For Eric’s birthday, I got us tickets to see Jay Shetty speak at the Beacon Theater. For those of you who aren’t familiar, Jay Shetty is a well-known author, speaker, podcaster and life coach. I refer to him as a “social media monk.” Eric doesn’t so much care for this title, as he takes the teachings of Jay Shetty very seriously, whereas I see him more as a zen but business savvy dude who says fun, catchy meme-worthy shit like this:
Eric discovered him on the Calm app, a guided meditation app he uses every night before bed. As a former monk, Jay has a lot of experience in calming the mind, and Eric has learned a lot from his teachings on self care, relationships, love, and life in general.
So we went to see him speak, which was cool (if not exactly what we anticipated– we were expecting a super-inspiring Ted Talk, we got….a sort of bizarre variety show?). But Jay closed the night with a really lovely guided meditation.
He asked the audience to close their eyes and think up a moment of profound love in our lives. Whatever popped into our minds at the mention of this term, “profound love,” was perfectly fine. My personal interpretation of this instruction was to conjure up my earliest memory of profound love, which for me, undeniably, takes place at my childhood sleepaway camp, Robindel.
I pictured me and my best camp friends, age 15, at “Sing”– one of the last nights of camp during our final summer as campers. It’s an incredibly emotional night. I thought about how we all held each other tightly and sobbed, knowing that our magical days at camp were coming to an end for good, but also feeling eternally grateful for having formed these sister-type friendships that we knew would last a lifetime (and thus far have!). I remember that as the first moment of ever feeling a palpable ache in my heart because I just loved these people so much, and cherished every moment I got to spend with them.
Later, in the car driving home, Eric asked me about my profound love moment.
Me: “Being with my camp friends on one of the last nights of camp.”
Eric: “Huh. Interesting.”
(silence)
Me: “Why, what was your profound love moment?”
Eric: “Watching you, my beautiful wife, dancing with our beautiful children in the kitchen, and thinking how grateful I am to have created this amazing family and life with you.”
My youngest brother, Zack, married a wonderful woman named Julie in July 2022. Below is the speech I gave at their rehearsal dinner. It will become quickly obvious why I was not asked to speak at the actual wedding.
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Hello everyone, my name is Emily and I am Zack’s older sister. Older, but not old-EST, sister. That would be Steph. Steph is the one who is old.
For further context, my husband, Eric, will be officiating the marriage ceremony tomorrow, and since he has paid the great state of Connecticut $7 in order to obtain a “minister’s parking permit,” I guess that makes me the minister’s wife. Which makes the amount of cursing I’m about to do feel super weird, and I’m sorry.
As many of you know, Zack is the youngest of four children, and for those of you who are familiar with math, you understand that four is a fuck-ton of children.
Four kids is particularly excessive when it’s clear your parents were done, mentally and energy-wise, at two. Mom and Dad were already exhausted when the third, Jeremy, arrived, and by the time Zack was born, they had completely thrown in the child-rearing towel. It’s unfair, though, to say that Zack was raised by wolves, in that it’s insulting to wolves.
If you look back on the huge archive of home videos my parents recorded in our youth, you will see the births, first crawls, steps, words, and generally all major milestones in my, Steph’s, and Jeremy’s childhoods. What you will NOT see is any evidence of Zack’s existence. Then, suddenly, after a long gap in video recording, he makes his home-movie debut, at roughly age 3. What happened prior to age 3, no one knows.
Zack was left to fend for himself, which explains why on brother-sister camp visitation days I’d find him roaming the perimeter of Lake Winnipesaukee in a bathing suit that wasn’t his, wearing one teva, covered in weeks-old temporary body tattoos and smelling like washed up pond scum. It also explains the ‘fro hairstyle he rocked all through high school as DJ Cue, the creepy trunk of worms he kept in our basement, and the fact that he owns nary a shirt with sleeves.
What it does NOT explain is how he landed someone like Julie.
Which leads me to the thesis of this speech– how DID Zack land Julie?
I have a 3 year old at home and, you know kids, how they’re cute but pretty dumb? Well recently Nora heard us talking about “Uncle Zack’s wedding” and she asked me “but who is marrying Uncle Zack?” And please note, Julie and Zack have been together since before Nora was born, stay at our house together often, and one is rarely seen without the other.
“Well,” I asked Nora, “Who do you THINK would be marrying UncleZack?”
“I have NO idea” she replied, echoing all our sentiments.
“Well, who is he always with?” I asked.
“Oh- Aunt Julie!” she answered excitedly.
“That’s right!” I said.
And then, after a long contemplative pause, she asked “But who is MARRYING him??”
Because even this doe-eyed child, at the ripe age of 3, knowing essentially ZERO things about the world, deduced, quite reasonably, that there was no CHANCE her exceedingly normal and lovely Aunt Julie would choose to marry her under-showered, over-tanned, crazy Uncle Zack.
So why DID Julie choose Zack? To unpack this, I’m going to list a few popular reasons why a person would choose to bind her life to someone for eternity, and see if we can pinpoint Julie’s exact mindset when she agreed to marry a man whose feet, on a good day, resemble oven-roasted cauliflower**.
Number 1: Did Julie choose Zack because he’s charming?
To dispute this theory, allow me to tell you the story of how Zack and Julie met. My siblings and I were in the car on the way to our cousin’s wedding when I saw Zack perusing Julie’s dating profile. “She’s cute!” I declared. Write something good.”
“I’m just gonna write ‘hey’” he replied, at which point I told him if he wrote “hey,” I would throw his phone out the window to be shattered like the soul of any human who thinks “hey” is a good opener.
After suggesting that I quote “calm my tits,” Zack asked if I had a better idea. We happened to have just stopped in the middle of upstate nowhere and purchased some random roadside dried fruit (hashtag pre-covid), which led to a debate over the all-time best dried fruit. It was a LITTLE out of left field but totally authentic, so I told him to tell her of our argument, and ask her which dried fruit SHE thinks is the best. Of course, this worked like a charm.
And even though Zack weirdly and aggressively declared that her answer of “apricot” didn’t count because apricots are only available in dried form, which is, you know, abso-fucking-loutely not true, it’s this extremely charming little question that sparked their love story.
And it was MY question.
So no. Zack is not charming.
I am, though.
Number 2: Did Julie choose Zack because he’s romantic?
Another story comes to mind. After a long process of designing the perfect engagement ring, Zack finally got the finished product in hand, and then asked my advice on how to propose. At the time, Julie was in Florida with her entire family. I told him it would be awesome if he took a spontaneous flight to Florida and proposed in front of those closest to her. I said it’d be super romantic if he declared that once he got the ring in his hand, he simply couldn’t wait a second longer to start his life with her.
To which Zack responded, “yeah…she’ll know that’s not me. Whatever dude, I’ll just do it in the apartment.”
So no. Romantic he is not.
Number 3: Did Julie choose Zack because he is physically irresistible?
A few months ago Zack texted me, and I quote, “Dude. Be thankful you didn’t get Dad’s hemorrhoid gene. I got a real boysenberry goin here.”
He’s resistable.
Number 4: Did Julie choose Zack because he comes from a good family?
As you can already tell by how many times I’ve said “fuck” in this speech….no.
Let me tell you a little story which I think perfectly illustrates the juxtaposition between Julie’s polite, sophisticated, thoughtful nature versus our family of straight up bozos. A couple years ago while vacationing with us in the Outer Banks, Julie worked hard collecting a bevy of shells on the beach, which she then meticulously arranged next to the dining room table for everyone to enjoy. We all know Julie’s amazing eye for detail. It was a true work of art.
Later, Julie entered the living room visibly annoyed– which is rare form for Julie, so I knew something must have really pissed her off. I asked what was wrong and she explained that she had laid out all these shells for decor, and then when she left the room, (air quotes) *SOMEONE* (which was Julie’s polite way of saying “Jeremy”) just threw a bunch of empty take-out trash over them. She didn’t see it happen– only walked in later to find her shells covered by a pile of greasy Duck Deli boxes.
It was impossible for her to understand how anyone could be so clueless. I nodded in agreement and assured her of two essential truths– yes, her frustration was warranted, and yes, Jeremy is an idiot.
And I know this may seem like a small, random example of the kind of shit Julie has to put up with when dealing with our family, but I think about this incident ALL THE TIME when I contemplate how Julie is going to survive a lifetime of us.
I also think about it all the time because it was actually me. I threw the boxes on the shells. Honestly, Julie, I didn’t even notice they were there, and then when I saw how upset you were I was too scared to fess up, so I did what I’ve been doing since age 6– I lied and blamed it on Jeremy.
So no– Zack does not come from a good family.
All kidding aside, I’ve known Zack since his first day on earth. And I can assure you, Julie, from the bottom of my heart, that in picking Zack as your life partner, you have made an extraordinarily okay choice.
But no, despite how much I love to mess with him, in reality Zack is one of my favorite people on earth. My first instinct when he was born was to be fiercely protective of him (because, as noted earlier, no one else was), and he and I have maintained a very unique and deeply bonded relationship ever since. I’ve given Zack advice on everything from career (which he ignored, rightfully) to dating (which he took, wisely) and to this day he still turns to me in moments of doubt and paranoia, which for Zack is all of the moments.
At some point, he will realize what the rest of my family picked up on long ago- I know nothing! Zack is, in fact, the one who knows things. And does things. He is the family knower and doer, and believe me, we need one. We honestly could not live without him. And I mean that literally, because we would straight up starve.
But I also mean it figuratively, because he’s proven to be so much more than just the family dingleberry. The truth is, we know exactly why Julie chose you, Zack– you’re hilarious, you’re thoughtful, you’re real, solid, good human to the core. You’re incredibly intelligent but in the least intimidating way possible, and you’re all heart.
And the great thing about you, Julie, besides your warmth, sweetness, sophistication, and just overall incredibly-pleasant-to-be-around-energy, is how you enhance all of Zack’s best qualities. As your partner, he is his best self, but at the same time, and this is what I love most about your relationship– you absolutely allow and encourage him to be 100% himself, in all his absurdity. And of course, he in turn allows you to be YOURself, in all your glorious and endearing nerdiness.
So cheers to this amazing couple– may they double down on their love as consistently as Zack doubles down on butter. May their desire for one another last as long as it takes Zack to get to the point. May Julie love Zack with as much unbridled passion as she loves bricks.
You two just keep doing you. And Zack, my baby brother, from the bottom of my heart, congratulations on landing this most fabulous, gorgeous, kind, patient, phenomenal woman. You will have, undoubtedly, the most beautiful life with Julie.
Just don’t fuck with her shells.
**(It was an unfortunate coincidence that oven-roasted cauliflower was on the menu that night)
On Friday, September 11, in the bullshit, hellfire year of 2020, I peed on a stick and it showed a positive result.
Sorry, I should clarify– I peed on a PREGNANCY TEST stick and it showed a positive result for PREGNANCY. (Just in case you thought I peed on a popsicle stick or a yard stick and that the stick, as a result, felt optimistic. As far as I’m aware, my pee does not have that power.)
One might view this as good news, and generally it is (obviously), but any excitement I felt about the positive result was quickly overridden by doubt and worry because 1) the line was VERY faint and 2) it took four days after my missed period to even show up on a test (My mother, quite the Fertile Myrtle* yet from the Jurassic Era of pregnancy, did not find this latter point suspicious in the least, but we all know that modern pregnancy tests can now detect pregnancy SUPER early, often BEFORE a missed period, and almost certainly on the DAY of the missed period. And by “we all know that,” I mean that’s what happened with my last pregnancy and therefore based on that one situation once, it is filed in my brain under “Facts We All Know.”)
So naturally, I immediately googled “faint line on a pregnancy test 4 days after missed period and I’m freaking out.” I got about 78923392893 explanations, and 78923392892 of them were some version of “Every woman is different. You’re fine, Karen.”
But naturally, I zeroed in on the one article that mentioned ectopic pregnancy as a possible reason for this late, faint-line scenario, and my anxiety disorder immediately perked up and declared “YES. I’LL TAKE ECTOPIC PREGNANCY FOR 500, ALEX!”
For those of you who don’t know what an ectopic pregnancy is and who enjoy getting your medical information from this blog (not advised), it is a complication of pregnancy in which the embryo attaches outside the uterus (don’t worry, I cut and pasted that from wikipedia a verified medical source so that you know it’s accurate). The uterus (again for those of you who skipped 5th grade health class because your parents are religious, or for those of you who are Mike Pence), is the only place in the body that can provide a “hospitable environment” for an embryo. If the embryo attaches outside the uterus, it cannot thrive and grow, and therefore has no chance of being a viable pregnancy.
Reading all this on The Google offset a series of back and forth with my OBGYN. I requested an earlier ultrasound, because the soonest appointment offered to me was 10/14, which would put me at 9 weeks 2 days pregnant. That seemed an absurdly long time to wait, especially considering that my “advanced maternal age” (cue flirty hair toss)
and previous C-section automatically put me in the category of “high risk.” The doctor agreed to do bloodwork to ensure my hormones were rising as they should, but wouldn’t budge on the ultrasound date.
Then I found blood in my underwear.
Finding blood in your underwear is never a sign that today is going to be a good day. Even when it’s the “good” blood (aka your period), it’s a huge fucking bummer. So when you find the “bad” blood, you can pretty much throw out your chances of mental sanity for the foreseeable future. (What you can also do is take pictures of it and send to your BFF, thus solidifying what you already knew was an in-the-trenches-together-for-life friendship. Thank you again to that friend, and I’m sorry if you still can’t eat.)
I called my doctor and she insisted that it was still too early for an ultrasound (at this point I was 5 weeks 3 days), but that we’d see what my blood results had to say. My results came back the next day and showed that the hormones were increasing as they should. And you know what’s great about your hormones increasing properly during early pregnancy? ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOTHING IF IT’S AN ECTOPIC PREGNANCY. Because technically, you are pregnant (just in the wrong place), so your body continues to supply you with the hormones as it would for a properly-placed pregnancy. It doesn’t yet know the difference. So a blood test early on will reveal absolutely zero helpful information in terms of discovering an ectopic pregnancy.
You know what WILL reveal an ectopic pregnancy that early?
A MOTHERFUCKING ULTRASOUND.
After more pleading (because I was not satisfied with the bloodwork results alone), my doctor agreed to move up my ultrasound to 10/6 (when I would be 8 weeks 1 day). I still found this unacceptable. She continued to argue that it was too early for an ultrasound (FALSE– perhaps too early to detect a heartbeat, NOT too early to detect an ectopic pregnancy), and it wasn’t until I burst into tears with the secretary that she magically found a way to squeeze me in on 9/30, which would put me at 7 weeks 2 days. I still found this absurdly late for a first ultrasound given my age, the suspicious faint line, and the blood, but not wanting to harass them any further and come off as a complete crazy person (big mistake- I should have owned my title as I always have), I accepted that date.
On Monday, 9/28, two days before my scheduled ultrasound, I woke up to more blood.
And about an hour later, I began experiencing cramps on my right side, which quickly devolved into EXCRUCIATING pain. I could not move from the fetal position. Not that the fetal position was even helping. No matter how I contorted my body, the pain was sharp, intense, and relentless. It literally took my breath away, in the absolute least romantic interpretation of that phrase.
Eric called the doctor’s office. My OB was not in that day (OF COURSE), but the secretary told us to go to the emergency room. We drove straight to the nearest hospital in Norwalk.
Due to COVID, Eric was not allowed to stay with me. So I would now like to add “Scared and alone in the ER” to my “Things I Blame on Trump” list.
They took an ultrasound. Fun fact: the ultrasound technicians are not allowed to reveal to you what they are seeing. I don’t know if they take some kind of acting class in order to hone the skills required to stay completely fucking stone-faced while staring at a pregnant woman’s empty uterus, but I gotta say, the Oscar goes to technician Cindy in Ultrasound Room B.
Bitch didn’t bat an eye while gazing into what I would later learn was the hollow, unoccupied abyss of my uterus. She didn’t show the slightest hint of emotion when I asked her, through a cascade of tears, if she could hear a heartbeat. “I’m not allowed to discuss what I see,” replied Cyborg Cindy.
About 30 minutes after the ultrasound was completed, the ER doctor reported his findings. “There are no signs of pregnancy in your uterus. The ultrasound shows significant bleeding in your right ovary, and we believe we see an ectopic pregnancy in your right fallopian tube. The bleeding and pain is likely the result of the tube rupturing, but we will need your OB to come in to confirm.”
He was perfectly nice and sympathetic when he relayed this news, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to light his face on fire.
They called my OB’s office, only to be told the on-call OB was in the middle of performing a C-section. She would get back to us in an hour. I stared at the wall and choke-sobbed, creating a list of reasons (I love lists) why this was happening to me. In true depressive form, they were all my fault.
In a not-at-all-shocking turn of events, the on-call OB at my practice finally called back to say that their doctors are not licensed to practice at Norwalk Hospital, only at Greenwich, and therefore could not come to consult. I would need to be seen by the attending OB at Norwalk.
I jotted down this hour of wasted time in excruciating pain as the final point on my “Ways This Practice Has Ass Raped Me” list (looooove lists), and vowed to never return.
The one bright spot in the story is that the attending OB then stepped in, and she was a lovely angel sent from the heavens. She had the (wee) stature, coloring, and gentle, soothing manner of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and I immediately felt safe in her Jewish motherly presence (she probably wasn’t Jewish, but definitely had that “vibe,” which is a positive trait in exactly one kind of situation, and this was it). Ruth Dr. M was calm and comforting, but also knew her shit and wasn’t going to beat around the bush.
She immediately confirmed an ectopic pregnancy.
Obviously. Of all the “this-pregnancy-situation-aint-lookin-good” scenarios, Of COURSE this was an ectopic pregnancy. Because in no other body than mine would the egg and sperm go through all the trouble to meet and merge, only to then be TOO FUCKING LAZY TO MAKE THE 5 INCH** TRIP DOWN TO THEIR UTERUS HOME.
Sperm and egg were like “Hey, you wanna do this thing? Cool. So let’s just park it, crack open a can of hard seltzer (this embryo was VERY white) and netflix n’ chill here in the fallopian tube instead of, you know, doing all the stuff that requires energy.” Basically the story of my and Eric’s courtship.
And I’m obviously in favor of the whole “meet-and-immediately-settle-down” approach but in this scenario, putting in one more tiny modicum of effort turned out to be necessary for the success of the relationship. They were lazy and they blew it.
So I had immediate emergency surgery.
The embryo had been growing in my right fallopian tube, and because it had grown to a size that exceeded the diameter of the tube, the tube had ruptured. In case you’re wondering what it feels like when an organ ruptures inside your body, stop wondering. You don’t want to know.
They put me under general anesthesia. They preformed the surgery laparoscopically, and removed my ruptured fallopian tube. The internal bleeding and inflammation was so bad at that point, the doctor told me I was extremely lucky that I came in when I did. I took that to mean I very possibly could have died, but I didn’t ask her to clarify. Even I, the masochist, didn’t want to know.
When I awoke from surgery, which took about 2 hours, I was delighted to see Ruth Bader Ginsburg– the ACTUAL Ruth Bader Ginsburg– stroking my hand and telling me I did a great job. She was super proud of me. I thanked her, then asked, “Did you come back from the dead, Ruth? I can call you Ruth, right? That’s ok? Or are you a ghost? You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m just so glad you’re here.” At which point Ruth lovingly assured me that I was on lots and lots of drugs, and that I should stop saying words.
I stayed quiet after that, but only after asking her to please sign my water bottle.
Idk she must not have heard me.
I am now home recovering, and have been getting plenty of rest and lots of love. My mother-in-law arrived the day of surgery and took care of Nora for the following 3 days. My parents then took over on Wednesday night. They arrived with a full bottle of Grey Goose, 5 bottles of wine, and their own coffee machine. None of it was for us. Those are apparently the supplies they require in order to make it through a 48 hour stay in our home.
My respect for them runs deep.
How am I feeling? I appreciate you asking (you didn’t). I’m pretty much all over the fucking place (hence the choice to start writing. It helps.) Here’s a sample of some of the things going through my mind. Don’t worry, it’s just a pu pu platter. I won’t torture you with the full menu, as I haven’t even worked through that myself.
I’m angry with my OB for not giving me an earlier ultrasound, and angry with myself for not pushing harder. I recognize she could not have prevented the ectopic pregnancy, but she could have discovered it sooner and treated it with medication, thereby saving me from this hell parade of an experience and the loss of my tube. While I know you only need one tube to get pregnant, it’s sure as shit easier with two. Plus no one likes to lose an organ if they don’t have to. Not to sound like my terrible-2 toddler, but that was MY tube, godammit. MINE! I grew it myself!
I’m sad. While I never fully committed to the idea of this baby due to the anxious circumstances surrounding it from the beginning, and therefore can’t really say I feel a true sense of mourning (as I know many women do feel after a miscarriage, no matter what stage of pregnancy, and that feeling of loss and grief is always completely valid), I had still let myself get excited. I was thrilled about the idea of Nora getting a sibling– that she’d have someone to talk to, even though there is no one she’d rather talk to than herself. She’s so ready to be a big sister, and I want that for her. Badly.
I’m anxious. About the future, and what this means for the family we were hoping to grow. The fact that this happened to me once means there is an increased risk of it happening again. I’ll be 39 soon. I’m down a tube. I wouldn’t go as far as to say the odds are bad– but they’re certainly decreasing.
I’m annoyed. On a purely logistical level, this was a perfectly timed pregnancy for a myriad of reasons. That feels silly to even put in writing, but it’s part of the feelings shitnado, so there you have it. I’m pissed that it didn’t work out, that my meticulously planned timing has blown up in my face, and I’m overwhelmed by the idea of starting from scratch.
I’m hopeful. Somehow, I’m able to wade through this shitswamp and take solace in the fact that whatever is meant to be is going to be. I often hate when people say that, but I do truly believe it in this circumstance. In many ways, I feel strong. And I agree with Ruth– I’m proud of myself for getting through this (this part, at least. I know I’m not done). I feel a new, even deeper appreciation for the one amazing, beautiful, dynamic, hilarious child I DO have. I feel once again validated in my amazing choice of partner (not that it ever needs validation– I just enjoy being right), because as always he has stepped up in every way possible. And I have not-new-but-always-growing gratitude for my incredible friends and family, who have always been there for me, this moment being no exception.
But none of this is linear. I’m deeply humbled one moment and back to angry and sad the next. Then back again. The only constant is the steadfast eating of feelings. I would like to thank “snacks” for sponsoring this miscarriage.
My body still hurts. I am still expelling remnants of a pregnancy that once carried endless possibilities, and is now just a visual reminder of hopes dashed. I know I’ll get through it, but I’m still in it.
And it’s pretty dark in here.
So thanks to those of you who have provided some light.
Especially you, Ruth.
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*”She got pregnant if I even looked at her funny!” – My Dad. 🤢
I’ve been doing a lot of solitary activities to manage my quarantine anxiety and I guess it’s become an issue because I just received this email from Eric:
As I’ve mentioned on this blog and to anyone I’ve ever met anywhere at any time for any reason– I’m a sweaty person. Like this but sweatier.
Our current apartment runs extremely hot. We’ve posted many a video of Nora on social media and she is always stripped down to the diaper– friends think this is because we have a “free the baby from the burden of clothes!” hippie attitude, but what they don’t realize is that I, too, am naked behind the camera because it is 5 fucking thousand degrees in our home and WE’RE ALL JUST TRYING TO SURVIVE. (I’m sorry if that mental image of naked me ruins your enjoyment of Nora’s videos (Brothers. Dad.), but you’re welcome if it enhances it (No one? Oh ok.)).
So due to this hot apartment/me being a sweaty mammoth combo, I need to sleep with the air conditioner on throughout the night. In fact, the AC isn’t even enough– I need the fan too. Eric, whose body functions like that of a person meant to live on this earth and not in a 70-degree isolated space bubble, does not enjoy this nighttime freeze-out ritual. He insists that if we just keep the window open, it will have a similar effect, with the added bonus of saving both money and energy.
I have tried this crazy window-scheme he’s concocted, and I simply disagree with his assessment. It’s not the same. He then tries to argue that I have not given it a real chance, as if me doing it that whole one time for 10 seconds isn’t sufficient enough to draw an accurate conclusion of NOPE THIS IS TERRIBLE HELLFIRE AND I HATE IT.
So, like any good, solid married couple with opposing viewpoints, we have agreed to compromise and have the AC on full blast, the fan on high, and the window sealed shut.
Eric, over time, has learned to accept that this is the situation, and has ceased to verbally comment on it anymore, as he knows, much like when he tries to teach me about the stock market or how to make toast, it is a waste of breath. I am who I am (the worst.the best? inexplicably and unadvisedly someone’s mother. Set in my ways.)
But what he DOES do is passive aggressively send me the monthly email from Con Edison explaining how much energy we waste use compared to other homes. It is, without fail, always over 150% more than similar apartments in the area. He sends these emails with no explanation– he just forwards them along and hopes I’ll open one and, you know, feel something.
I do not.
He does make sure to follow up when he gets home from work, though. The conversation goes something like this:
Eric: “Did you get my Con Ed email?”
Me: “Yes.”
Eric: “….”
Me: “Yes I did.”
I don’t know why he bothers.
But guys– today’s email really got me. See below.
Maybe it’s that the percentage is over 200 for the first time ever. Maybe it’s the fact that Eric took the time to deliberately change the subject line to 233%, so I can’t earmuff that shit. Maybe it’s that he added the “I give up on you and life” cry-laugh emoji. Maybe it’s that image of a polar bear floating away on a block of ice (not sure if that directly relates, but goddamn that’s upsetting). Or maybe it’s that gif I once saw of a dog so sad he can’t even muster one ounce of excitement for what has to be the largest, most wiggly bubble ever (completely unrelated. Now I’m just spiraling.) But the point is, for the first time, I felt something.
So tonight I turn over a new leaf. If I can’t be motivated by Eric’s discomfort (oh, you don’t like the temperature? Remember when I grew a human from scratch, stored it amongst my organs, and then carried a farm’s supply of lactose in my boobs for a year? I’M SORRY YOU’RE COLD.), I should at least be motivated to serve the greater good.
And today:
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