There used to be this guy–well, a man really. Long before the boyfriend! and I ever got back together. And this man and I worked together…I refuse to say where or what show for fear that someone may figure out who he is. He was my superior. And he…was…gorgeous. Think of him in terms of a Greek God type of gorgeous. Chiseled features, great body, dazzling smile, sparkling eyes…even his name was delicious and rolled off the tongue. And me–the 22 year old southern girl who had just moved to the city was smitten by him. I could not sit in the same room during a production meeting without the warmth spreading into my cheeks. I always bumbled around him, I’d trip over my own feet, falling into his rock hard chest…spill my coffee on his latest pair of Seven jeans…and overall just make an utter fool of myself over and over again.

One night at a company party, we were all out drinking. I was wearing one of my prettiest dresses, a yellow chiffon flowing number that hugged me in all the right places. I had only had a couple glasses of wine, but was still feeling a bit toasted. At about midnight, I knew it was time for me to head home and I started making my rounds to say goodbye. When I reached HIM, he pulled me in for a hug and to his friends at the table, said, “I love this girl!” and then looked directly in my eyes and restated the fact: “I love you.” And he said it gently the second time…not sarcastic, or goofy or in a joking manner. Just very matter of fact. Like it was common knowledge that I should know. And then he kissed me lightly on the cheek, his eyes returning back to mine, waiting for a response.

And I knew that THIS was my moment. I could tell him I loved him too…that together we could be so happy and get married and have many beautiful babies. This could be the turning point in our relationship. I opened my mouth to profess my love…and the only thing that came out was: “flegum.”

Flegum?? Yes, that’s right…flegum. A nonsense word. My mind was so flustered, I couldn’t even form an existing word …only incoherent mumblings that made no sense.

His eyebrows narrowed and a smile crept across his face. He pinched my cheek and continued, “Go on home and get out of here…sleep off some of that wine.”

I slinked out of the bar so, so disappointed in myself. Once again, my bumbling grace did NOT get me the guy.

When I lived in Hell’s Kitchen, a friend of mine came to stay with me for a couple weeks while he found an apartment in the city. In so many ways, this friend was a wonderful house guest. He was very clean, walked the dog for me during the day, stocked my pantry, took me out to dinner…and only smoked pot outside on my fire escape (awww, so nice of him, right?). But at the beginning of the third week, when I knew there was only another couple of days before he moved into his own Brooklyn apartment, he spilled half a jar of spaghetti sauce in my kitchen. I heard the crash from my bedroom and shrugged it off. I spill shit all the time. I grabbed the paper towels which were in my room since I had been cleaning and headed toward the kitchen. When I reached the doorway, I saw him bent over the mess using my beautiful William Sonoma towels and a hand embroidered towel a friend had gotten me from Italy to clean up the marinara sauce.

It took all of my strength not to make him sleep in the street those last couple of days.

Pictured above are my new towels. The bird towel I found in a tiny boutique in Long Island. Within a day, I caught Sean using it to dry the dishes. Is this a man thing? It must be…my only solution was for the first month to have a post-it on the towel that said “Fancy Towels - Do Not Use!  It finally got through to him.