Breaking up is hard to do.

So yeah. I know I've been absent from this blog lately. I've just been so busy with all things work related that I haven't had time to come to the internets for fun. I hate to be one of those people who uses work as an excuse, but fun and the Internet are a foreign concept when you work for a Web site. In fact, it's an unusually slow day at work that led me here. And in the end, it's all about the journey.

When I realized that I had time to use the Internet to kill time again, I felt overwhelmed. First, I wanted to take to Twitter, which has surely suffered for my long absence. But there were so many pithy sayings to catch up on! Then I took to a few of my fave Web sites and got really bored once I realized I would never actually be able to read all I missed out on over the last few months. (LOLcats excluded. I could kill an entire lifetime on that site.)

So next it was on to my friends' blogs, all of whom are much more dedicated to their blogging craft than I am. I got to catch up on the teething issues of the adorable Anna Jae and check out Ysolt's pictures from her trip to Mexico. Then I remembered that I too, had a blog, likely with no readers at this point, and I got to thinking of whether or not I should update it, or just end it.

This blog started as a way for me to share my travels with you, back when I was working at the job of which I no longer speak, and then as a way for friends and family to know what was going on in my day-to-day when I was 6,000 miles away in Spain. I definitely took pleasure in it, and wrote with the really, really, really faint hope that this blog would land me a book deal, a sentiment I always felt guilty about because starting a blog to get a book deal is a really gimmicky thing to do, and my gimmick (is it even a gimmick? Seems more like ramblings) was just one among millions. Plus, my gimmick was not nearly as well thought out as Julie Powell's.

So lets not pretend here, people. Sure, I'm blogging today, but I don't know what will happen tomorrow or next week (except that I do know that I will be on vacation next week, where the last thing I will be worried about is blogging--not a good sign). Plus, I have to admit that there is a part of me who thinks this blog should end as is, with a beginning that chronicled what led to Spain; then Spain; and where Spain led Jay and I to (engaged, duh). That way it's like "our story" all tied up with bow, complete with an arc and happy ending. A journey, if you will.

So I've made the decision to give up the blog for now. (It will still be here, should there be a particular post you want to revisit for goodness knows what reason; I just won't be updating it.) The truth is, I'm just no longer that angsty girl who wants to flit off to Europe for an undisclosed amount of time with her boyfriend. And I cannot (Can. Not.) become someone who blogs about wedding planning. Something about it just makes my stomach turn.

But they say a picture is worth a thousand words, right? Which is why I encourage you to check out my Flickr, which I will be updating every time I--er, take some photos.

So, I guess this is ta-ta for now.

What Is This 'New York' You Speak Of?

Lately, all I keep hearing about is how present-day New York is on the verge of becoming the New York of the 1970s--a time when the city was addled by high crime rates, near bankruptcy, and a malfunctioning subway system--but at least things were interesting. So I have to wonder if a return to 1970s-era New York is such a bad thing.

Aging celebrities always talk about how much "edgier" New York was back then, spawning the likes of Studio 54, the Ramones, CBGBs, et al. New York in the '70s is the New York my mom currently fears when I call her on my way home from work: "But it's dark! What are you doing out?!" which is when I look at all the suits with their lattes and the hipsters with their Macs in the Starbucks that are on adjacent corners and sigh.

Of course, I don't want to have to worry about getting mugged on the subway at two in the afternoon, but it would be nice if the New York I lived in is remembered for something other than excess and Sex and the City. There's so much more to New York than that, and I know it, but sometimes all the high gloss makes it hard to find.

The Pledge

So it's been almost one full month since Jay and I got engaged. And what have I accomplished since then?

Nothing!

This is an incredibly overwhelming process that I'm not sure I'm prepared for, and I almost feel like apologizing for not having an answer at the ready for all of the well-meaning questions I'm peppered with: Have you set a date yet? No. Where will it be? Somewhere in New York, I guess? Who's in your bridal party? I have no idea yet. Chicken or fish? Um, both?

Then there are the "Oh! You should do this!" people. Luckily, I'm very good at smiling and nodding.

Here is what I do know: We will not get married in a church. Neither of us are particularly religious, nor do we like to be the center of attention, so an hour-long ceremony with all eyes on us might induce some panic on both of our parts.

I also can promise you that this blog will not turn into a platform for me to rant and rave about all things bridal. Throughout this entire process, I'm striving not to be at all like the women who post on The Knot's New York-centric Web site. Scaaary.

Mostly, I kind of want the wedding to be like the recent birthday party of Libby, Jay's now 4-year-old niece: wine, cupcakes and a karaoke machine that everyone knows how to share.

Pictures of the inspirational event here.

Big news.

In high school I took a drama class where I had to memorize the most measly part of Sartre's "No Exit." (A play where the underlying argument is "Hell is other people.") I wasn't prepared, and this became abundantly clear to my drama teacher when I had to run off stage to grab my copy of the script in order to finish the scene. And so ended my career as an actress. 

I never felt comfortable on stage; in fact, I don't particularly enjoy being the center of attention. So when I walked into our apartment last Friday--after deciding to get my nails painted blue and being slightly miffed at Jay for wanting to continue napping instead of just meeting me at the neighborhood restaurant we had agreed on for dinner--and found all these candles and rose petals strewn about, I felt as if I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be--as if I had accidentally walked on stage in the middle of a play. 

But there he was, on bended knee, asking me to marry him. I don't think I actually said yes; I shouted, "Of course!" 

Then came an onslaught of "oh my goodnesses," a Pollyanna phrase I evidently have a fondness for in moments of genuine surprise, as well as all the joy of realizing that the person you've been wanting to spend the rest of your life with really truly madly deeply wants to spend the rest of their life with you, too. And then the rest of the night--nay, weekend--more or less revolved around me. And I loved every minute of it. 

After the proposal, a car picked us up to take us to Lupa, the site of our first date close to three years ago now. (I was too amped up to eat, but knew I should if the celebratory champagne was going to keep flowing.) His parents surprised us by magically picking up the tab from Indiana, and then we walked up to Washington Square Park, a place he and I used to go to "hide out" from co-workers who didn't yet know that we were dating. From there we hopped in a cab to get to the Waldorf=Astoria (get it?), where we were placed in suite 21R (our apartment number is 1R; though Jay had no hand in this), which provided the most amazing view of the Chrysler Building to complement some chocolate-covered strawberries and my favorite bottle of $10 cava on ice. (My true tastes always shine through.)

Each event was a bigger surprise than the last, and the entire time I could not stop thinking how lucky I am to have someone so incredibly thoughtful in my life. I have always felt this way throughout our relationship, but that night it was amplified by the amazing lengths Jay went to make sure the night was filled with reminders of significant moments in our relationship. 

There was a time when I greatly identified with Sartre's idea that "Hell is other people." (See: Dater's Dish, The and, if I were to let you, numerous angst-ridden teenage and early adult journal entries.) But for the last three years, and especially this past weekend, I've known better than that. 

Clearly, Sartre was never lucky enough to date Jay Boehmer. 

So finally, after settling into pizza and watching the very bad Zack & Miri Make a Porno on Saturday, I thought the surprises were over. Little did I know Jay had planned a party on Sunday with all of my family and friends in attendance. Thinking I was simply spending an afternoon casually celebrating with some friends, I instead walked into shouts of "Surprise!" Again, I hid, and again I had that same feeling of "Oh my goodness he did it again." He's lucky I have a strong heart. 

And, oh yeah--the ring! In continuance with the entire proposal, it's perfect and is everything I hoped for: a sapphire surrounded by a circle of diamonds, with a set of circularly shaped diamonds on either side. I never thought I'd be one to be enamored by sparkly things, but I continually find myself staring at it. It already feels like an integral part of me; when it's not on, I definitely feel it. 

Oh, and? A skeptical person might be inclined to think otherwise, but I swear to goodness I had no idea what was happening when I choose my manicure color earlier in the evening. 

Some pictures here. 

Everything happens for a reason.

That is such a cliche, but I totally believe it.

Back when I was weighing two job offers--one full-time with benefits, but in New Jersey; the other a long-term freelance contract in New York--I opted for the gig with health insurance and a 401(k), even though I was more excited by the New York gig. How bo-ring of me, right?

Now it seems that, for once, my practicality has paid off, as the New Jersey gig has since moved back to New York and the Web site of the freelance gig just shuttered.

But I guess hindsight is always 20/20, huh? (Hey, they're cliches for a reason.)

Things I learned this weekend.

This Saturday, Sarah and I went to the American Museum of Natural History, a place I hadn't been to since the first grade. As we walked around, all I could think about was the wherewithal it must have taken my teacher, Miss Devine, to herd 20 or so 7-year-olds onto a bus headed for New York City, chauffeur them around a massive, four-floor museum and not lose a single one. The panic just the thought of it induced in me solidified the fact that I made the right decision in abandoning a career as a kindergarten teacher. 

The trip was educational, reminding me of those first-rate, first-grade nuggets of knowledge that your 8-year-old cousin spews out, causing you to think, "Wow, you're really smart," forgetting that there was a time when you used to be that kind of smart, too. Take, for example: 

• The scientifically accepted name of Brontosaurus is Apatosaurus, after the scientific community realized that the fossils of Brontosaurus were the same as the previously discovered species of Apatosaurus. 

• Butterflies have a life span of just 10 months. 

• A recipe for a kick-ass vegan Caesar salad dressing does exist, which I'm adding it to the list of Things I Learned This Weekend because I did, in fact, learn it this weekend, and I'm sure there's some smug vegan first-grader somewhere that is aware of this bit of information.

A few photos here. 

Face Off

Emily Gould (whom I don't personally know) is one of those people whose talent I'm jealous of in the most absolutely depressing of ways. This post is a great example of how and why she has this effect on me. She's worth reading if you're ever feeling introspective, but can't quite put into words why you're feeling introspective.

I point out that post because I can relate to it in a very superficial way. While I certainly do not think of myself as one of those people who radiate "look at me waves," as she says, I do, on a once-to-twice-per-day basis, get stared at. I'm convinced this is because I am the generic person: people always think I am someone else they know. Or Anne Hathaway circa The Princess Diaries. (Anne, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.)

"Tiffany?" A man came up and asked me on an airplane once. "Are you Bob Garrett's daughter?" a woman once asked me while in line for coffee. "I know you!" said a drunk boy at a pizza place. No; no you don't, I replied. "No, really, I know you! I'm not trying to hit on you," he angrily shot back. "I know," I said, "but trust me, you don't know me." (My cyber presence isn't even immune to this phenomenon.)

And this staring problem is only compounded in New York, where you come into contact with thousands of people on a daily basis, a few of whom search my face with a look that reads, "Where do I know that girl from?" (I did that to Luke Wilson once, who sheepishly smiled and waved at me. I ignored him, which only made my faux pas all the more groan-worthy once I realized who he was.)

The reason I know these people don't know me is because I never forget a face--to an embarrassing extent. I can't tell you how many people I've been introduced to, only to run into them later where they say, "I'm sorry... What's your name again?" All this does is remind me of how unmemorable I personally am, unless I'm getting mistaken for someone else.

So, yeah, anonymity--there's no such thing.

Happy to the New Year

So Jay and I decided that we're going to Puerto Rico (or some other similarly warmly climed place that is not Mexico) for New Year's in 2010--who's with us?! 

That's not to imply that this past New Year's wasn't fun; it certainly was, and I kicked it off by breaking my no-dairy resolution almost immediately by surprisingly enjoying an incredibly burnt piece of pizza. (Thanks Casey! [That is not a facetious thank you; I know how impossible it is to get pizza in Cincinnati at 2 a.m. This is why I will never leave New York.])

It was good to get to the 'Nati, especially since it had been over a year since my last visit. We're looking forward to Ben and Brooke's visit at the end of the month, though if the way Ben planted one on Jay at midnight on New Year's is any indication of the sort of craziness this visit will bring, then I may just have to buy an actual lock for our bedroom door. 

Oh, and yes: There is photographic evidence* of that kiss, I just wasn't allowed to post it. 

*New year, new photo-sharing service. I was having problems with Snapfish no matter which browser I used (I think it may be an anti-Mac thing), so welcome to my Flickr, mostly because you can view photos without having to register and it's just one photo stream. And! You can comment. Just be nice.