(continuation of Adventures in Marriage Licenses )
Mystery solved. I’m not proud.
(continuation of Adventures in Marriage Licenses )
Mystery solved. I’m not proud.
So Eric got a new job recently, and HR informed him that in order for me to be on his health insurance plan, we would have to get actual documentation stating that we are domestic partners. This came as a surprise, because at Eric’s last job they were like, “Oh, your girlfriend wants health insurance? Cool! Health insurance for dayzzzzzzz!” We literally didn’t even have to show proof that we were living together. I’m not even sure we had to prove we were human beings. I could have been Eric’s pet hamster Chubbles*, and they would’ve covered me. For whatever reason, they just took our word on the honor system, which is the way it should be. (hahah no, I’m kidding. That is DEFINITELY not the way it should be. If it was that way, I would have put myself on the health insurance of every person I’ve lived with since college, including that summer subletter who drew a huge penis on my window).
So we went down to the City Clerk on Wednesday and diligently signed our Domestic Partnership license. It was a beautiful day. The clerk could not have been less interested in us, and was scrolling on Facebook the entire time she processed our paperwork. Which immediately made me like her. I was super hopeful that when the license printed, it would accidentally have one of those creepy FB stickers on it.
But alas, no. Disappointment abound.
Meanwhile, Eric and I tried to make small talk with her, as an attempt to engage her in this somewhat meaningful moment in our lives.
Us: “We’ll be back here in 5 months for our wedding license!”
Us: “Thanks yeah we’re excited too!”
This lady was the physical and spiritual embodiment of “Ain’t nobody got time for that.” We gave up, took our license, posed for obligatory photo and left.
Clap, clap, done! Easy as pie! Right?
Wrong. That’s not how my life works. You should know this by now.
Eric skipped back to his office, Domestic Partnership license in hand, only to find out that HR had given him false information– “Oooooh, our bad. Turns out domestic partnership only gets your partner covered if you’re gay.” And apparently, shouting back, “Ok, ok– we’re gay! We’ll be gay!” doesn’t solve the problem.
What DOES solve the problem? Getting married.
Eric: “But we’re basically married!”
HR: “When is the wedding?”
HR: “Cool. She’ll have health coverage in June.”
Eric: “HAVE YOU MET HER?! SHE NEEDS IT NOW.”
Ok obviously the conversation didn’t exactly go down like that, but the point is that the rules insist we show legal intent to wed (aka, get a marriage license)– and I, as someone prone to mental/physical/invented health issues, cannot wait until June for coverage.
Can I get temporary insurance until then? Yes, of course. For a CRAPLOAD of money. And what is the point, if we are getting married soon anyway? Why not just get the license a little earlier? We already live together and love each other and occasionally want to kill each other and that’s all marriage really is, right? (If not, don’t tell me. I’m a learn-the-hard-way kind of girl, which is why my life tends to be a complete disaster but also interesting).
So, with the most romantic of reasons driving us forward, we went back to the City Clerk this morning to obtain a marriage license. (No, this does not mean we are married. This means we have a document to prove INTENT to marry. Everyone calm down, Mom.)
Not many people get to experience the City Clerk office twice in 3 days, but I guess most people just aren’t as lucky as we are.
So there we are this morning, sitting in our seats, waiting for our number to be called, and, like all couples about to take that first legal step in joining their lives forever, we were on our iPhones playing Words With Friends.
With EACH OTHER. We’re not heartless sadists.
As I sat there waiting for Eric to play the next word, I took a moment to look around and do some people watching. There were several couples there who were getting not just a license, but having their official ceremony as well, so they were wearing nice white dresses and suits. Naturally, I then questioned my own appearance, which led to an existential downspiral (aka, a typical
Friday morning). “Is it ridiculous that it didn’t even occur to me to look nice for this event? I just threw on jeans, a sweater, Uggs and headed out the door. Does that say something about my maturity level and my preparedness for marriage?”
“Oh, Emily, stop it,” I counterpointed in my head, because having full conversations with myself is normal. “That’s just your anxiety going into overdrive. Yes, you’re dressed casually, but so are most people here. You’re a perfectly mature, responsible adult who is more than ready to enter this very significant stage of life.”
And that’s when I spotted the gigantic glob of Junior Mints melted into my pant leg.
Yes. It’s as big as it looks.
Some background context here, because I’m sure you’re having difficulty understanding how it’s humanly possible that I did this to myself without noticing:
Last night, Eric and I went to see Dear Evan Hansen on Broadway (fucking phenomenal, by the way). And like all people watching a show with themes of loneliness, pain and depression, I like my trauma with a side of Junior Mints.
Kramer gets it.
At one point during the show, I accidentally dropped one of the Junior Mints (again, Kramer-style) while attempting to put it in my mouth. I thought it fell on the floor and so I quickly forgot about it– but, apparently, it got squished between the seat and my leg for the rest of the night, where it slowly melted (because, as you can always assume, I was very sweaty) and spread across my pants. And yeah, I did wear the same pants two days in a row without washing them. You do it too, so SHUT UP.
“But how did you not notice it when you were getting dressed this morning, Emily?”
Because it was early, I hadn’t had coffee, and in general I am not a noticer of things.
“But how about when you took them off last night?”
I AM VERY BAD AT LIFE, OKAY?!
Which brings us back to this moment in the City Clerk’s office, when Eric and I are about to be called forward to sign a marriage license, and I have what appears to be a giant ball of (minty fresh!) shit spread across my pants.
Eric suggested I go to the bathroom and try to clean myself up.
I suggested we take a photo.
Needless to say, the papers still got signed (not by an officiant– just by us, Mom!) and Eric is still willing to marry me.
Now let’s see if I can make it down the aisle without a giant shit stain on my wedding dress.
* Chubbles = actual former pet of Eric’s
One of the best parts about yesterday being the day I got engaged is that up until that point, I was certain it was literally THE most inconsequential day of my life. It was the last day before leaving for our family vacation in the Outer Banks, and I was just eager to get the hell out of dodge. All my tutoring gigs were on pause until September. My bags had already been packed and my errands already run. So when I woke up that morning, I had exactly zero items on the agenda. Come lunchtime, I had never felt more useless or like less of a player in society. I was sure that if this were the game of life, I’d be losing by a landslide.
As of 1pm, I still had not gone outside, was watching “American Dad” reruns on TBS (inspiring my Summer of George post), and texted one of my best friends the following:
It was not looking good.
Luckily, I had exactly one thing on the agenda to give myself a reason to live for the day– Eric and I were going out to dinner with our friends Carrie and Dan, and I was really looking forward to it. Mostly because it was a legitimate reason to remove myself from the denim couch and pretend that on August 18th, 2016, I sort of acted like a human.
And just when I was psyching myself up for entering the world of the living, this text came from Carrie:
I tried to save face by listing the meager amount of activities I had managed to accomplish in the past hour, mainly to prove to them, and to my soul, that I am one (albeit tiny) step above George Costanza:
So that was that. My one plan was gone, but at least my friend Emily had stopped by, so I felt like that could totally count as having done something significant. Clap, clap done. I could settle back into my couch ass-crater and not move for the rest of the night.
Then, less than an hour later, my sister texted:
“Well, you lucky, lucky bitch,” I thought to myself (because I’m dumb). Coincidentally, my schedule JUST cleared up! What a serendipitous world we live in!
Personally, I thought the nanny was being a bit of a diva regarding my arrival time but fine, WHATEVER, IZA.
Then, Steph dropped some terrible news:
I braced myself for the struggle of a lifetime, and specifically put on a sports bra and my loosest potato sack dress so that I would be physically prepared to maneuver that jolly little chunk of a child into his too-tight jammy jams.
Then of course I got held up on social media reading about Ryan Lochte’s douchebaggery and naked Trump statues (#America!) and ended up losing track of time. Suddenly, I only had 20 minutes to get to Steph and Andrew’s apartment before the nanny had to leave. It was hot outside, but their apartment is only 17 blocks away, so I forced myself to walk and not take a cab, mainly so I’d have one more item to add to my list of “Things I did today that prove I deserve to exist.”
But of course, rushing in the heat, and me being who I am as a person, I began to sweat profusely. And by the time I got to my sister’s apartment, all I could think about was dunking my head in a sink of ice cold water before the nanny left. I looked like hell in my sports-bra-and-sack-dress get up, my hair was in a particularly disheveled semi-wet bun, and I probably didn’t smell great.
Every part of me was sweating.
I went to open the apartment door, which is ALWAYS unlocked, but for some reason it didn’t open. This nanny is really something, I thought, rolling my eyes. Then I heard the Boog (aka Tyler, my 20-month-old nephew) whining. “Don’t worry, Boogie Boy, I’m here!” I said as the door was unlocked and slowly opened for me.
First thing I saw was the Boog in a tux, looking fucking adorable, if not a tad whiny/possibly traumatized and BEYOND confused. He was holding a sign, but to be honest, I didn’t process what it said (it said “Will you marry —->”), because then I saw Eric, and a ton of candles, and rose petals all over the floor (which I later learned were fake, just in case the Boog tried to eat them).
And even though I knew EXACTLY what was happening, for some reason all I could spit out was “OH MY GOD WHAT IS HAPPENING OH MY GOD WHAT IS HAPPENING?!” I mean– it was pretty fucking clear what was happening.
Eric started to give a beautiful speech and then, seconds in, the Boog began HYSTERICALLY crying. Even though I was very focused on Eric’s words, I couldn’t help but interrupt, point to the Boog and ask “Ummm…is someone here to deal with him?!” (The answer was no. Just us. Which sucked for the kid because Eric and I could not have possibly cared less about him in that moment. He may or may not have lifelong trauma stemming from this 45 seconds of sheer neglect.)
Long story short, the baby kept crying, then I cried a bit (but mostly just trembled and said “Oh my god” repeatedly), and then, when Eric asked if I’d spend the rest of my life with him, I said, “YES– OF COURSE! ARE YOU SERIOUS?!? YES!”
The Boog, at this point, had completely lost his shit.
So we picked him up, read him some Goodnight Moon, and shoved a pacifier in his mouth until he was calm enough that we could ignore him again. #parentinggoals
**Side-note: my sister was disappointed to hear that the Boog “blew it” in his proposal role. I, personally, thought it was absolutely perfect. All the biggest moments in my and Eric’s relationship have been kind of a shit show, but in the best, most hilariously imperfect of ways (which is how I like to affectionately think of myself and my life….”hilariously imperfect”). Examples: I showed up so drunk to our first date, I barely remembered it and then had to play along when he texted me afterwards referencing things we discussed. Our first kiss, which started off amazingly, ended with him telling me I’m disgusting. Then, on our 6th date, just as I decided that I REALLY liked this guy and needed to tell him about my dating blog (and his guest appearances on it), I was busted at the table by a high school acquaintance.
So to be quite honest, having a toddler cry throughout our entire proposal was not only fitting, it was just imperfectly perfect, and perfectly us.
And god do I love that little bozo (Tyler, not Eric. Well, Tyler and Eric.), so to have had him be a part of this most precious moment in my life meant the world to me– and knowing that Eric knew it would mean the world to me is just all kinds of meta perfection.**
Speaking of perfection, then Andrew came home. (Badum- ching!)
He whisked the Boog away to the bedroom so Eric and I could have a moment alone and attempt to let it all sink in (it didn’t. I was a mess.)
We then went to a lovely and delicious celebratory italian dinner in our neighborhood with Steph, Andrew, Zack and Eric’s mother (Eric was wise enough to bring me a change of clothes, because he knew EXACTLY how hot-mess-expressed I’d be). Eric’s sister and brother-in-law are in Georgia, but sent champagne and well wishes to the table. My parents and Jeremy are already in the Outer Banks, but we will be with them tomorrow and then for the next two weeks, so plenty of family time and celebrations ahead.
After dinner, I finally got a moment to call and FaceTime my friends, and so, barely able to contain my excitement, I did just that.
No one picked up.
But knowing that I would only make an actual voice call if I got engaged or someone died, they all quickly called back. And after the expressions of excitement and well-wishing, they all wanted to know if I was surprised– and the answer is yes, totally. I know that seems impossible, given that I joke about it all the time (both on this blog and to Eric’s face) and a proposal was clearly imminent. But Eric really did manage to throw me off, because I was 100% certain his plan was to speak to my parents while in the Outer Banks, and then propose when we got home in September. I told all my friends it would happen in September. Not only did I NOT bother to get a manicure, I actually took my manicure OFF yesterday morning to give my nails a breather at the beach, thinking I’d need to have them looking nice for September. So here I am, rockin’ this stunning diamond on the world’s gnarliest unkempt man-hand. I will be banging down the door of the nearest nail salon the second I finish typing this.
So, in summation, I slept zero minutes last night and am writing this at 5:00am on the couch, because I want to record and remember every moment, and that’s what I do when I’m happiest– I write. And as I’m doing so, I’m watching the sunrise, which is just beautiful and breathtaking and the most lovely way to start my first morning as a promised lady.
Never mind that the man I’m promised to is sleeping like a baby in the next room.
Literally didn’t stir once the entire night.
So he’s either very confident in his decision or he’s TERRIFIED to wake up.
Eh, either way– I’ll take it!
Eric preparing the Boog for my arrival…..
Watching “The Bachelorette”…
Eric: “Wait, so…at the end of this, the bachelorette proposes to the guy?”
Me: “No. The guy proposes.”
Eric: “So she chooses the guy who then has to propose to her?”
Me: “Like what I’m doing.”
Eric: “Ok yeah I get it now.”
After reading my last post …
Eric then texted Mom.
I think that’s for the best.
Eric, after paying for our dinner last night at Mas Farmhouse and culminating a week-long, gifts-and-flowers-packed celebration of our anniversary:
“Man. This anniversary ended up being expensive. I should’ve just proposed.”
Um, yeah. Duh.
Although I’m not sure why he thought he had any power in the beginning.
Who told him?