OT: My Parents

My parents, albeit not perfect, taught me many things.

My dad owned (and owns) his own business. He left the house at 6:00am and was home by 4:00pm. My mom stayed at home, raised us, and left cute notes in our lunchboxes. We had dinner on the table by 5:30pm every night. I used to think this was normal.

We were told that dinner was family time. We were taught to clean our plates and not leave until excused. There was absolutely no simultaneous television watching. Actually, I never even had a tv in my room until I went away to college. Tv was “the downfall of society”.

I couldn’t ride my bike across the main street in town until I was almost in high school. I never had a curfew, mostly because I don’t think my parents thought I had enough of a social life to merit one. Until sophomore year of high school – I came home at 2:00am in a friend’s Porsche. Insert 10:00pm curfew here.

I was not allowed to watch Rated-R movies until I was actually 17, which explains why I can’t make it through a horror flick to this day. And I was definitely not allowed to go over a boy’s house unsupervised.

I was taught to respect my elders, not backtalk (minus those few year in middle school and college – sorry mom), and put other people before myself. I was taught never to judge – you never know what someone’s situation is or what they are going through. And never, ever, ever talk about money. I learned quickly that, many times, people with the flashiest lifestyles have the smallest bank accounts.

Most importantly, I was taught that I could do anything.

It wasn’t until recent years that I discovered not all parents provided the same encouragement. Things that fell out of friends’ parents mouths, “you won’t like that, don’t try it” or “that’s not for you” or “you could never do that”, have never crossed my parents lips. It left me dumbfounded, hearing parents say these things to their children. Why would they do that? Why would they limit their kid’s desire to reach for the stars?

As a kid, I mixed the paint colors. My sister and I played outside all day long and we got dirty. We trudged our little row boat through the creek mud behind my parents’ house which, I can tell you, smells awful. I even cut my bangs off once, in third grade (that picture is priceless). I told my parents I wanted to be a doctor, so they sent me to NYU. Then, mid breakdown, I told them that there’s no way in hell I wanted to be a doctor, so they encouraged me to find a career that was more suitable. I told them I wanted to move out, so they bought me a couch. I told them I wanted to get a job in public accounting, so I got one (thanks, in part, to my father). I told them I wanted to buy a house, so they helped. And for my next endeavor, I tell them I want to buy a BMW and, my dad says, surprisingly, that I deserve it.

That, my friends, is the beauty of encouragement. Never once did my parents tell me I was not capable of achieving my goals, nor did they try to sway me. Of course, they interjected opinions and advice when necessary, but they never imposed those opinions on me – just offered them up as food for thought.

Today, I have my first-ever prospective client meeting. Chances are it will result in nothing more than a (non-billable) business relationship, but it is so awesome that it is happening. I don’t think it would be if my parents had raised me any different, so thanks, guys, for raising me to not suck.

“Nothing is impossible. The word itself says ‘I’m Possible!’” – Audrey Hepburn.

OT: Busy Season is Dead and Bad Tan Lines in Florida

There is so much that has happened over the past two months, none of which I can tell you. I know that must be infuriating.

 

Actually, most of which I can't tell you.

 

I'm writing this as I'm siting on the deck of my grandmother's ocean-side cottage on the west coast of Florida. Post-busy season treat to myself, you see. I am, in so many ways, an extroverted person. This is all a bad cover-up, though. Really, I could sit on this deck by myself forever and write and listen to Bon Iver and the ocean. I belong here, by the ocean. As much as I try to stuff it down and cover it with business woman, once-upon-a-time Manhattanite, and self-proclaimed fancy-pants, I can't hide it. Not when you really get a good look at me.

 

I'm not sure whether I'm looking forward to going back to New Jersey or not. I am, because I miss my people and my dog, my house and my bed; I'm not because it's extremely nice to only have to think of yourself for once. It's so much simpler. And, to top it off, I actually managed to read a non-accounting related book cover to cover. The later is nice, but I wouldn't trade it for the former. Selfishness is only good in small quantities, I figure.

 

Things I can tell you? I can tell you that busy season's over, thank god, and that I have resumed my previous position as home-owner and do-it-yourself'er. Everyone has to have a vice, right? Mine is Pinterest. Whether this is out of actual interest or necessity, I'm not sure. When you are nearly 25 (yikes) and have a dog and a house to care for all by yourself, you tend to be....how to put this....poor crafty. Two super-awesome benches made out of cinder blocks and 2x2's? I'll take it!! That will be $50 well spent, in my opinion. Throw in a fire pit and I may never leave my backyard.

 

That is my goal for this summer, by the way. To make my backyard magical. Screw the front yard. Who hangs out in the front yard? I will save that for next year and for when I am an official grown-up and on the down slope to 30. But the backyard? Or, rather, the tiny minuscule plot of grass that I call the backyard? It will be gloriously awesome.

 

So far my accomplishments towards this goal include (1) visiting the Lowe's and demonstrating that I know absolutely jack about grass...or planting grass...or grass seed; (2) raking the icky mossiness that is covering the backyard, or part of it; (3) putting down lime, grass seed, and fertilizer with a spreader...which took me 20 minutes to figure out how to use; and (4) watering the stuff (and praying for rain) in hopes of it actually growing.

 

I fly home from Florida Tuesday morning. Hopefully, the stars will align and I will see tiny, stubby, grass-looking things sprouting from the ground upon arrival. Cross your fingers for me.

 

Side note: I have a black thumb.

 

Lauryn

OT: A-Game

First dates are like interviews. You need to look presentable, be on time, and your breath should not be remotely funky. You also should not make any odd requests (i.e ask for a bagel - true story) and you should certainly be self-sufficient enough to find the place and come prepared.

 

This leads into a huge pet peeve of mine.

 

In my last relationship, I wore the pants. I was the initiator, the decision maker, the responsible party. I was the offeror of ideas, the conversation starter, and the person who made sure all of the bills got paid on time. I was the one who had it all together.

 

I am sick of being that person.

 

I will always be "Type A" and, yes, I like to be organized. But I also like to be fun and spontaneous. Problem is, I will sacrifice the latter for the former, which is why I need someone who is willing to bear their share of the weight and be independent enough to take it in strides. This way, I can be organized and fun at the same time.

 

On a first date, you need to bring your A-game. This date is the prerequisite of all to come and behavior on said date will only be magnified on future outings. I am a little old fashioned in the sense that I believe the man should handle the first date. The less fair of the sexes should pick the place and time. They should be able to choose a decent wine without it seeming like a foreign language, should not make any odd requests or broach any touchy subjects, and definitely should not reveal anything of themselves that is less than their best. Honestly, the only things they should be asking the girl for are her number, a second date, and maybe a kiss. And on number three there, I don't even believe in asking for that, either (don't be a pussy, just do it).

 

I cannot believe I just said the "p" word.

 

And, yes, they should pay. Sorry, guys.

 

Someone I know recently said that they would be scared to date me because of how I feel about dating and men...my requirements, so to speak. To that I replied that I only hold others to the same standard I hold myself. Why would dating my potential future husband lie outside of those standards? If anything, it is maybe more important than everything that it fits within these standards.

 

I am not looking for a perfect person or someone who checks ten out of ten boxes. I am just looking for someone who doesn't lean on me like a crutch and has their shit together. I am looking for someone who is confident and can handle themselves without me having to hold their hand. I am basically looking for myself in male form. Is that conceited?

 

If it is, I don't really care.

 

OT: Next.

I really should be working right now. But it's late and I'm tired and I'm probably going to hit the 65-70 hour mark this week anyway so screw that.

I am going to write.

The past two weeks have been crazy as busy season, for me, starts off not at a walk but at a sprint. No time to ease my way into the icy waters of disgusting amounts of billable hours, living in hotel rooms, and eating 3 meals a day in some place that is not your kitchen. The only option is to jump in head first.

So that explains my delinquency.

To pick up where I left off, I had gone out for drinks with a guy who I knew through a mutual friend. Talking to someone new in a bar was difficult, as I knew it would be. Every other word was, "huh?" or "what did you say?" However, my date(-ish?) was cute and made an effort to start a conversation with me. He had a "grown up" job and didn't live with his parents. He bought my wine. He stayed for 2 hours and then left a little after midnight. Basically he checked a lot of my boxes, although not the height one. That one is still evading me, sneaky little bastard. Basically, I thought it went well.

Until he didn't text me back. Or call. Or say it was nice to meet you but I'm not interested. Or anything.

I needed closure. I am a creature of closure. I hate not getting this. I decided to conjure up my own closure: he didn't text me back. This means one of two things: he is either rude or a bad communicator. Both of which I need to avoid. Closure = complete.

On to the next.

Last Friday, I awoke in my hotel room and checked my social media, like I do every morning, to find that I had a Facebook notification. I had posted a lot of pictures over the weekend, so I assumed it was related to them.

It was not.

It was someone I knew from high school. Asking me out to dinner. This is not the kind of thing I am prepared for at 6am.

Needless to say, I did not respond until after lunch. I needed to poll my friends, my sister, my Oma, etc. Basically my most trusted advisers. I got mixed reviews, which was not helpful. I had to take into consideration that I would be breaking the "no dating people from Point Peasant" rule. Also worthy of note was that our moms know each other and I'm pretty sure we witnessed each other go through puberty. Did I really want to go out on a date with someone who had that much dirt on me?

I concluded that I should probably go. It's part of the "have an open mind" thing that I'm trying. Also, it takes a lot of balls to ask a girl out. I thought he at least deserved a date for that.

Score so far: Lauryn - 0, Cupid/God/Master of the Universe - 2

OT: Dating Lessons

Things I am learning: It is much easier to tell someone that you are not in to them than for you to be told the same.

I'm getting a tad ahead of myself.

I haven't exactly been told that last Friday's date isn't open to asking me out to a place where we can actually hear each other, but I haven't heard anything on the contrary, either. This, honestly, drives me nuts. I am a creature of communication. If you like me, I want to know about it. If you don't like me, well, I want to know about that, too, so I can cross you off my list and move on (even though, in this case, that would really suck).

In my experience, boys are simple. They don't play games or strategize their next move or premeditate...anything. If they want to get to know you better, they will. If they don't....they will pay their attention elsewhere and you will know it. You can take them at face value.

This theory, of course, could be a total load of BS as I am not a boy and really have no idea what I'm talking about. But, I think it's pretty accurate, nonetheless. If a guy likes you, he's going to make the effort.

It seems my first dating lesson was how to tell your date that you are not interested in seeing him again. This was tough. I don't enjoy hurting people's feelings, but I was advised that it is better to be honest than to lead a guy on because you are afraid of being "mean". So I was. Honest.

My second lesson (possibly) is how to accept that you may have an interest in your date while they do not echo those feelings. Sometimes, it's hard to take your own advice (see: previous post about being awesome and not worrying about if you're pretty/skinny/funny enough). It really never crossed my mind, up until this point, that I could be interested in someone and they wouldn't be interested back. I realize that this sounds completely conceded, but I don't mean it that way. It just really never registered that this dating dance we do is two, not one, sided.

It's registered now.

The part that blows is your mutual friend telling you "you are his type". That how can he not be attracted to you. And you're thinking, ok, we did a pretty good job of talking to one another and we had x, y, and z in common. And you think it went well.

But that's just it -- you think it went well and you're only one side of the equation. You only get half the votes.

Just a tidbit of advice to the men out there -- we are the same as you. If you're dating a woman and she's not your type or you don't see it going anywhere -- let her know! Nothing sucks more than waiting around and dwelling or, worse, being led on.

Again, I may be jumping ahead of myself. Maybe so, but maybe not. We will see.

OT: Matchmaker, Matchmaker

There’s a new game we play in my office.

It’s called, “Let’s Set Lauryn Up.”

Over the past six months of single-dom, I’ve had a few offers from friends and co-workers (and those that blur the lines) to arrange a date with their “so-and-so”. These offers, although rejected at the time, are now coming to fruition as I find that I’m ready to “put myself out there”, so to speak.

With one blind date under my belt, I was feeling pretty confident. It went well. I didn’t make a total ass of myself nor did I trip in my high heels. Moreover, I think I may have even managed to eat sushi without looking like a chipmunk which, as any sushi eater knows, is a testament to my decision to order the small tuna roll rather than the tuna amazing roll or valentine roll that I really wanted ability. You don’t want to be that girl. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. No one wants to look like an overfed rodent on their first date.

But I digress.

As I was saying, I was feeling pretty confident until one of my co-workers offered to set me up on another date. Actually, at that point I was still feeling confident. My debonair attitude evaporated as soon as the plans were cemented and I was invited to a group outing. I would be meeting my potential at a bar in Seaside, NJ.

In my opinion, there are a few cracks in this plan:

(1)  I am from Point Pleasant, NJ (a.k.a the Jersey Shore). I try my hardest not to frequent Seaside. Especially since the tv show has come out. I am not a guidette. I do not fist pump. And I can’t even remember the last shot I took (excluding Fireball because, let’s face it, that stuff is delicious and barely even qualifies). I try not to stereotype, and it’s not really fair of me because I live a mere 20 minutes up Route 35, but honestly it’s just too ingrained and I can’t help it. 24 years of my parents telling me that Seaside is dirty and corrupt and that old needles wash up on the beach there can’t be easily erased.

(2)  This is a group outing. Not super fond of group outing blind date-ish things, or whatever this is or may turn out to be. I’m more of a fan of the one-on-one dinner. Not coffee (that’s for your girlfriends). Not lunch (see previous comment). Dinner. A nice meal and a nice glass of wine and two people talking. I think it is easier to cut to the chase this way. We have things in common or we don’t. I’m attracted to you or I’m not. He’s a complete idiot or he isn’t. One dinner can tell you a lot. One post-9:30pm evening in a bar? We’ll see.

(3)  I only know one other person attending this outing: the friend that set me up. I’m not a huge fan of going out with one person and only knowing them while they know multiple people. It’s not that I can’t talk to other people or make friends because oh can I talk. It’s just that I hate being the person that someone is responsible for. That sounds ridiculous, writing it out. One would think, “I am responsible for myself!” But you know what I mean. Basically, I don’t want to be a clinger. I will try my hardest to prevent this.

(4)  We’re meeting at a bar. In my experience, conversing is discouraged in most bars due to loud music and copious intakes of alcohol. Maybe not so much the latter...that probably loosens the lines of communication. Unless it’s one of those adorable pub-y like places (my favorite!) or some type of lounge (no.) it will probably be a little difficult to talk.

So now I’ve been a complete downer and outlined everything that could possible make my date unsuccessful. 35-year old me says this is completely realistic (didn’t you know, I am really 35 years old on the inside). 24-year old me says I should stop talking and just enjoy my night out with friends. Age doesn’t always equate to wisdom, you know.

Thus, I will follow my younger self’s advice. I will pick out a cute outfit (which I will still send to my best friend for approval), I will do my hair, and I will meet a guy at a bar at 9:30pm.

That’s way past my bedtime.

OT: The High Heel Test

Back in high school (or even college, for that matter), going on a date was a big deal. Like, a really big deal. Firstly, one must endure a multitude of confusing, code-like text messages to even obtain said date. Or worse, a pseudo-friend-like relationship that takes half of freshman year to even turn into anything that would result in a date. And then, once you succeed in planning the date, you must get your nails done, various body parts waxed (if you're into that), and buy a new outfit which you end up spending WAY too much money on (hello, credit card debt). More than half the time, the date turns into nothing more than a free meal and two hours of awkward conversation. Other scenarios include on-and-off-again dating, the occasional one night stand, long term relationships (if you are lucky) and maybe even marriage (so I've heard!) -- but these are much less likely.

Flash forward to adult daing. Once you've been in at least one semi-decent relationship, you tend to realize your self worth. You stop thinking that you're not attractive/skinny/funny enough and start realizing that you are, in fact, pretty awesome and anyone who disagrees can go scratch (you never liked them anyway). This results in much less fanfare. You're mother/sister/brother/co-worker/friend/etc says they want to hook you up with so-and-so and so you do a little Facebook stalking and willingly consent to let them set you up. This time around, you still buy a new outfit (which you send to your bestie for approval), but you skip the other nonsense. Heck, you may not even shave your legs groom certain areas to prevent....bad decisions. Grow up you is much more socially responsible.

This leads to my current state of events: my first, post long-term relationship date and why I am a terrible person.

I like to employ a little something called the "high heel test". I am 5' 6" (and 1/2"!!). I wear high heels (almost every day, actually -- thank you accounting career). This makes me between 5' 9" and 5'11". If a guy is not taller than this, he fails the test (apologies to vertically challenged men everywhere -- I am usually not this much of an asshole). My friends laugh at me for this, but it is an unfortunate requirement. And also why I am a terrible person.

Back to my date. I arrive first, five minutes early (because I have a problem called "I am always early"). I also ask to be seated, guessing at the reservation name (because I have a second problem called "I always drink wine while I wait"). Upon my date's arrival, I stand to greet him...and slightly tower over him. He notices this and fails to conceal it on his face. Lovely. And now I am feeling like a goon. The waiter comes over to take drink orders, and date orders a green tea. And now I am feeling like an achoholic. We peruse through the small talk, mostly with me carrying the conversation and discover (at least I discover) that we have pretty much nothing in common (actually, not sure if he know this or not). He doesn't like reading (how is this possible??). I doubt he watches the news. In conclusion, I could possibly eat him alive.

Lastly, we order dessert. I, having not had dessert in two weeks, devour mine (one does not abandon flourless chocolate cake!). Date claims his dessert is heavy and eats half. And now I am feeling like a fatty.

We leave. I make it across the street without killing myself on the ice.

Conclusion: I'm glad I went out. It's nice not spending the umpteenth night in with your dog, alone, and actually having a nice dinner.  It's also nice to get a little practice.

Notes for next time? Maybe wear the less high high heels :-)