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. 

Christmas in August

This is the best news I've heard since I read this a few months ago:

TheWB.com, now in Beta testing, will launch on August 27, offering classic series that aired on the now defunct WB TV network along with new web series ... The online video network will offer classic WB series Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, Veronica Mars, Smallville, Gilmore Girls, Everwood, Roswell, The Wayans Bros., Friends and The O.C. [Ed note: and One Tree Hill!], along with new series from show creators McG and Josh Schwartz.

The timing here could not be more perfect, as on August 25, I leave the confines of my couch--and as such, the ability to work while watching SOAPNet--to head back to a cubicle. And now I can take Peyton and Lucas and Seth and Summer with me.

My only concern is the absence of Dawson's Creek and Felicity. Those two shows made a network plagued by reruns of Murder She Wrote and Starship Enterprise a leader in the coveted 18-34 age bracket. You best not forget where it all started, WB/CW-whatever conglomerate.

This is the last time I answer this question.

Scores of you have asked whether Jay and I are sick of each other yet, given that we've been in one another's company essentially nonstop for the last 60 days. The answer is, saccharinely, no. In fact, just this morning I received the following e-mail, which warmed my heart:

To: Jennifer Merritt
From: Jason Boehmer
Subject: A band from NJ

It's after midnight on Saturday, and you're sleeping in the bedroom. I'm listening to a punk(ish) band from New Jersey on the Internet, and I like it. Thought you might too. j

http://www.myspace.com/titusandronicus

To: Jason Boehmer
From: Jennifer Merritt
Subject: RE: A band from NJ

God, I'm so lame.

Now, it's after 10 a.m. on Sunday morning and you're sleeping in the bedroom. I'm listening to the band and I really like them. We should attempt to check them out once we're back.

xoxo,

j.

See? We're not sick of each other. We've just taken to communicating with each other solely via e-mail. (And, it should be noted, the aforementioned band proclaims to "never sing songs about love, only about hate.")

OMG!

This is the best thing my cable-deprived self has heard in a very, very long time:

"Rich kids are back: CW plots '90210' spinoff"

In other good news:

"Trouble Cooking for Ray Show"

Try as I might, I cannot understand why this woman has the career that she does. I've never met a single person who enjoys her dumbing down of "EVOO" and "yum-o."

Sevilla Later: The Party

What a great time it was. We drank, we ate, we practiced flamenco and no one cried. Which, now that I think about it, kind of pisses me off.

Party pics here.


(Special thanks to Ilyse for creating the hilariously embarrassing invite.)

And now, my photo homage to everyone who could not be there and was very much missed. (Some of these photos are ooooold, which means we need to hangout more. If you don't even have a photo, then we reallly need to hang out more.)

Abby














Forever my art girls: Nicole, Lauren and Kelly













Casey















The CDs, although Corrie gets a pass since she's coming to visit














Dawn and Gina, who I think took this picture, which is why she's not in it












Debbie, who was in Meh-he-co














Erin














Kerry, who would kill me if I put a photo of her on my blog














Lloyd


















Mariel














Megan














Molly














Renee, Danielle, Brendan and Arielle














Ratterman














Sue














Vicki














Ysolt

Thank you

I'm the type of person who looks for signs. Signs that what I'm about to do is the right thing; signs that I did the right thing; signs that I missed an opportunity. Sometimes they appear; more often than not, they don't. But when they do appear, I feel a confidence that no person or words can otherwise give me. Whether these signs come from God, fate, the universe, or are just mere idiotic coincidence, I don't know, but they are nonetheless comforting.

Yesterday, I turned down a promotion and quit my job. Honestly, I had sort of expected to panic the second I left my boss' office, much like I had when I plunked down the hefty deposit for my own apartment in New York. I'd be lying if I said I didn't experience a little anxiety over the move--especially after the guttural "What?!" my usually laid-back father uttered when I told him--but in general, I felt calm. Still, on the subway ride home, I asked for a sign. A sign that I had done the right thing in quitting my job--and not just in quitting my job, but in uprooting everything I know and truly testing the strength of mine and Jay's relationship by moving to Spain.

This morning, in yoga class (of all the places this may be completely apropos or incredibly cheesy), my instructor read the following quote from Anais Nin at the end of a particularly challenging hour and a half:

"It takes courage to push yourself to places you've never been before, to test your limits, to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain inside the bud was more painful then the risk it took to blossom."

I got my answer.

The suite life

Jay said it best upon our arrival at Gleneagles Hotel in Perthshire, Scotland: People don't even honeymoon this good. Below, a video of our suite (forgive our giddiness, we had just arrived) and here, photos.



Now the run down:

Day 1
Despite its royal reputation, Gleneagles is anything but stuffy. (In 2005, the G8 Summit was held there, and in 2014, the hotel will host the Ryders Cup on its famed golf courses.) In fact, the only thing I found stiff about this hotel was my starchy napkin during breakfast. We arrived at Gleneagles just in time for breakfast, a stroke of luck, as we’ve heard wonderful things about its buffet from dear Corrie, who visited earlier this year. It certainly does not disappoint, offering up tailor-made omelets, classic Scottish haggis and an array of delicious pastries, which we had no problem devouring every morning.

After breakfast, we were escorted to Gleneagles’ hunting school, where Ian schools us in the craft of clay pigeon shooting. Given that the only hunting Jay and I have ever taken part in was through Nintendo’s “Duck Hunt,” we need some work. We each hit a few, but I'm told I have a quick trigger finger. Guns are heavy things, so afterwards we head for massages, natch. Every day should be so difficult.

Day 2
The day we venture to Edinburgh happens to be the coldest day of the year so far for Scotland, as my occasionally forced smile in the photos will show you.

Day 3
When I told people I was going to Scotland, those who know I haven’t eaten meat in six years scoffed, “Good luck!” Surely there’s more rabbit, lamb, and haggis on every menu here than I’ve likely seen in my entire life, but that doesn’t mean the country has turned a cold shoulder on its herbivore residents and visitors. In fact, they’ve even managed to come up with a vegetarian version of haggis (a Scottish dish similar to sausage), made of lentils and other beans.

But it's no doubt that Scotland tested my animal-loving limits. First was falconry lessons at Gleneagles Hotel; followed by gun dog training. When William first introduced us to his collection of hawks and eagles, I thought I’d feed the birds some seeds and watch them do some tricks; I had no idea we’d actually take them into the surrounding fields of farmland to hunt rabbits.

On the three-hour trek, our birds of prey, Saunders and Victor, were 50/50, netting two kills out of four attempts. Watching the kills weren't as heart wrenching as I thought they would be—after all, I wasn’t the one killing the rabbit, merely following the bird that did. (Although one rabbit did manage to let out a heartbreaking scream during one kill, which slowed my enthusiasm a little.) William was careful to make sure the animal didn’t suffer; discreetly ensuring the rabbit was dead (i.e. breaking its neck) and not just in shock before he disposed of it. (The deceased are later taken to a nearby rehabilitation center to serve as food for wounded wild animals, so at least it's not all for sport.) In truth, it’s the chase that’s thrilling; but you’d be mistaken if you thought I looked hard to spot rabbits for these hawks to swoop down and kill.

Next, gun dog training. Having grown up with dogs and now being residents of New York with small apartments and no yards, Jay and I were in terrible dog withdrawal, and may have been more excited to be out playing with dogs more so than they were to be out of the kennel and playing with us. Here too, the animals are well cared after and the trainer was delicate yet stern with the more rambunctious animals. The trainer also tells me that once the 11 dogs, which are between three and four years old, become too old or are injured, and therefore no longer are as spry, they will be found good homes, rather than dispensed to a shelter. I’ve already signed up to have Debbie, a three-year-old black lab who nuzzles your leg for attention, to be shipped to me when the time comes.

Day 4
Back to reality in coach on Continental. Oh well. Being nouveau rich was fun while it lasted.

Syanara summer

The last time I was in Hilton Head, SC, I officially entered womanhood, receiving my first-ever visit from the now much-loathed Aunt Flo. I was 12. So it somehow is fitting then, that on my second visit, 15 years later, my biological clock starts ticking.

It's Jay's own fault, really. First, on Friday, there was his friends' wedding. These things inexplicably get to me, making me think "Oh, I want this!" for the preceeding four hours. Then, over the weekend in Hilton Head, I was exposed to baby fever brought on by his four adorable nieces. To wit: Maggie is still working on prounouncing her J's, so she called me me "Zen." Which I kind of like. I hope Maggie never learns how to properly say my name.

Then there's Libby, who is the most encouraging toddler I've ever met in my life. Stuck inside on a rainy day and working on a 550-piece puzzle of the Little Mermaid, Libby popped in every so often to tell Jay and I what a good job we were doing.

So, once I start conspicuously leaving Tiffany's pamphlets (does Tiffany even make pamphlets? Probably not.) and stop taking my birth control pills, Jay has no one to blame but himself.

Pics here.

Getting reacquainted

It’s hard for me to get excited about a trip down the to the Jersey shore. My first thoughts are: traffic, sand in my bum and having to tell people I’m spending a weekend at the Jersey shore. (They invariably always reply, “Oh, going to break out the Trans Am and pick up some guidos, eh?”)

But my last trip, in honor of Mariel’s 27th birthday, was different, and mostly because Jay, who hadn’t visited Jersey’s beaches since the tender age of eight, came with me. I don’t mean it to as sound as saccharine as it does—even if we ever break up he will be my travel companion of choice because he gets so excited about the littlest things—like skee ball, for instance—and it’s hard to not get caught up in his enthusiasm. (Another example: When we drove from Chicago to visit that other tri-state area of Ohio-Kentucky-Indiana last summer, the rental car company gave us a mini van. I could not have been more embarrassed; Jay however, could not get over what a smooth ride it was.)

We stayed at The Blue Water Inn, which is not nearly as nice as it appears in the photos, but it’s not a bad deal for a cheesy weekend down the shore. Because it had been so long since his last visit, Jay was eager to do it all in the small amount of time that we had. By the time we got to Ocean City, the boardwalk was closed, save for a few pizza places and arcades, which we obligingly hit up after first downing a few alcoholic beverages in our room, just like the glory days of prom weekend in high school. We played skee ball, a few games of air hockey and managed to avoid the temptation of Dance Dance Revolution, mostly because there were a couple of kids hanging around who we thought might kick our asses if we did. We also took part in the requisite black-and-white photo booth.

The following day we spent at the beach, followed by an evening barbeque at Mariel’s, where there were rounds of flip cups to be played after the gourmet food was cleared from the table. On our last day, we proceeded to eat our way down the boardwalk. (Pork roll for him, French fries for me; then fudge and fresh-squeezed lemonade. Mack & Manco's pizza came highly recommend, but we both passed, as it also looked highly greasy.) The only item on the checklist we missed was mini golf.

On the way home, Jay made sure to tell me what a great time he had, but it wasn’t until I reflected on the trip later, by myself, that I realized I had a great time, too. I have been down the shore so many times I forgot how charming it could be if you treat each visit as if it were your first. I’m sure this concept can be applied to any place you visit regularly. Try it and you’ll be amazed at the fresh perspective it provides.

This is how we live now (maybe)

I'm currently on a press trip in the small village of Opio in the Provence region of France (yeah, yeah, tough life, I get it) and, as often happens on press trips, I've bonded--usually temporarily--with my colleagues. Most of them are older than me and have lived lives I can currently only dream of, such as say, spending a year abroad in a small provincial European town, with your equally travel-loving boyfriend. To hear them talk about it, it sounds amazingly easy: save money, rent a house for a month--or a year--while yours is subleased, freelance for extra income and witness your life change. Not a bad gig.

Usually in these situations, I feel as though I need to humor these people, as in, yes, yes, contact me in six months and I'll be in France, jetting around town on my Vespa with a just-baked baguette and freshly picked lavender jutting out of my basket. Given they never follow up, I never feel like I have to follow through. But this time is different. Not only do I feel as though not fulfilling this premonition will severely disappoint these people who seem to believe I'm destined to live this life, I also suddenly feel my life will be somewhat incomplete if I don't take advantage of this opportunity so seemingly readily available to me. We may just be witnessing a life change here. Or an evening filled with too much rosé. TBD.

La dolce vita

As a certain someone likes to remind me, life is pretty damn good right now. I have my own apartment, happy and healthy family and friends, a fabulous boyfriend and a job that lets me travel the world on someone else's dime. Plus, a recent trip to the doctor unveiled a sizable weight loss just in time for my vacation to Cabo. Yippie.

However—you knew that was coming, didn't you?—despite all my recent good fortune, my mind and my body have never been more of a mess. (Hence the doctor's visit.) I've lost weight only because I've also managed to lose my appetite, which happens to me when I'm heavily worried about something. What's the trouble? Having nothing to worry about, apparently.

So thank you to everyone who currently makes life so great.

In essence, you all make me sick.