That magical moment when you have run out of words to describe how much you love a person, and all you get are sensory cues:

Sunflowers.
Smell of brewed coffee.
Tree with a swing.
Strawberry Ice Cream.
a Blank Page.
Purple ribbons.
Velveteen stuffed toys.
Cupcakes.
Smell of fresh mown grass.
Sunshine.

And everything else that you love without need of description, justification or excuses. You just do.

The Girlfriend Chronicles: I Choose Me

The Girlfriend Chronicles: Me Vs. The Extra Room

Here's the scenario:

What She Wants

At some point we got comfortable enough to talk about having a house of our own in the future. And in that illusory house, there is an extra room. It is a magnificent space which can be converted to anything we can afford. And since we were daydreaming, we were conveniently millionaires as well so sky is the limit.




Here's what she wants and he wants.

Yup. We've got a long way to go.

What He Wants

The Girlfriend Chronicles:Me Vs. Dana White

You so hot girl, they all lookin’! Everybody except your guy, that is, cos he can’t tear away his eyes from the TV. No, the 2-hour pampering and primping isn’t a waste; it’s just sorry fate that there’s a UFC fight on Balls TV today of all days.

 My nerdy elitist ass wasn’t prepared for the part UFC will play in a meaningful relationship. Where’s my quiet Sundays reading books together on a park bench? Where are the coffee shop nights where we dissect Thoreau and Nietzsche? Who the eff is Dana White? 

If I knew being bald and muscular with an affinity to wear one’s underwear with a belt will get this much of his attention, I wouldn’t have spent all that time and money making the Revlon saleslady over at Watson’s very happy. 

The first time it created conflict between us was when I was itching to go out and try a new restaurant but received a less than enthusiastic reply to the tune of, “Will I get back in time to watch UFC?” 

Of course, I took this to mean, “I prefer watching men naked but for their undergarments rub and touch each other violently and witnessing a broken arm, leg or, better yet, first blood instead of spending time with you.” 

Add PMS to the mix and you get one ape-shit-crazy-mad girlfriend. 

I was far from adorable that day, and I unwittingly broke a cardinal rule for men: giving them time and space to do their own thing. 

I have to give credit to the man for not expecting me to like what he likes; he allows me space and time to do my own thing. So, if I couldn’t beat it, and couldn’t join it, then let’s go Obama on it and talk compromise and protocol.  The result then is the laying down of basic rules for Dates with Dana White and His Unholy F*ck*n Crew. 

Rule Number 1 : At least one week prior notice through verbal and written communication if he would be unavailable due to UFC fever.

Rule Number 2: I will refrain from communicating with him during the fights (it’s a losing battle), but would require a text or a call if he’s done with his Testosterone Fix.

Rule Number 3: If I was in a good mood and he feels like company, he could watch UFC at my house, but don’t expect cuddling.

I can be a total Mary Poppins sometimes, with unrealistic views about how couples should spend time together. Totalitarian as it is, the abovementioned rules have helped us navigate the testy waters of our brain-vs-brawn interests as a couple, at least where Dana “Baldy” White is concerned. 

Are there other issues, aside from UFC?

Oh, boy, are there.

The Girlfriend Chronicles: The Language of Man

The Girlfriend Chronicles: Me vs. The Ideal Girlfriend

 I spent most of my life as a single woman, and had been until recently a Prestige Card holder of the NBSB (No Boyfriend Since Birth) Club. Being single was fantastic – I wasn’t aware then of the amount of freedom I had. I was living in my comfort zone and as the name implies it was uber comfortable. I do what I want to do, have enough time to do what I need to do, and what’s left is still enough time to go around for friends and family. And the best thing about being single was having the license to imagine how you would be a much better girlfriend than whats-her-face. 

Take me for example, I loathed high-maintenance girls. The ones who make their boyfriends scurry and hurry and pamper them up to powdering their noses. I have had a string of unrequited love situations, and every time, I knew with a conviction as big as the gates of Mordor that I will not be like the girl they fancy  in my stead. 

I will treat my boyfriend like an equal. I would be fun to be with, I would be low-key and down-to-earth and laid back. I’d be the type to say, “Wassup?” and when answered  with “Nothing much” I will reply with “Cool. Wanna hang?” In my imagination, I am also well-versed about big-bosomed science fiction babes, violent video games, and stats of each and every player in every fuckin’ sports league you could name. When my boyfriend tells me he’s hanging with the boys, I’d be all “Go Ahead, Have fun.” If he says his Mom wants to be driven around on an endless errand on the day we agreed to meet, I’d say with Mother-Teresa-kindness, “It’s ok. Take care and say hi to your Mom.”

That girl. She was perfect.

And that girl, I now discover, isn’t me.

I tried so hard at first, to follow the script and remain in character as the ideal GF. I’ve read enough novels to know that men like them strong but tender, willful but pliant, nice but not entirely nice. But like an amateur thespian, I dropped my lines, skipped scenes and made a general mess of things. It. Drove. Me. Nuts.

I was so scared he’d run away screaming if he saw the real me, but what I was doing was driving him away anyways. SO I might as well be dumped for being myself, than be dumped because I got admitted to an asylum.

The real me is not nice. I may be the picture of pleasantness for acquaintances and some of my friends, but on a daily basis to the people closest to me -- I am an irascible and unpredictable creature. And if my boyfriend wasn’t such a sweetheart, he would probably call me the most irrational person he’d ever met.  And then there are the days I am left with my own thoughts and my struggle to maintain my identity and still be able to share a huge chunk of myself to somebody else. It comes easy to a lot of girls, but I learned not to me. I wage an endless battle against my insecurities and my control issues. The unwitting collateral damage remains to be my guy, who takes most of the brunt of my struggle.

One thing I’m sure of is I were a boy, I may not have the patience and stamina of dealing with someone like me. I make his days a living purgatory (the place of in-between heaven and hell), and yet every night, I still hear the best three words sincerely offered to me. (And no, it’s not “Go To Hell.”)

So at some point in our relationship, I relinquished the idea of the perfect girlfriend and submitted myself to just being the quirky nerdy drama queen that I am. I’m still irascible, irrational, demanding, and sometimes clinically insane, but it is me. And I’m learning that it is not an ugly thing at least to one person out there. I hope I never stopped being amazed every time he reaches out to touch my face, or to kiss me, or to tell me he loves me completely devoid of in spite and despite. 

I don’t deserve it, but I found him. 

And the air feels nice without the mask on.