm trying to articulate is: part of me has a little normal trepidation about my whole David trip, which I'm sure will blow over as soon as we get going, the "No-Smoking" light comes on (do they even have those anymore?) and In Your Eyes starts playing.

Editorial Sidenote: Hot DAMN. Can I write a run-on sentence like a pro, or what? If there was an Olympic event for run-on sentences, I'd medal. Also for best hair. Also blow jobs.

Anyway.

Then there's the other part of me. The part of me that's a Psycho Worrier Who's Never Been On A Trip With A Boy Before And Is Thinking What If We Drive Each Other Crazy And Oh My GOD We'll Be Sharing A Bathroom For Twelve Days.

That part of me is f-r-e-a-k-e-d out.

Because this is going to bring our relationship to a whoooole new level. There'll be long, grouchy plane rides, followed by jet lag. There'll be a heck of a lot of dinners, breakfasts and lunches--so many, in fact, that I'm worried I'll cease to be interesting and run out of things to talk about. AND, since the menu of the wedding we're going to prominently features something called "goulash," I'm sure that at some point...there'll be farting. The farting, in fact, will probably start at the exact moment that I run out of things to talk about. Suck.

So, in the course of twelve days, my relationship is going to go from love letters to embarrassed farting. Double suck.

But, on the other hand, I'm pretty pumped about being able to hold his hand for twelve days straight.

And also about having sex in four different countries.

An Eye for An Eye

Fine.

I suck.

If this were a party, and you were all my guests, what I've done is the equivalent of locking myself upstairs to make babies with the pizza boy for about five hours, while all of you sit, forlorn and hungry, in my living room, awkwardly introducing yourselves with halting overtures of, "So how do you know Kathryn?" and wondering if it would be rude to start in on the spinach dip.

I've blogged...what? Five times this month. Unpardonable.

Well, never fear. There is justice in the world. Because today, back at work at my normal, boring job, I'm covering for a woman who was diagnosed yesterday with pink eye. Which, as we all know, is like the most disgusting, contagious disease ever. A disease, which no one who is not themselves in preschool, or who does not themselves have a preschooler (or, as is the case of my co-worker, two preschool-age twins) should need to worry about.

BUT, here I sit, having already sprayed the office down with enough Windex to kill one of those small, annoying dogs. Huddled in a corner, a now half-empty bottle of Purell hand sanitizer in my grip, I am currently wondering what would happen if I just went balls-out and spread Purell on my actual eye-lids.

Which, the more I think about it, totally seems like the way to go.

Vocab

I fear the L word the way some people fear spiders.

The first time someone said it to me, I was sixteen and sitting outside of my upstairs bathroom, on tan carpeting, holding the hand of a quakey, Princeton-bound seventeen year-old boy. He said it, and I thought and said simultaneously, "You can't." Then I picked at the rug and tried to act casual while my stomach lurched.

Because saying "I love you" felt very...important. Too important for tan carpeting and sixteen. And even though I knew what he felt was love, and knew that what I felt couldn't have been anything else, I also thought that saying it aloud made it scary.

I loved him back, but it took me a long time to tell him so.

I've gotten no better at it as I get older. It might be because the words mean so much to me.

My family was a Love You Family. Other households, I have since learned, use the words sparingly: funerals, hospital visits, weddings. But my family began every day with it, and my dad--who possibly never said the words to his own father, and certainly never heard them back--still leaves me voice mails every once and awhile that say nothing else.

And when we say it, we mean it in The Big Way. No stitching it into pot holders, or chiming in with a "Luv Ya!" at the end of a phone call. We mean the tough kind, the stuff that's invincible. I love you no matter what.

So when I feel it, I feel it big; I suppose, that's part of what makes it hard to say. And, I suppose, that's part of why I've only said it aloud to two boyfriends: Princeton-bound was the first and Dan (first boyfriend post-college) was the second. Never mind the fact that I said it to him only once on the day I broke up with him.

That doesn't mean I haven't felt it for other men who've come into my life. But saying and feeling it are two different things. (I do agree with whoever said that there should be as many words for "love" as their are Eskimo words for "snow.")

Some of the kinds of love I've felt haven't been worth saying out loud.

I don't know, really, where I'm going with all of this. I don't say it yet to David, but even just typing his name there makes me flash to the dinner party we threw recently, and--god--the fun we had cleaning up. The way we just...fit. How easily our lives have slipped into each other. How we're creating our own vocabulary: sweet thing and my girl.

He is the kindest person I have ever met.

And he's not dumb either, which makes me laugh and feel certain that he can see right through me--all of the ridiculous things I say, the funny nicknames and late night phone calls.

Because those particular three words are always hovering on my tongue.

And everything else is just a euphemism.

Thrilling

Shooting Monday-Wednesday of next week, and for five days every month after that.

Can't tell you what it is. Surely the network wouldn't approve of their host sharing her bikini waxes with the world. Sorry. But, never fear, it's not Fox. Nor is it Adult On Demand.

Job involves travel--I am, in fact, to be a travel journalist of sorts--so perhaps we'll do a test of bikini wax places 'round the Northeast. Rest assured, I will still be posting. And when I'm not posting, I will still be running around like a maniac, thinking to myself, "Must blog about that."

Best thing about the job so far: they pay for my haircuts/colors. Men may think that's not very exciting, but most women readers are probably currently jumping up and down. Add to that A CLOTHING ALLOWANCE. Add to that the fact that I GET TO KEEP THE CLOTHES. I feel like Kelly Ripa. Only not nearly so annoying.

Worst thing about the job so far: they're making me cut my hair. The hair that I have been growing for a year. The hair that has been so difficult to grow out that my roommate covered our refrigerator with pictures of Charlize Theron's long hair, so that I would wake up every day to motivation. I am sad about the haircut. But, only just a little.

Potential worst thing about the job: the camera and the ten pounds it totally really absolutely does add. Sucks. But, as of yet I'm still in denial. Ten pounds? What ten pounds?

I'm going to go have an ice cream cone.

Oh. Also, David is taking me to Prague.

All in all: WHAT A FUCKING GOOD WEEK!

Thanks for the luck.

Apologies to all of the rabbits.

Things To Do

1. Add "Television Host" to resume.

Wish Me

Cross fingers, toes, eyes, legs. Find rabbits--acquire their feet. Throw massive amounts of change into fountains. Then leave comments and tell me where those fountains are located.

A big audition tomorrow.

Send luck.