To My Valentines

And to all the (seemingly) irrational, persistent romantics:

Don't ever give up.

And Happy Valentine's Day from me to you:

(You gotta click the envelope to see the card.)

(images c/o Paperless Post)

P.S. Check out Google today!

The One

And I thought finding a dress would be the hard part, and yet, here it is. I would get married in this Phillip Lim dress faster than you can say, "I do." I'm actually really excited to look through non-wedding gowns for my nuptials, because it's a good deal cheaper than actual wedding dresses and it's an excuse to make my first "real dress" purchase. Plus, I'll be able to wear and enjoy it as a part of my permanent wardrobe instead of storing it in a vacuum-sealed box in a temp-controlled room. (Please don't do that -- beautiful dresses are meant to have adventures!) 

Although on second thought... it might not look as amazing on me as it does on the six-foot, size zero model. I just don't want to look like an inverted hot air balloon when I'm wedding the love of my life, you feel me?

(image c/o la garconne and very cool wedding blog a.k.a. Rosebrook Meyer NYC)

P.S. Yes, I've noticed the same million and a half stories on "single women planning nonexistent weddings." (I've only read four. There's just too many.) Let's be honest, this isn't a new phenomenon at, all. It is now a publicly displayed phenomenon thanks to the Internet. And besides all that, when did it become a crime to look at stunning couture gowns and impeccably hosted celebrations? Chic is chic. Ain't no shame or desperation in that.

And speaking of chic, a Valentino and Prada clad couple and a Ralph Lauren bride.

"It was love when" the Blog

I just solved a coding crisis I've been trying to figure out for weeks. I feel pretty effing sexy. And yes, I actually did just say that.

Finally...

Launching on Monday!

xxxx

P.S. If anyone ever needs help creating two dynamic pages (aka the impossible on Wordpress), I'm pretty sure I just owned the interface.

A New Girl New Year's Eve

Amazing.

Rhodes to Perdition

Nate: "So, you still love her."

Chuck: "I can't imagine the day I won't."

Gawd, last week's episode was pretty friggin good.

It was love when...

I knew it was love when even during the hard times (which are few), it still felt so easy.

--E

Postscript: To celebrate the easy 18 months we've been together, we're going on a date tonight. And it feels like the first.

----

Have your own story?

It can be as specific as you want it to be, and it'll be completely anonymous.

Submit a short, 100-word story to http://itwaslovewhen.com/share/ in the above format.
 Or send it to me  (dearestherhan at gmail),

Note: Submission is also consent for the story to be published on the website and, if chosen, the final book. You can share more than one story and spread the word! It’s a chance to immortalize your story in a book.

Chivalry, An Obituary

A conversation with a friend led to:

"I get slightly annoyed at chivalry is dead comments, when girls talk about the past like it was some golden age where men treated women awesome cause they held the car door open or w/e."

And I'm a girl, a girl that's had more than her fair share of chival-less boys, and I get it. I get that girls want to feel special, to feel valued. (I hope you guys are taking notes. No, really. I think you should.) We want to feel like priceless treasure because that's certainly how we feel about you (forgive our pride and forget what we say out loud). Why else would we feel heartbroken when we end up feeling as valuable as dirt instead?

I digress. The point of this post is to bring the "chivalry is dead" vs. "chivalry is dying" vs. "the deterioration of chivalry is emitting noxious fumes that will turn us all into monkeys" debate to an end. Because what's really going on is the "chivalry" in that clause is no longer relevant. What these "girls" think of chivalry is men in suits and pocket squares, red lips, hands that help wasp-waisted women out of the back of 1960 Ford Falcons. Yes, ladies proceeded first and men removed their fedoras in a woman's presence, but it was also this:

Chivalry came at a price, and if you ask me to choose between a pulled out chair and the choice to be 27 and unmarried without being considered an old maid or suspected of marrying my soul to the devil -- or the choice to be anything you can imagine for yourself -- well, need I say more? Look beyond the surface folks. Because if what I get for a little tip of the hat is a grouchy despot in the morning expecting a four-course breakfast, then no thank you, sir. I wouldn't trade the present for anything.

I'm not saying that we have to pay that price now if we want the same kind of civility, but I believe this is the new question: Do you still want it? Is a pandering smile and him walking on the street side of the sidewalk because his mother "told him so" enough to satisfy you? 

Because for me, chivalry is a man who will give me his coat during the sub-zero Chicago winter because he wants to show he cares for me, and he's the same man that will be there when I impatiently switch career paths four, five, thirty times. Isn't this what we want? Not a habitual creature who is programmed to carry a woman's bags, but someone who does so because he cares. The chivalry I seek today is beyond the superficial. This is the heart of the matter. (Note: Actions speak louder than words.)

He will view me as his equal, not his baby-making coffee-maker. I want to make coffee (delicious or disgusting, I can't promise anything) for him in the mornings to show him my own brand of chivalry because I love him, not because he's a parading tyrannical oaf.

A chivalrous man will listen when I speak, digest what I say and value my opinion. And more importantly, a good man will do all of that with a complete stranger, too. Opening doors does not a good man make. Don't get it twisted.

And at the end of the day, that is who I want to come home to: the good man. The man who is chivalrous in character, not by default.

The lesson? (Anything I say, take it or leave it. We're two-cent creatures by nature.) Girls, no more romanticizing! This was the 1960s (see the above videos), and we have got it way, way better. Present-day chivalry -- there's nothing like it. And appreciate it! Nothing kills chivalry faster than ungrateful presumptions.

And guys, it's pretty simple -- show you care. I'm pretty sure that's the most valuable piece of advice an insider could ever give to you. And if you don't know how to show, ASK.

It's kind of a lame ending, but sometimes, I just have to let those slide.

The One That Deserves a Post

Context: A reader's comment on an op-ed about a lesbian couple in San Francisco allowing their boy to begin the process of a gender switch. If you want to read the whole thing, it's here and it's short.

"I guess it's no coincidence that all these lost souls are gathering on top of a major fault line." Really?

Well, then I guess Alabama will be flooding over soon to make a mini Gulf of the United States because everyone living there is obviously an ignorant bigot.

I know he isn't trying to make it personal (really, how can I not take it that way -- that's a real concern for people living there), but sometimes, I can't understand people that won't understand.

In Paris with You

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.
-James Fenton (1993)


No fluff, no sentimentality. And still, in love with love.
Everywhere is Paris with you.

Chicagoan

...finally.

And I know it's been like a month, but did I mention what Norman gave me for my birthday?

Yeah, I actually thought the box was the gift. Lanvin flats?! Are you kidding me?! I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

BAMFs

You don't get more badass than Jason and Rosie.

(photos via The Vogue Diaries)

Modern Love

I figured it might as well get published somewhere.

(This version is edited slightly at the request of the NBN editors.)

(photo via pinterest)

The Language of Lovers

"Anyone can be passionate, but it takes real lovers to be silly." -- Rose Franken

It used to be my expectation that romance isn’t required and the language of love is one of settlement. It wasn’t because I’m bitter and crusty (you’re free to disagree), but it’s more because I’ve always been afraid of disappointment. If I don’t expect anything, if I never allow myself to hope for more, then I won’t ever get the feeling of a ten pound weight punching a hole out of the bottom of my gut. But for the sake of honesty, I did want it – the flirting, the courtship, sweetness, passion – all of it. I wanted the beautiful Audrey kiss in a New York alleyway, in my tailored trench, in the arms of a beautiful man, under the perfectly timed spring rain whose drops only made that fragile face glisten even more delicately.

I used to be one of those people who needed the “I love you” to feel secure. I needed to hear it; I needed it to be said to me, and sometimes, I would say it to the other person just so I could hear it back. It was never enough. I learned somewhere along the way “I love you” starts to mean something else and at the worst of times, nothing at all.

I learned “I love you” isn’t so valuable when I abuse it, and in the case of true intimacy, lovers use it sparingly.

I used to want “I love you” and “I miss you,” but what’s special about those phrases besides the very facts they state in so straightforward a manner? Billions of people in different places and different times have used those phrases and many to no avail, but how many people know what “the chocolate incident” is?

Or what “Max” means?

Or “little trees”?

Or “President of the United States”?

Or “telling you in my head?” I forget when Norman coined this little catchphrase, but it began because of the many instances I began a story with,

“Didn’t I tell you…?” (when I hadn’t)

“No, you told me in your head.”

 My lacking memory makes him laugh, and this, to me, is “I love you” in a language that only I understand.

These inside jokes aren’t purposed to be exclusionary, rather they create a language of familiarity between us (it’s the same way writers use repetition to establish intimacy with their readers); so that even when we’re in a crowded room, just one glance and we have our own world.

No one would believe me if I told you what a nut job Norman is (and I mean that in the most endearing way), but I love that. I love that I’m the only one who knows the extent of his quirks. It’s this intimacy that defines the love stronger than any straightforward “I love you,” and it’s not that we feel hampered from saying “I love you” to each other, but there are so many other ways we could say it, ways that say, “I don’t want to be generic. You’re too special for that. My love is too great for that.”

In the beginning, all lovers are sweet to each other, call each other “baby,” kiss, gush. But if this is the default state of our love for the rest of our lives, I’d get a cavity (and Lord knows I don’t need any more of those).  And of course there are passionate loves, the kinds that get made into bestselling novels and then silver screen flops, but it’s hard for those to make it to the end. Passion is a desirable element in the ideal relationship, but when it’s the foundation, it’s tiring and eventually, it isn’t enough. You realize later on, the truest lover is the one of humor rather than one of passion (although the two are not mutually exclusive). Silliness is the language of love.

So Norman, I hope you know I’ve already told you in my head, but I’ll say it again for your poor itty bitty ears:

 I love you – and happy anniversary.

(photos via pinterest)

Oh Chicago

My dear friend Jen came to visit this past weekend, and she always introduces me to the most wonderful people! I had the pleasure of spending a few days with my new (ridiculously talented) friends, BK and Jeremy. Sometimes, I feel like talent just aggregates where Jen exists.

Jeremy (artist name, Passion) was nice enough to give me a copy of his EP, Paper Airplane (which all of you should immediately get because it is just--beyond. Really. It's been my ONLY study music for the past couple of days). And my favorite, FAVORITE, song on it is Oh Vienna. It's just--sweet--lip-curling, chest-tingling sweetness; it's lilac and honey and baby powder. (That's what I get when I think 'sweet'. Is that strange?)

And the first time I listened to it I realized something I probably latently knew, but never worded it out to myself. It really isn't about the time or place it all. That's nothing at all. It's about who you're with and not even who you're simply physically with, but who's out there in the inky blackness; that even in the middle of thunder and lightening during a night like tonight, there's someone out there loving you. And though it's forty degrees and thundering, the coldness can't get to you. Whether it's Vienna or California or whether its in the midst of stormy Chicago, you find every place has its own perfection because the love helps you see the world, in all of its beauty, a little more clearly.

(photo via pinterest)

The Difference

You know what it is? Even when I'm doing absolutely nothing, I'd rather be doing nothing with you.

(photo via pinterest)

In Black and White Print

I turned something into the NYT Modern Love contest yesterday. I turned it in at exactly 11:58 p.m. eastern time. The deadline was 11:59 p.m. And unfortunately, my chances aren't lookin' too hot. True, I only found out about the contest two days before the deadline, but I've cranked out personal essays with less time before, ones that I ended up loving. And this was supposed to be an essay on modern love, for crying out loud! I had a whole blog devoted to the topic! I should've been trotting all over that damn park.

I don't even know if I can call it a funk? Because I've had those -- where it's just a really ugly road block, one that's only there to make you take the longest possible detour, to your convenience, of course. But at least you got there. I wrote two completely different essays, settled on a third, and hated all of them. I would read them out loud to Norman (reading out loud is essential for me), and I wouldn't even finish before I said, "Is this boring? This is boring, isn't it? Ohmygod, it's boring and you know me."

I would write them, and yes, there would be moments of pretty prose, but at the end of it, I would just stop and say out loud, "What am I doing?" I had no idea what I was trying to say. What am I trying to say? What's the point? The "so what"?

It's something that's been really bothering me lately. My professor said writers should always have a point of view. It's best to know what you're trying to say before, but you should definitely be somewhere at the end of it. But what if I don't have anything to say at all? What if I'm a creamless cannoli?

I don't expect anything. (That's a lie: I expect the NYT editors to scratch their scalps with their valuable fingers. That's a lie, too. I want this. I want(ed) this badly because for the first time I felt like I really had a shot at it. Maybe I wanted it too much. Is that wrong? To want it too much? April is going to be a long month.) I did it for the sake of the opportunity because that's what I've learned I have to do, and if I'm better because of it, that's all I can ask for. (Okay, yes, another lie. I'm in a fragile state, and I just need some validation that this is what I'm supposed to be doing.) Now, does anyone have any Funk-B-Gone?

(photos via pinterest, vi.sualize.us, a glamorous little side project)

The luckiest kinds of people

Norman and I got in a... scuffle today. And by the way I handled it, I think I've got a ways to go, but I also think I've come a long (looooong) way.

I won't disclose the details of the fight because it's irrelevant, but the fact is we had our first disagreement in a while. And we sat down and talked about it. And I said how I felt and he said how he felt. And then I apologized. All of this occurred after I gave him the cold shoulder for a few hours, but nevermind that. I felt very adult.

It showed me how much I've learned from just life without even realizing it. Can I let you guys in on something (based on my extensive dating experience, which sadly at 22, I can actually say)? It's never worth it. It's just not. Whatever you're telling yourself you deserve or how he/she wronged you, and while you're in the middle of your self-important indignant internal tirade, let me stop you. You. Do. Not. Want. To. Go. There. Most fights come out of our self-centered tunnel vision -- when all we can think about is ourselves, the madness is unending because who wouldn't want to fight for their idea of a perfect world?

This obviously has more than a few exceptions:
+ This isn't for those times when it's something real serious, like, let's say... domestic violence. If that ish goes down, you need to talk to someone and take some action ASAP.
+ It is for those times he leaves the toilet seat up when you asked him not to, or when he doesn't say hello in the exact way you saw that playing out in your head, or basically, whenever he can't read your mind. Everyone has neuroses. Just let it go.
+ This is for those relationships with the security of love; when you know these fights, these whatevers don't matter because in the end, you know the love is there. The fights are miniscule compared to the love. (This applies to family, friends, any kind of relationship. And I imagine that's what marriage is like, too, although you couldn't take my word for it.)

It's the end of the day, the turbulence has subsided, and all I can do is look at Norman and think, "We are the luckiest of people."

(photo via pinterest)