Mum’s the word

It should be a good thing if you’re dating/marrying someone who you tell everyone to.

I mean, relationships are built on trust and honesty and all that jazz, right? So if you’re with someone who you actually want to share every detail of your life with, where’s the bad?

I’ll tell you where. Surprising each other becomes durrrn near impossible.

I’m one of those people who actually loves surprises. The anticipation nearly kills me (I’m a bit curious by nature), but really, that’s part of the fun. I like surprising and being surprised.

Case in point, this weekend my future in-laws and bridal party surprised me with a bridal shower. Even better, they surprised me by getting my mom out here for it. As soon as it sunk in that we were not, in fact, meeting friends for lunch, but instead that it had all been an elaborate ruse to get me to a yacht club for a party, I had an amazing time. (AND I got the mixer!!!)

But as much as I love being surprised, the real test comesĀ  when I have a surprise for someone else. I want to tell them. So. Bad. And when it’s someone I already tell everything (AKA, the fiance), it’s all I can do not to spill the beans five seconds after saying hello.

The fiance is also usually a bad secret-keeper. I was genuinely amazed he pulled off a surprise proposal because, in general, he has to at least tell me he got me something. And if I even imply I might have gotten him something, he is quite persuasive at getting me to give him clues. (Or the present himself. He convinced me to give him an anniversary present a full month early. Though I was already bursting at the seams to tell him anyway, so it wasn’t that hard to convince me.)

But clearly he has proven his ability to keep mum when he needs to. And I have a few surprises in store for him too (namely, a pretty neat wedding present), so I guess I’m getting better.

So I guess secrets can make friends. Or at least really great parties.

No time like the present

My landlady has started teasing me about the number of packages I get in the mail.

I mean, she’s not wrong. I order almost everything I buy. There are several reasonings behind this decision.

For one, I don’t have a car. Which means I can either lug something home from the city, or I have to find a ride.

For another, getting packages in the mail rules. It’s like getting a present twice; once when you buy it, and again when you receive it. Boom.

Plus, you can almost always find coupon promos online to get you out of shipping costs, so all the naysayers who were going to badger me about those can just calm down.

So am I saying that essentially I order hogs online because I like sending myself presents? Well, I’m not NOT saying that.

How not to rent an apartment on Craigslist

Online rental is a tricky world to navigate. What with rampant Craigslist murderers and scams, it’s important to portray yourself as safe and reliable if you want to successfully rent an apartment.

Here’s how to fail at that:

Step 1: Don’t include a photo.

Step 2: Include a photo, but make sure to take it after you have removed the contents of every drawer and closet and spread the contents on to every available surface. While you’re preparing for a garage sale is also a good time.

Step 3: Include a photo, but make it of the outside of the house, a random nearby landmark (i.e. trees or the ocean) or include an especially attractive photo of your pet.

Step 4: Take all interior photos at night or from weird angles. It will make the room look bigger and definitely not like a dungeon. Trust me.

Step 5: Don’t include a city location. Potential renters will appreciate the air of mystery surrounding your posting.

Step 6: Write in all caps. It makes it easier to read, and who doesn’t love being shouted at?

Step 7: Be extremely difficult in giving out the address of the apartment, requiring no less than the promise of the proposed tenant’s first born before releasing it.

Got all that? Ok, happy selling!

Three things I’m a stickler on

RSVPs
Yeah, okay, this is obviously spawned by recent events. But I’ve always been annoyed by people who won’t just turn the damn thing in. It’s stamped. It has the address on it already. You have to make one decision, seal it, and get it into the postal system. No sympathy for people who are overwhelmed by that.

And if you “refuse to send RSVPs on principle,” well, then I reserve the right to not save you a seat. On principle.

The REAL Rules of Scrabble
Listen, I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: no proper nouns. And no acronyms. And no using cheat sites and apps. This is a gentleman’s game, and I won’t have it sullied by cheaters.

Two-parter Twitter posts
I’m sorry, are you not familiar with the Twitter platform? You get 140 characters. That’s the point. This isn’t a blog (well, this is a blog….) You want a blog? Get one. But stop pretending Twitter is WordPress. I’ve had it up to here with your two-parter posts.

Food snob

The fiance is kind of a food snob. From the moment we met, he has been telling me that New York pizza and bagels are superior to all others.

Now, make no mistake; I am not challenging that statement. Rather, I’m saying that in the time we’ve spent together, I’ve become sort of a snob too.

But only about the exact same foods.

For example, here’s a conversation we had in our favorite deli the other day:

Me: This is my favorite bagel.

Him: Whole wheat?

Me: No, this bagel. From here. This bagel. Every other bagel sucks in comparison. I don’t know why they even try.

Similarly, I never used to have strong feelings about penne a la vodka. But since I’ve started hanging out with someone who, ahem, feels anything but neutral, I am extremely critical of how restaurants prepare this dish.

Is this one of those “married people start to turn into each other” things? Or just a new awareness of foods I took for granted in the past? Maybe I just didn’t know how good they could be.

Either way, I’m pretty sure I’m ruined for life. You know, in terms of sub-par bagels.

A long weekend

So, yet again I didn’t watch a major awards show. And yet again I learned all I really need to know from Twitter the next morning. (Arcade Fire, the Biebs didn’t win, Gaga egg, puppets. Boom.)

This weekend actually felt longer than twelve hours, which I consider a success. There’s really nothing worse than waiting all week for Friday night, only to blink too long and it suddenly be Monday, amiright?

I think the trick is breaking up each day into separate parts, thereby creating several sub-days, if you will. For example, Friday night we met up with friends for dinner and drinks. Saturday, I went to the gym, got a haircut, looked at an apartment, took a significant nap, and went to the fiance’s hockey game. (If you’re keeping track, that’s about six sub-days so far.) Sunday started with a meeting, then pizza with friends, then the mall, then another nap, then we went into the city for a friend’s brother-in-law’s band’s show.

All in all, we’re talking about eleven sub-days. Not bad for a two-day weekend.