James and I are on a budget. We’re on budget even though we’re possibly the only two people I know who can sigh with relief that every morning we wake up and go to jobs we love. We’re on a budget because we’re trying to save up to start our life together in a new apartment, which we’ll be getting in June.

And we’re on a budget because we promised Jesus we’d do no Unnecessary Spending for the whole of Lent. (Jesus, I’m sure, would ask me if all four pair of shoes were necessary. I’m sure he’d see my side, though, over a cup of coffee with my logical explanation.)

Regardless, when I wander into the grocery store on lunch now, I check to see what they have on special or on sale. This serves two purposes. One, I save money, which is how I shall avoid being damned for all eternity to the fiery pits of Hell. And two, if I commit to cooking dinner with whatever is on sale, it makes me open new horizons in cooking.

Which is good, because I could eat angel hair pasta with a light tomato sauce and a glass of white wine for every meal of every day and be perfectly content.

Today, however, asparagus was on sale. Asparagus? They didn’t look so scary. They almost looked cuddly. And I thought I could have possibly cooked them once before, for my father, but if memory serves, there was a simultaneous Hollandaise sauce incident that rendered the whole meal inedible. I can’t be sure. The whole memory blurs. I don’t do failure well.

Jesus and James are lucky I don’t want to burn forever in the fiery pits of Hell. I bought the asparagus. $1.99/lb– it was half price! And strawberries, too, 2 cartons for $5. And they were perfect and ripe, not over ripe and gooey.

Having acquired asparagus, I realized that I didn’t actually know how to cook it. Steam? Steam seemed logical. Or I could find a way to put them into crepes. I loved putting things into crepes! Mm, yes, Common Sense, I hear you. Perhaps this is a job for Google.

Google brought me to a magical land called www.elise.com. More specifically, it brought me here, where I found the recipe for a dinner that reminded James why he puts up with my crap in the first place.

The recipe, repeated below, is very simple and definitely worth a go when you find asparagus on sale and you want to remind your boyfriend why he puts up with all your crap in the first place. I served James mixed marinated olives as an appetizer (right off the Whole Foods shelf, because I’m not that ambitious) and then tossed the whole thing in with linguine, using the Olive Oil and  Romano I used. I also got the shredded Romano instead of grated, because I didn’t want it to turn into cheesy paste.

The result was phenomenal, and we’re both excited about the leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

Do I expect you to take me at my word? Of course not. I offer you: proof:

Lightly tossed and sprinkled with love. And olive oil.

In context. With white wine. How I recommend trying this. Because all that deliciousness in one mouth makes everyone happy.

And I give you the recipe:

Asparagus Recipe

Bon apetit, everyone.

I’m a big cry baby. Not the usual tears at emotional angst or physical pain, mind you. In fact, rarely do I cry when I’m sad or bleeding. No, those are the times to soldier on.

I will cry, however, if I’m scared. Or nervous. Or really happy. Or overtired. Or startled. Or sentimental. Or grateful. Or PMS-y.

Yes, the list of things over which I’ll cry far exceeds the list of things over which I will not, and I’m only a bit ashamed to say that I spent yesterday morning crying (and sniffling, at the end of it all) as James handled the flighty, jaw-snapping little rat terrier we’re puppy-sitting this week. I can’t help it. Tiny animals who are scared, overtly aggressive and endangering their own safety because I am a big mean girl who  is trying to do big-mean-girl things (like WALK THE DOGS) are on the list of things that make me cry.

A boyfriend accidentally locking not-our-keys inside not-our-apartment making us ask not-our-super to let us back into not-our-building so we can handle not-our-dogs even if the whole thing is absolutely not-his-fault is also on that list. Until yesterday morning, I really had no concept of how long this list was.

When James used bread and his toes to get the harness off the scared little dog (who would not let us touch him without biting or look at him without hysterically barking and growling) I threw my arms around his Big Strong Man-neck… and cried some more. Relief? Also on that list.

For the rest of the day I reminded everyone that my boyfriend was The Hero. Couldn’t they tell? Couldn’t they see the shiny White Knight armor he clearly wore? Yes. Yes it’s right there… Under the glow-in-the-dark T-shirt.

More than once he promised me (as I hysterically replayed to him all the ways a small, scared dog can hurt himself… running into walls or falling down stares or MAKING ITS OWN HEAD EXPLODE WITH ANXIETY, for example) that we would figure it out, and that everything would be OK.

He was right. He’s always right. We figured it out and, with permission from the owners to move a couple pieces of furniture, have managed to solve the problem in a way that has produced two much calmer puppies and two much calmer puppy-sitters. We put our heads together, and don’t you know? Everything is perfectly OK.

We truly are the perfect team. Because we pull each other through what seem like the worst times and ride it out until we find an opportunity to let our bests shine through again. We stick together and support each other. That’s more than love. That’s true friendship, and this is the first time I can excitedly say I’ve found them both together and not one at the cost of the other. They’re not mutually exclusive, after all. Who’d have thought?

I was sure I was having the worst. day. ever. I was going to take a shower to wash it all off, when James, from the newly positioned couch, dropped a bomb on me.

Apparently, James was at this bank depositing a check literally ten minutes before the accident happened. He sat on the couch and told me that half our team was almost pulled from the game while we were still in the first quarter.

It’s not the kind of news that washes over you, or even simply rests upon you and gently pulls you down. The words slammed into me like he had thrown rocks. I had almost lost him to the hands of a careless stranger, the way a group of people have lost ‘A Woman, 29′. I’m 23 and I still don’t hesitate to say it… That’s far too young.

I don’t even remember moving from the kitchen to the couch, where the dogs were, if my actions elicited barking from the tinier of the two mouths. I just remember feeling the need to hug him RIGHT AWAY, scolding myself for not realizing what a privilege that was just five minutes before. Usually, we’re a very considerate and loving couple, very in-tune with one another. Yesterday, I was so frustrated at our situation– a situation I had put us into– I hadn’t even thought to ask him about his day.

How blessed am I that the chance to ask him today wasn’t violently wrenched from my tunnel-visioned little hands?

And as I sat there on not-our-couch thanking God that he had left work ten minutes early, I felt the tears starting to push up, to sting my eyes. I pressed them shut with another silent thank-you, and suddenly, the urge to cry abated and this shocking calm settled over me… Gratitude. I was so incredibly grateful.

My team had been spared.

I took a step back and reassessed the entire day. All the problems that seemed so big that morning weren’t even on the radar anymore, comparatively. I have it pretty damn good.

The clincher, of course, was James pressing a kiss to my forehead and saying, “See? I told you we’d be OK.”

And, just one more time, THANK GOD, that boy is always right.

If you want to see me gush, mention Heather Armstrong. (Or Kyran Pittman.)
I will stand and listen politely as people talk about Britney and Amy Winehouse and Jennifer and John and Brangelina. I’ll amiably help celebrity clientelle, everyone from Kyle McLaghlan to Susan Sarandon, straight-faced and disaffected.*

But if you want to see me totally lose my shit, talk to me about my beloved Mommy Bloggers. And if you don’t know who I’m talking about when I say Heather Armstrong or Kyran Pittman… EDUCATE. YOURSELF.

Now, If you want to see me turn red, squirm uncomfortably and completely lose my sense of humor about pool parties, you can do what James does and accompany me to a signing by one of the Mommy Blogger authors and then suggest we have her sign my copy, “Dear Mallory– Thanks for the pool party!”

This is what happened on Tuesday when I just barely missed trekking across the Brooklyn Bridge in the freezing cold with my cousin from Montana and her entourage of international friends. Heather Armstrong saved me, and so I will be forever indebted. She has just released her new book, It Sucked, and Then I Cried about giving birth to her first daughter, Leta, and the subsequent postpartum breakdown and recovery. You will be laughing so hard you’re crying by the tenth page, I promise. Send one to everyone you love enough to want that kind of joy for.

I had seen Heather once before, as I’ve said before, and my behavior was less than brag-worthy. I was determined to make a better impression this time. I was going to look nice. I was going to be intelligent and level-headed and articulate. I was going to wear matching socks.

I tried to wear my hair down, but it ended up in a ratty ponytail after a day in the stock room, my new bangs defying me and gravity as they leapt skyward. I had to roll my jeans, because I kept tripping over them, so they were creased. Creased and dusty. I left them rolled, not realizing that my yellow sneakers DID reveal my black socks, which did not match my light blue shirt. The scarf matched the shirt, though, even if it didn’t match my shoes or socks. To compensate, I thought it would be best to giggle a lot and then detach all my fingernails halfway up the bed with my own front teeth.

I am so lovely when I’m a ball of nerves.

Heather’s reading was lovely, and she was engaging and entertaining and endearing and all the things you hope an author will be when they step to the podium in front of you and try to relate to you, their audience, like you’re all human beings. Human beings who like to say “boob” in public. And good Lord, were we ever a crowd of that-kind-of-people.

She signed my book, and I tried not to giggle or say anything too embarrassing. James did not ask her to sign it “Thanks for the pool party!” like he suggested, because when he looked at me to gauge my reaction, my eyes were the size of saucers and I just sort of gurgled out something to the tune of ABSOLUTELY NOT.

When we got to the table, I told Heather I got him hooked on Mommy Bloggers and he got me hooked on Comics. And she thought I said Hooked on Phonics. I took that as my cue to giggle like a moron and say something really stupid that I can’t even recall now, it’s that mortifying. We thanked her, and I melted on the spot.

That’s not true. We walked away and I showed James my favorite children’s book.

The night ended as all nights that are gloriously full of people you admire should end. With Mallowmars and sushi and laughing.

Hopefully I’ll have myself more pulled-together when Kyran tours for her book. If not I’ll medicate with a glass of wine or a bellini beforehand.

Still, it’s a little nice to get starstruck, after all. If Susan Sarandon can’t get me to jump out of my skin, well that’s a whole new level of New York Desensitization.

In retrospect, how silly of me. Of course it would be the Mommy Extraordinaires to get me back on my toes.

That’s a Mother’s forte, is it not?

If you were to find yourself trapped in my brain through the course of the day (yesterday, specifically) these are some thoughts you might bump into.

*James put in his name to be considered as a speaker for graduation and I really hope he’s chosen because, my God, can that boy tell a fart joke.

Ooh! Brownies…

*…Word came through from corporate that a fax pertaining to VOR paperwork didn’t send three times like I thought it had, like the machine tried to send it. I was relieved to hear that all my frantic cries of “No, no, no, no, NO!!” did not go unheard by the Office Supply Gods. When in doubt, angrily punch any red button you can find on the machine and repeatedly slam the phone-piece while bellowing through the stock room for your boss to drop whatever he’s doing and come make the fax machine act like a normal piece of office equipment and not like an appliance straight out of a Ghostbusters movie.
You know what I haven’t had in forever? Crepes. With fresh berries. Berries are good for me. I should eat more of them. Sandwiched in between Crepe-y goodness.

*Meeting Heather Armstrong (more on this later) and getting a Tweet from Kyran were the kinds of highlights-of-my-week events that have me semi-secretly looking forward to having kids so that I can invite all these women out for cocktails and bemoan what a hard time it is to feel like a cross between an Oompa Loompa and a beached whale while all the blood in my body pooled at my ankles and my sleep-and-nourishment deprived boyfriend barely tolerated me, declaring wholeheartedly that I was still the most beautiful girl for fear that if he said otherwise I’d eat his face off in my rampage, without seeming like a total imposter. Pregnancy and marriage sound like a breeze. I’m not sure why anyone would pass those prospects up.

Without kids, though, I am just a stammering little fan-girl in New York whose boyfriend didn’t get her hooked on phonics (though it probably wouldn’t hurt) and who, nose pressed to the glass as I peer curiously into their world, dreams of one day being a Mommy Blogger Extradorinaire, just like my idols. Just perhaps not one day soon.

… My mother just died of happiness, because that sentence right there just abated 23 years of suffering and agony I’ve caused her by never verbally confirming that from my uterus she would one day receive a grandchild.

Oh my God, I could totally kill a chocolate donut with sprinkles right now…
*… I  realized that if I marry James, that will give me another anniversary. I would have to re-learn the date, which has already taken me all of four months to really work into my crowded little brain. Panicked a little.

Then realized that the day we semi-arbitrarily selected as our anniversary is 11/11. So if I marry James, it’d make perfect sense to do it on 11/11/11.

When I say this I really mean, I’m completely crazy and it makes perfect sense to me to do it that day so I don’t have to learn a new date and three years is plenty of time to decide if working-right-now will translate well into would-work-forever. I would be just shy of 26 and he’d be 25. And it’s a Friday. In my logic, what more could you ask for? Nothing, that’s what.

I texted Christine to tell her that I’ve decided when I’m getting married. I explained my logic. She thought this was all brilliant, but, being a good friend, reminded me that James and I have never actually had a talk about marriage and/or if it’s for us as a couple. To one another.

I told her that that was fine, and that if James didn’t want to marry me, she and I would just get married instead. No use letting a perfectly good date go to waste just because you don’t have a boyfriend to marry. She promised to mark it off on her calendar, and I promised her that if it all comes together, she could make a toast at 11:11PM, regardless of who I married.

She texted me today to confirm her approval. “I’ve decided 11/11/11 is 100% perfect…now you just need a ring ”

I responded with, “Well I don’t think this has even blipped James’ radar So I’m going to have to marry you instead. I’d like a 2karat princess cut Tiffany & Co. ring, solitaire, in titanium. Or platinum. Something stronger than gold. …Or anything sparkly you can find in a gumball machine or a crackerjack box. ”

I’m not as high maintenance as I look.

Tacos. I could totally go for tacos…

And that’s that. That’s what it’s like in my brain most of the time. Cluttered. Full of thoughts of friends far away and food close by and fun little jaunts through the past and future. Work. Boyfriend. Best friends. Lunch.

My biggest worry lately is that I’ll miss the last chocolate-covered strawberry at Godiva. Not bad, all things considered.

… I’m sorry… Did someone say something about chocolate covered strawberries?…

Life, it seems to me, is becoming increasingly composed of one-liners that result from epic stories. I theorize this is because as adults, we have less time to share with everyone. So if you happen to pass an old friend in the street and need to catch them up quickly, you have an arsenal of single-sentences that, strung together, comprehensively summarize the last seven months of your life.

If you were to pass me in the street, mine would sound something like:

Christine chose a law school in Arizona. Maxine was accepted for her MBA in Spain. Kristin is due for her first August 17. My mother is going off the deep end. She’s dragging my father along. Grandma is already swimming. Hopefully, my thesis will publish. It’ll be eight months when James and I move in together. Why, yes! These are my new cute shoes! … How are you?

For all intents and purposes, the most important one-liners are sentences three and eight. If Kristin were not so pregnant, and James and I not so serious, I probably would have delayed the trip home with him a bit longer. Like, until we were 40.

Why?, you gasp, shocked I’d say such a thing. Surely I jest, right? Wrong. And in four sentences, I’ll tell you why, circumventing the Epic Drama that was The Ex and I.

We started out awesome. Everyone loved him. Things ended badly. And everyone got hurt.

If I wasn’t dating when I met James, I certainly wasn’t taking anyone home to buddy up to My People again. Because I knew what would happen. Kristin would love him, but try not to, because if it all went horribly awry, everyone would get hurt again. And that’s not interesting to her, as she’s fully occupied being pregnant (and apparently that segues immediately into being a full-time job once my Godchild is born).

So it’s all rather ironic, because it was actually Kristin suggestively and regularly reminding me that she had yet to meet James leading directly to me finding myself taking a red-eye home last Thursday night. It was a long weekend. And he was slated to meet everyone.

He had already met my parents separately, and they already loved him. My sister had just moved back into my parents’ house, so there was no room for us there anyway. And Kristin insists she’s a grown-up now, owning an entire house where she lives with her husband, complete with a guest room and a refrigerator with food. For all these reasons, we spent the first two nights at her place, and Sunday night at my parents’.

There were no casualties. We ate too much food. Violence was minimal. Nobody cried. It was, by every measure, a very successful weekend.

Ryan, Kristin, James and I had lunch with my father at the original Dinosaur BBQ Friday afternoon, after a freezing walking-tour of my home town earlier that morning. All ten minutes of it.

Saturday was a Syracuse University lacrosse match against Johns Hopkins sandwiched between two huge meals. Sunday was church, the traditional family brunch (for which I called my little sister, woke her up and demanded her attendance), and then a huge family dinner: an Irish Boil made by grandma. (Ham, potatoes, vegetables, cabbage and Irish Soda Bread). (The Irish Soda break was not boiled. We think.)

The eating was punctuated only briefly by a walk out onto the frozen lake and through the thawing forest.

And James bonded with The Dog. Snickers.

It was a very new and exposing feeling to show him in such an intimate manner all these personal corners to my soul. It was granting him an access I swore I’d never give anyone again.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved to revoke so strong a conviction. He makes it easy to re-open those closed parts of myself. The parts that sorely needed airing out.

And I often struggle when I travel “home,” because the place has lost that significance. My old room has become my mother’s office, and ‘home‘ has morphed into my parents’ house. It’s disorienting, to be in so familiar a place to to find that something feels not quite right.

Life has become a trial-and-error series of attempts to recreate that missing feeling, something always missing and me always feeling the small void press against my heartstrings.

So you can imagine my surprise when, after four solid, exhausting days of emotional overload– GOOD emotional overload, but emotional overload nonetheless– the one-liner that summed up the larger implications of the trip was something small James whicpered to me at the airport on our way back to New York City.

He pressed a small kiss to my forehead and simple said, “Let’s go home.”

That sums it all up. I grabbed my bag and his hand and followed him onto the plane that transported be back to Wonderland, content to leave My People for the first time without unraveling. Because, above the rest, he’s My Person.

And he had summed it all up.

So we went home.

Oh. Yes. And also: my sister got a baby hedgehog.

Walking up Henry Street toward Monty’s Bagels, James and I pass Ann Taylor LOFT. From the window, this season’s covet item calls to me, begging me into the store. It does this every time I pass it in a gleaming city window.

This is the conversation the coat and I always have, as I explained it to James:

Coat: “Mallory! Come, come try me on! Take me home with you!”
Me: “I would love to, but James would be angry.”
C: “No, James will love me, because I will make you look adorable.”
M: “You would, wouldn’t you? Oh, but I already own too many of your siblings.”
C: “I really think you should reconsider. Think of the wonderful things we could do together!”
M: “Really, I can’t…”
C: “Don’t you LOVE me anymore?”
M: “You know I do! I WOULD love to take you with me. Alas, it’s simply not meant to be!” (To James, a bit dramatically) “That’s the conversation I have with that jacket every time I see it. And then, as a single tear rolls down both our cheeks, we part ways until destiny brings us together again, at another LOFT window.”

J: (chuckles) “This is why we need to get you writing again. You need to write that story.”
M: “Really?”
J: “Really.”
M: “…Okay.”

… Okay.

I envy Jasmine and her magic carpet.

James and I spent a lovely* weekend at home with my family, and though we’re exhausted from lots of eating and flying, we are back in the city and I am desperately trying to produce content for our co-blog in between the 9-hour stints I’m doing in the 90 degree Tretorn stock room, bidding farewell to the last of AW08 and making room for all the amazing girl-apparel for SS09.

*Editor’s Note: The term ‘lovely’ being used only to state that there were no serious conflicts, minimal violence and profanity, no tears and very little irreparable emotional damage. There was also a hedgehog and boiled ham. Both umbrellaed loosely under the aforementioned term.

And let me tell you, the only thing for which I’m more excited than Tretorn SS09- the brand’s first comprehensive line for women since the flagship launched just under a year ago– is Boston and VOR. I blame Cate Hewett, for being generally enthusiastic whenever I talk to her, but especially for having firecracker passion for this project.

Being home always offers a great reference point for where I am versus where I was. I reserved my parents for graduation, which falls the day after I get back from Boston. I answered a thousand questions about VOR and Boston and the apparel and the trip. I ate more food than I even knew I could fit into my body at any given point.

And I realized for all the changes I’ve made, I’m still very much the same little girl I’ve always been at heart.

When I was very small, I believe in fairy tales. I also wished on shooting stars and chased fireflies and spent one week seriously investigating an old tree in my backyard because it had all the telltale criteria of a fairy ring. You can blame my mother if you’d like, but I was raised to see the world for the good and the wondrous things it holds for us to enjoy. For which we should be grateful, for which we should work hard. For all the things we should appreciate.

I think little girls grow into two types of young women. There is the kind who relinquishes her wonder in the world and focuses on something more acute, something more grounded and perhaps substantial. She finds motivation in the tacit, the real, the credible. It’s not a less-satisfying existence, and I don’t think she compromises anything. She just, at some point, shakes the fairy dust off her clothes and out of her eyes, yawns herself out of the dreams of childhood and steps into adulthood awake and alert, with new dreams and aspirations.

And then there is another type of young woman. I myself fall into this category. We still look at the world and seek the good there is to be found, starry-eyed and brimming with hope. We wake up every day with an enthusiastic leap back into our waking lives, ecstatic at the promise that for the next eighteen hours, we get to watch our dreams play out before our eyes for another day.

I still believe in fairy tales. If not for their literal plots, then for the formula that they suggest. The heroines are always strong, intelligent women who work hard to achieve their dreams despite overwhelming obstacles. I won’t pretend it’s not a value that my father instilled in me as well, but the stories that speckle my childhood are addled with the underlying message that hard work will conquer all if true love won’t. Or can’t.

The stories teach that it’s OK to grow up to be a woman who remains unafraid to follow her dreams, to cultivate her ambitions. On the worst days, the real world can seem intimidating at best. It’s a sigh of relief at night to be a young lady who understands that taking a step back from any barrier affords not just perspective on the issue, but reassessment of the approach. If the glass slipper didn’t fit, Cinderella would have asked for a half-size up. Belle would have bought stock in Nair and appreciated that snuggling in the winter would cut down on the heating bill. And don’t quote me on this, but I’m fairly certain that Snow White ended up with a multi-billion dollar apple pie pastry franchise.

These stories tell tales of women who live daily the sentiment that doing the most and best you can with what you’re dealt is the key to winning the game. And that hope is the most dangerous asset to lose along the way. It’s something a girl should never surrender, no matter who or what the adversary. Right along with integrity, dignity and her real hair color.

I’ve always known I’m one of the lucky ones. I love my family. I’m a nerd by nature, my hunger-lust for knowledge propelling me with enthusiasm for school. The faces have played in and played out of my life a bit, but my people have always been of exceptional caliber; I’ve always had amazing friends and phenomenal role-models. People we would all consider ourselves lucky to know, to call friends or acquaintances.

People from whom I’m humbled and privileged to say I have the chance to learn.

And that’s what I believe happens when little girls grow up to be young women who aren’t afraid to unabashedly follow their dreams. They follow the formula from the stories they hold so dear and appreciate that the help and guidance available to you in life are indispensable tools. You simply need to be smart enough to utilize them, to appreciate and respect the people kind enough to bestow them upon you.

I’ve gushed before about how excited I am to be able to work in such close proximity with Cate Hewett for the month I’ll be in Boston. After thanking her for some kind recognition in the company newsletter, Cate revealed a couple bullet points on the professional arsenal she calls her resume. And then I died. Of respect, and awe. Because when I tell you that her professional repertoire is everything I hope mine will some day be, I am not kidding.

Half of learning how to be successful in the game is learning from the rest of the team, taking counsel from the captains and the coaches, throwing in your whole heart and soul every day. Making them at the very least not sorry that they called your name instead of the girl standing next to you when it was time to select teams. Not only does Cate seem like one of those people who lifts your mood and brings with her a general sense of mirth, or well-being, but she’s very, very good at what she does. And, as I hope to take this managerial stint of mine in a customer-service and operations direction (who knows, maybe even trying to tie in all that PR and administrative assistant experience), I cannot even express to you in intelligible English how excited I am to have the opportunity to learn from her first hand.

I’m serious. James asks me about how I feel about Boston now that it’s coming right up, and I manage to squeeze something through my vocal cords that sounds like, “EeeeeeeEEEEEEMMMnnnnnnffffffttttttssssss!!!” I am so classy and articulate.

So here I stand, a woman-child hybrid trying to figure it all out as she teeters in adorable shoes dangerously close to the precipice of adulthood, and can I just say, this is awesome.

It’s everything the fairy tales promised me it would be. I have the opportunities to work hard and contribute to a team of passionate people every day. I have a great family, and fantastic friends. I don’t want for anything. I wake up every day to find all my dreams coming true all over again.

The future is exciting without being unstable or overwhelming. I’m the author of my own story, calling my own shots with integrity, a developing sense of self and, increasingly, something resembling grace.

And what if I go to VOR and the unthinkable happens and PUMA corporate decides that I must be given insurmountable loads of work, and that I should report directly to Cate Hewett herself, every day, for the rest of my life? What if?

Well, once they revived me from my bliss coma, I’d have to give James a call to tell him to cancel our broker in New York. Because every smart princess knows that chasing dreams means you need to find a patient and understanding prince with a white horse who’s willing to ride off into any number of sunsets with her. And who’s willing to let her bring all her shoes.

Because in my fairy tale, no opportunity is off-limits, out-of-bounds or beyond consideration.

And James already told me he’d move to Boston if I’m offered a spot.

Happily Every After sounds lovely. And it doesn’t break my heart to say it’s looking more and more like we’ll end up there some day. But for now, I’m very content to live Happily Every Day.

Posting is going to be light through the weekend due to several very exciting things. One of which being I get to go home. Another being that James is coming along. The third being that I get to see a very pregnant Kristin in all her puffy glory. The fourth being that by the time I come back, James and I will have launched our new website, and you’ll then get the link.

And there is a very unflattering but hilarious photograph of us on the homepage. So you want the link.

So you’re getting the light version for the next couple days. And then, I shall be back in full force to rampage about shoes and complain about my mother. I know, what will you do without me? I have faith you shall survive.

And, oh! Silly story.

I got to mean James’ grandparents this past weekend, and his grandfather has a reputation for holding his grandchildren to Very High Standards. I imagined that this was like the “Nobody will ever be good enough for Mallory’s Father’s Daughters” speech my mother slurrily gave James when she was sloshing around my couch Christmas night. I assumed I’d have to be very impressive, or the wry and razor-tongued Grandpa would make me reconsider all my worth as a human being.

I expected a hulking 6’4, 200lbs man with the presence of a lion and the booming voice of… I don’t know… God.

We walked in and his grandmother greeted us and then in shuffled his little grandfather, maybe 5’4 and svelte, glasses and cardigan and all. I almost chortled out loud with relief. He was not a lion. He was not a towering hulk of a man who would yell at me and tell me that my shoes were all wrong. He was sweet-faced and softspoken and wittily clever when he spoke.

But that wasn’t the funny part. The funny part was the drive to dinner. Sure, we went to Church. And sure, I had to answer questions about my future. And sure, I was still nervous. But all the tension broke when we were making our way to the restaurant for Grandpa’s birthday dinner.

Jen was driving, and she was in the middle of Grandpa and her mother, holding the chain of drivers together. Jen likes to go fast. Grandpa likes to go slow. Very slow. And the problem with being in the middle is that in order to stay there, you have to go slower than Grandpa.

Jen, needless to say, handled the situation with perfect grace and minimal arm-flailing. We stayed in the right hand lane the entire 20 minute drive, James and I laughing (perhaps slightly cruelly) at Jen’s growing frustration with the speed limit and her grandfather’s strict adherence to it.

That’s when the Hyundai comes in. It was white. It was sassy. It came from the left and cut in between Jen and Grandpa. And let me tell you, Grandpa was having none of it. “You’re not going to like it!” we tried to warn the rogue car. “You’re going to get frustrated,” we cautioned. “You should probably just scoot back over to left lane and leave well enough alone,” we suggested.

Nothing doing. The white Hyundai was here to stay. Then came the exit ramp.

The speed limit dropped to 30mph and Grandpa slowed to 25mph. And Grandpa maintained 25mph every single foot of that very, very long exit ramp. And I could almost hear his chuckling voice from two cars up airing joy and satisfaction at assuring everyone… everyone was obeying the traffic laws.

As soon as we realized from two cars back, there was no containing the laughter. He was just far enough ahead of our car that we could see his entire vehicle and let me tell you, I’ve never seen a more intentional, more precise execution of passive aggressive driving in my life. (And James and I drove through Connecticut to get to Vermont, so what does that tell you?)

Finally the exit ramp ended and the little Hyundai freed itself as soon as it could from Grandpa’s 25mph grasp. But that will forever be how I remember the first time I met James’ infamous grandfather.

He’s the man who lays down the law, one speed zone at a time.

James is sitting across the room cramming as much of both hands into both eyes as he can fit. Apparently, Dream Host is down and so, the websites we were planning to launch this evening are going to be delayed. This is fine. Fine in the non-critical sense, not Fine in the, I’m saying that I’m FINE because you’ve messed up and you’re too stupid to see how yet, sort of way. He has not messed up. He is perfect. Everything is fine.

We’re just exhausted, you see, because we spent the day being Very Productive People and then we got All Dressed Up because it’s his grandfather’s birthday today and we had to look like Real Human Adults for dinner. Everything gets capital letters so you understand how important it was that my skirt did not ride up and he kept his tie from slipping into his coffee. Or pasta. (We were both equally successful, we are now both equally tired.)

We woke up this morning and my legs weren’t shaved and he needed a haircut and now we’re sitting here in our pajamas and can I just say, when he’s all groomed and polished and gelled and shaved… My boyfriend? Is totally hot. Even in a Spiderman hoodie.

The night itself is one blur of laughter and conversation and delicious, amazing authentic southern Italian food. James had the stuffed veal, I had the stuffed fish, and we’re now waddling around the room trying to get code to unkink itself and to coax functionality out of FTP servers and recall passwords long forgotten, and we’re still stuffed ourselves. Stuffed Real Human Adults.

And I’m stealing a moment before the night gets too fuzzy to capture the warmth of the night– his family… Wow. All I can say is Wow. So loving. Open arms. Delightful conversationalists. Hard working. Dilligent. Earnest. The kind of people you don’t meet anymore, the kind of people I’m nervous to seek in my group of peers because I wonder sometimes if James and I are the only two left who don’t shy from a hard day of work. Who take pride in our busy lives, our busy schedules, who find joy in the jobs well done and the growth, the learning and the constant movement forward.

I saw in James’ family tonight what I invariably boast from my own clan, however far away from me they may be. They work hard. They love deeply. They’re honest, with one another and with themselves. They’re there for one another, and they want nothing but the best for each other. And all together they provide the kind of foundation for all the individuals that support the great lives they lead. And James’ family lead great lives– amazing lives full of colorful stories and multidimensional characters almost too animated to believe.

They reminded me why we do it– why kids my age start pairing off, settling down, repeating the cycle. They reminded me what it was to feel Family.

And after the taste I got tonight, I’ll just say it… I can’t wait to go home next weekend.

Appetizer was delicious. But now I need my main course. And James is tagging along…

We’ll call that dessert.

He did. I was laying in bed last night, having made it home after getting distracted on the phone with my mother between the C Train Chambers’ street stop and the PATH train and wandered into Whole Foods only to acquire 4 yellow onions and 3 carrots and a bag of potatoes and a new jar of cinnamon and March’s issue of Gourmet, and I was barely fending off sleep. Ok, so I was reading cookbooks (because I now had 4 onions, 3 carrots, potatoes and March’s issue of Gourmet in my kitchen that all needed to be put to good, innovative use). Same thing.

I had closed the books, though, and shoved them over to James’ pillow, because that’s what sleeps there in his over-night absence: cook books, my other true love. (This is only because having shoes on the pillow would result in me awaking from my beauty sleep with heel-face, I’m sure.)

We were texting goodnight, and out of nowhere my Blackberry screen lit up with: “Oh so I was thinking, we should write a blog together. About two young people graduating college and starting professional lives.”

Cue brain-reactivity. Co-blog? About being a couple? A post-collegiate couple? A post-collegiate couple about to move in with one another? A post-collegiate couple about to move in with one another after a month of long-distance work-stuff while juggling job offers and graduate school?

… Yeah. Could be interesting. Especially since we’re just your normal, everyday zombie-lovin’, coffee-chuggin’, bagel-makin’ couple next door.

I thought about it for a minute longer and then a colorful zombie-themed masthead mockup pushed itself to the front of my mind. I was all-in, of course, and he must have known that before even pitching me the idea. We do everything else together, why not blog?

And it had been such a long and tiring day that I had almost momentarily overlooked what he means to me. He is, in every sense, my person: the body into which I lean to regain balance, the arms I slide into when the world is cold and I want protection, the reflection of my smile and laughter when things are bright. I am very much not a girl who let’s her guard down, relinquishes her state of being into someone else’s care. And still here I find myself, at the end of a long day simply wishing it were his head on the pillow next to mine instead of my prized cookbooks.

It’s hard to say when, exactly, but this boy has dug very deeply into the very epicenter of my heart. And now he wants to blog together?

Between you, me and the wall… I hope that’s his way of staking his claim, setting up shop and laying down roots. I hope that’s his way of choosing to stay.