Living with a BOY! Yikes!!

With all this talk about my upcoming engagement (haven’t you heard all the buzz?! It’s everywhere!), it’s making me think. I mean, sure, the ring is going to be gorgeous, but it doesn’t end there, from what I hear. I mean, eventually, I’m going to have to live with this guy! And, that could get tricky!

I’ve never lived with a boy—well, except for my brother and a guy-like roommate. My brother was 12 when I left for college, so I don’t think my experience living with him will be the basis for any type of grown-up cohabitation. At the very least, hopefully there will fewer Legos all over the place. And, let’s talk about that one roommate: he had a bathroom completely decked out in cartoon ducky and froggy bath accessories. He also spooked easily. I’m pretty sure I scared him. Me! Sweet, little kitten! I’m really hoping my fiancé won’t share too many characteristics of his. Here’s crossing my fingers.

So, living with a boy… Seems frightening! There was a Sex In The City episode that one of my friends can quote in its entirety all about Secret Single Behavior. Those ladies were on to something! There are a few things I’m not sure a guy really wants to know about me, so here, let me share them on the internet instead, because that seems reasonable:

• I can spend hours staring at my face in a mirror, examining every pore, emerging wrinkle and hair follicle.
• I have almost as much make-up and beauty products as any medium-sized Sephora store. While this is no surprise to anyone who walks into my bathroom, I have a feeling it would be much less cute when my six different types of eye cream edge the lucky gentleman’s shaving cream right out of the medicine cabinet.
• Sometimes—gasp!—I like to sleep in full-butt underwear. Full. Butt. Underwear. Embarrassing! And, likely not sexy.
• I often have nothing in my refrigerator except eye masks and beauty peels.
• I don’t clean that often.
• I drink wine in the bathroom when I’m getting ready to go out sometimes. Ok, most of the time. (One time I knocked over the wine glass, shattering the glass and spilling red wine all over the toilet and shower curtain, which looked very, very horrific and wrong.)
• I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, irrationally convinced that something in my apartment is going to catch on fire and catch me off guard. Of course, this fear could be alleviated by buying a fire extinguisher to have on hand, but that just seems too simple.
• When left to my own devices, I sometimes eat the same thing every day for a week (let’s be real. I don’t know how to make all that many dishes!). And, you can count on whatever it is involving sour cream.
• I can spend hours playing spider solitaire.

So, there you have it. Landing the proposal is one thing. Getting the guy to stick around after we’ve moved in together might be another challenge all together!

Know what is *not* awkward?

Introducing your dad to your gynecologist.


I know, you’re thinking, “In what scenario would that even happen?!?!?!” Well, don’t worry; it didn’t go down as creepily as I suppose it could have.

My dad and I are ballet buddies. We have season tickets to the ballet series at the Kennedy Center, which means we see every ballet that comes through the venerable theater together. My dad is super into ballet since I was a very serious ballerina for a long time. He built sets for and stage managed many of my performances. He was eventually talked into performing in many of the performances in character roles such as Uncle Drosselmeyer in the Nutcracker and Dr. Coppelius in Coppelia. He started taking adult ballet classes. He even had these tight sweatpants he would wear to class. Those sweatpants weren’t so cute, though, 20 years later when he tried to bust them out with the family this past Christmas. We immediately sent him back upstairs to change.

All this is more interesting when you juxtapose it against his professional career. He was a green beret in Vietnam. He was one of the founding members of the Delta Force, on the team that established and got the Delta Force certified as a thing and then went in to Iran to get the hostages out in 1980 (right after I was born!), and he was paramilitary for the CIA. So, he’s kind of a badass. In tights.

Last night, we were at the Kennedy Center to see Billy Elliot, an add-on to our regular ballet series. As we’re walking into the magnificent grand foyer (where, if I had infinite amounts of money, I would have my wedding reception—after my already established engagement this year—because it’s so beautiful!), I spotted the good doctor. Now, I LOVE my doctor. He’s awesome, and I’ve been seeing him for more than ten years. Considering what a hypochondriac I am, that’s equated to about 1,000 visits with each other.

As the shout of his name was coming out of my mouth—in other words, too late—a couple thoughts went through my head:

• “Wait, outside of the exam room he probably goes by his first name, you know, like normal people. I’ve never used his first name with him! How weird is it that I’m shouting Dr.?!”
• "Uh, do doctors like to see patients socially?! Is this weird?!”
• “Who’s the crazy girl screaming in the Kennedy Center?!”

Oh well! It’s happening now, like so many of the act first, think about it later situations I get myself into! Introductions were made all around without actually acknowledging how we knew each other. I did keep calling the good doctor, “Dr. HisLastName,” though, so I’m pretty sure it was wildly apparent that we were not grab-a-beer-after-work buddies!

I also felt the need to make it very clear that this older gentleman I was with was my DAD and not my DATE. When you’re hanging out in the glittery theater set, one sees a quite a few May-December romances, and I’m apt to nip in the bud that impression from following us around whenever I can. I’ve considered making a button to wear that says, “This guy’s my dad!” Not only would that help clear some things up, but maybe it would also help my dad meet some nice theater-going ladies who think it’s sweet that he goes to the ballet with his kid!

Anyway, I’m not sure that knowing my gynecologist has met my dad is going to make my next appointment more comfortable for me or the good doctor! So, now there’s that…

Facing down 32, and it’s on!

I’m going to be 32 in February. Thirty-two. Yikes. To paraphrase the great oracle Jessica Simpson, 32 is almost 33, which is almost 35, which is almost mid-thirties. Hell, in my calculations, it’s pretty much almost 50!

It’s time to take control and be a grown-up, so I’ve made a life decision—you know, like grown-ups do. Here it is: I will become engaged while I am 32. There. It’s out there! It’s happening. Now, let’s get busy making it so.

I’ve written about various plans and schemes I’ve concocted to attract worthy suitors, but those were so ideas for my twenties. It’s serious now! This is for real. It’s time to pull out the big guns! So… Now, we just have to identify what those big guns might be…

I enlisted my friends to help. And, within a minute of announcing my big resolution for my impending nuptials, they all swore their assistance and then decided I will write a book and go on a big book tour. I think that plan has some kinks to work out; for instance, what the heck would I write a book about? And, of course anything I would possibly write would be completely nonsensical and fall into the broad category of chick lit.

Now, I haven’t actually been to a whole lot of book signings for chick lit books, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t swarming with eligible bachelors. Thanks, girls, but while that might be a fun idea, let’s focus on the task at hand!

Putting a pin in the book tour, I’ve instead made several happy hour plans—you know, at bars, where guys are proven to gather in hordes. I’m also building my events calendar for the year, trying to attend every interesting gala (I know what you’re thinking, but really, isn’t the guy I’m going to end up with also going to like dressing up and going to big, fancy events? I sure hope so.), all sorts of sporting events and any number of other fun gatherings. By the time I’m 33, I’m going to be either engaged or bankrupt, come hell or high water!

Stay tuned for updates on how this endeavor goes. We’ve got 13½ months to lock in a ring. Game on.

A double date without the double?

I dated this guy for a while once who really enjoyed cooking. I can’t relate. I can’t even really understand, but I did enjoy reaping the benefits of having someone in my life that had a particular culinary acumen. So, I was delighted that he enjoyed cooking for other people—even if it wasn’t to be reciprocated! That is, I was delighted until it became evident that when he considered people for whom he liked to cook, I didn’t seem to register when provided the option of other people. Come on! I am an excellent eater!

We were out one night with a bunch of his friends when the conversation turned to various cooking techniques. Obviously I had to tap out of being an active participant pretty early on, when discussion moved beyond the cooking technique I’ve most mastered: microwaving.

Somehow the chat moved towards “braising.” (I know. Who are these people with these strange discussion topics?!)

Me, to myself: “Braising?! I don’t know how that even happens, but it’s definitely something that occurs only at restaurants and is delicious—at the restaurants, where all sorts of magic food preparation transpire.”

My boyfriend to his friends: “Yeah, I’ve wanted to experiment with braising myself.”

Me, again to myself: “Wait, what?! ‘Experiment with braising’ yourself?! Is that even safe?! Can you just do that in a home kitchen? There must be special equipment involved, right? Or skill? It seems hard. He’s bluffing.”

Boyfriend, to friends: “In fact, I’m having a few people over for dinner day after tomorrow. I’m going to make short ribs, and I think I’ll braise them.”

Me to myself: “I guess he’s not bluffing! And wait, he’s having a dinner party?”

Me to boyfriend after we had left the group: “So, you’re having a dinner party?”

Boyfriend: “Yes, I’m having Mr. and Mrs. Dinner-Party over on Sunday.”
Editor’s note: Of course, he used their first names, but I feel it’s important to highlight that they’re a married couple, that he was having a couple over for a dinner party with himself.

Me: “So, you’re having a dinner party, some might even call it a date, with a couple, just by yourself. You know you’re in a couple, right?”

He tried to back-peddle, telling me that he invited me (nope.) and then that he was going to invite me but it had just been arranged, and he hadn’t had a chance to mention it to me yet (in the four hours we had been hanging out before he found time to mention it to a bunch of other people who were also not invited). He really tried to cover himself when he let it slip that he had bought three short ribs that he was going to serve at the dinner by saying that he had been planning on making the short ribs for us and having extra left over. Suuuure…

So, while he went to the store to buy another short rib for me, his unexpected dinner guest, I tried hard not to think too much about why he didn’t seem to want me to meet particular friends of his (was he hiding something from me or hiding me from them?) and what it meant that he had forgotten he was in a relationship while making arrangements to do one of the most couply things there is with another couple. That’s like being a third wheel because you’ve slashed the remaining tire yourself!

I certainly appreciate more than many that people in relationships should enjoy time doing their own things, cultivating their own independent interests. Everyone needs time with the girls or time with the boys or time doing something the other has no interest in if it's something they, themselves, like. But, isn’t one of the beautiful things about being in a relationship the fact that you don’t have to be the only single person in the room anymore? That you can do couple-centric things and be included in the couple-centricity of them, revel in it, even? There was, unfortunately, very little couple-centricity in this particular relationship, except for the few times he “sacrificed” and went to something he was clear was for my benefit.

In the end, I did score an invite into the double-date dinner party, and boy did I learn some important lessons. As it turned out, the wife didn’t end up making it to dinner after all. We found out that night that she was pregnant and was in the pretty queasy stage. I had made such a stink about being included that I couldn’t then sit it out, of course (crow should probably have been on the menu!), so I went to dinner since the boyfriend had already told The Couple that I was coming. In deference to the evening being no longer about hanging out as couples but rather about the boys catching up, I turned off the sparkly, center-of-attention, bubbly-conversation-driving part of my personality—if you can imagine that—and let it be all about them.

And, here are the lessons I learned from the evening:

1. Careful what you throw a fit to be a part of. (And, maybe date people who want you to actually be a part of things!)
2. Boys are not the engaging conversationalists that women are when they get together! Did you know that when boys get together, sometimes there’s SILENCE between them?! There are so many strange, strange differences between men and women. I mean, silence! Times when no one is talking! If I hadn’t seen it for myself I’d never know that kind of thing happened!

Next on the reading list, Goodnight Moon?

I finished the Hunger Games series last night, reading the entire trilogy in about 3 days. This makes me nervous. Very nervous.

I couldn't put the books down. They were so captivatingly haunting. (I did not like the ending, if anyone’s interested.) I do have a tendency to get very involved in books I'm reading and even particular movies (let's be real, I also think I pretty much am Lorelei Gilmore), and this book pulled me in to the point, even, of making me afraid to go to sleep myself, in danger of slipping into the same nightmares that tortured the main characters. Of course, they were remembering the horrific deaths of their friends and the devastating roles they played in someone else's manipulation. I'm not really sure what types of tragedies I'm afraid of recalling from my own life—earlier in the day, they didn't have brown rice when I went to Chipotle?

I had a similarly enraptured experience in reading the Harry Potter series, I'm embarrassed to admit. It was a begrudging rapture, but enrapt I did become.

It all started when the fifth book came out. I lived with two very intelligent, well read and mature young women when the fifth book in the Harry Potter series was published. They each had pre-ordered their copy as soon as they could and were on pins and needles waiting for the day to come when the books would arrive. When that day finally came, they were beside themselves with giddiness. None of us could leave the apartment in fear that we’d miss the delivery. I was sent down to the lobby of the building several times throughout the day to check to see if the FedEx man had come and had just not buzzed up. In fact, that day FedEx was very busy. I saw three different FedEx men make trips to our building, each with a truckload of the specially marked Harry Potter boxes from Amazon. They told me it was a crazy, crazy day for them.

Now, until this day, I had made fun of all the Potterheads. I mean, seriously, these are children’s books that people were getting wild about! But, it started to gnaw on me, watching two of my best friends and some of the smartest people I know bouncing around our apartment in anticipation and excitement like I’d never seen out of them, that maybe there really was something to the books, so I picked them up and was instantly hooked. I would even ditch out of happy hours early to go home and read Harry Potter. Ditching happy hour! Me!! That’s how you know things have just gotten serious!

So, as you can see, I have a very severe problem on my hands. My enjoyment of these young adult series has been insatiable. I liked reading them more than any adult series besides Philippa Gregory’s historical fiction books about King Henry VIII's court.

This can only be the beginning of a slippery, slippery slope. It’s a matter of time before I'm reading nothing but choose-your-own-adventure books and then dissolving into a reading list devoid of anything but pop-up books!

I need to get my hands on a very intellectual, non-fiction book, post-haste!

One small speech can become very big—just wait

I’ve been invited to present a social media training at a conference this week in Puerto Rico. Obviously, I’m a pretty big deal.

I’d like to say that the conference organizers heard about this blog and were in awe of my social media prowess demonstrated by my engrossing blogging and tweeting, but alas, I do this social media stuff for a living. So, it was through my use of social media and my counseling of others in using social media to accomplish public policy goals that I was invited. Oh, and someone else canceled.

Nonetheless, I’ve spent hours developing the most kick-ass “How to do social media, and how to do it to advance advocacy efforts” presentation that these people will have ever seen! It’s going to be brilliant. It really is only a matter of time before I become a regular on the conference circuit. Maybe I should start developing what I would say in a keynote address, since we’re probably minutes from when those invitations start piling up. Move over Carly Fiorina with your household name and inspiring stories of climbing to the top of a business empire. Kristin Brown’s here, and she writes a nonsensical, irreverent (and mostly irrelevant) blog that a handful of people read.

Hmm… So, what will I say in my keynote? What are some of my more inspirational stories to constitute my speech?

Perhaps I could talk about important life lessons I’ve learned: cool it on weird ways to ingest caffeine. Don’t be surprised when you pick up a guy at the theater and find that he may be closeted gay. Looks don’t matter. Or, maybe I could anchor the speech on the times I’ve been shamed into learning to cook for myself.

Of course, part of the speech will have to center on the ever-important characteristic of resourcefulness in achieving great personal success. I could provide sage advice: don’t be afraid to create cockamamie schemes to get what you want; sometimes genius isn’t realized immediately. Let people call you crazy along your path to fulfilling your own destiny (especially if you thoroughly amuse yourself). Surround yourself with smart people. Bring anyone along on the ride who wants to go! Aspire to greatness. Dream big. Don't sweat the small stuff. Let yourself explore. Have a plan. Fight against obstacles.

I’ve obviously got the elements of a really fantastic, inspiring speech ready to go. Let the invitations start rolling in! But, send them to the lazy river or swim-up bar at this Puerto Rican resort. That’s where I’ll be “networking” between conference sessions.

I’m famous, of sorts

I am a known celebrity. I don’t know if you knew that. Sure, I’ve got blog readers and followers that span from Alaska to Brazil to Russia and surprisingly far beyond my immediate circle of family. (Thank you to all of you loyal readers!!) But, that doesn’t even cover the half of it. I am famous in the most valuable of realms.

Mexican restaurants.

Seriously. There isn’t a Mexican restaurant in the DC area that I can’t walk into and have someone come over and say hi. I even get hugs sometimes and sour cream hearts drawn onto my food. Can you feel the love?! There have been a couple times when I’ve thought maybe it’s a bit too much and I’m a bit too familiar to the servers, but I just can’t help it.

It all started in college when at any excuse I’d orchestrate a celebration for something at Guapo’s near campus. A birthday! End of finals! Sorority rush! A study break! A Sunday afternoon! That annoying paper cut has gone away! I had many friends who also loved Guapo’s, so I was never wanting for people to go with me. On any nice, spring day, I could inevitably find someone to talk into skipping class to sit on the Guapo’s patio with a swirly margarita and a plate of nachos.

Then, I graduated from college (no credit to the many margarita-filled class skippings!) and moved an inconvenient distance away from college Guapo’s. To my delight and the relief of the withdrawal shakes I had developed, five years later, a new Guapo’s popped up in a neighborhood where some of my friends lived! So, of course, I made people go. Many times. Wouldn’t you know that one of the waiters from my original Guapo’s was the manager at this Guapo’s?! And, even five years after the last time he had seen me, he recognized me. We even had a large group and were put straight to the front of the line for a table, on a Saturday night!

About eight years after I had graduated, I stumbled upon another delicious Mexican restaurant in a different neighborhood (I’ve thought about doing a taco tour of DC, but haven’t steeled my stomach for that kind of one-day taco intake. Let’s say I’m in training). And, again! I walked in, and there were a couple of my old friends from college Guapo’s greeting customers! No one else got the enthusiastic bear hug of a reception that I got, which was probably for the best, considering how startling it was for the friends I was with. Apparently they didn’t know just how well known I am in certain circles. I guess there’s no Page Six for the Mexican restaurant set.

Once, I thought I was falling from grace and needed to start plotting my Britney Spears-style comeback when I walked into a particularly favorite restaurant and the hostess asked while she was seating us, “Have you been here before?”

What?! At this point they should be throwing open the doors for me and chanting my name as they see me approaching! “Have you been here before?!?!?!” What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t the staff t-shirts have my face on them by now?

Boy was I relieved when the waiter came over to the table and said, “Oh! Hi! Wow, twice this week, huh?” Maybe I was relieved and perhaps a little sheepish, actually. He hadn’t even been the one to serve me the previous time!

At first, I thought all this was embarrassing. Obviously, I probably indulge in a few too many tacos a little too often. But then I thought about it. I mean, sure, it’s prestigious to be popular among the ritzy society glitterati or to be so well known that people camp out in front of a hotel you’re staying in just to catch a glimpse of you. But, when’s the last time one of their admirers offered a member of the royal family free queso?! For me, it was yesterday.

So, if a girl’s going to strive for notoriety, my particular brand of fame sure seems to taste the best!