Monthly Archives: August 2015

It’s not you, it’s me

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So about that office job. We’re taking a little time off. We’re going to see other people, figure out if we still want to be together. I’m going to career counseling and my job is looking for someone else.

It’s not a clean break. I’m working part-time for now. We still like each other a lot and want to be friends. No ghosting, just a slow fade.

My resting heart rate is 68 beats a minute. When I gave my notice, my heart rate was 130 beats a minute and I didn’t just run a marathon. Fitbit helped me put a precise number on the anxiety I already knew about. My supervisor tells me,

“It’s going to be ok.”

So far she’s right. When we discussed part time, she asks,

“Will it be weird if you say good bye to everyone and then you’re still here?”

Yes. That would be weird. Maybe I won’t do that. Just slow fade.

I like my career counselor a lot. Especially if she’s reading this blog. I told her about it and writing and she said,

“I don’t know for sure, but it seems like someday, someone will see your blog.”

I need to tell my career counselor that my mom already knows about it.

And you thought I was doing the slow fade on YOU blog, but I’m not.

I’m in my blogging jammies as we speak.

That’s some good Cookie Puss

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Captain had another birthday.

Two years ago, when we were both still in our thirties, was the first time we discussed ice cream cake. He tells me,
“You know what ice cream cake I like? Cookie Puss!”
“WHAT?!”
“Carvel’s Cookie Puss.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is. It was the 1970s.”
He shows me a photo of Cookie Puss.
“Nooo. C’mon.”
“Yes. The Beastie Boys even wrote a song about it.”
“Nooo.”
“Yes.” He plays the song.
A few months ago on the LONG drive to my grandfather’s. My mom and I are talking ice cream cake for the wedding and Captain interjects from the backseat,
“Cookie Puss!”
My mom is lost. I explain. Captain spends the next half hour Googling Cookie Puss. I ask,
“Do they still make it?”
“I don’t know. It was the Seventies.”
As his birthday approaches, I’ve got Cookie Puss on my mind. I look into it. Cookie Puss is still one of Carvel’s signature cakes. I’m getting this man a Cookie Puss. Now I just need to find a Carvel.
The closest Carvel is 2 hours away in Hartford, CT. Done. I call them,
“May I order an ice cream cake?”
“Sure. What would you like?”
“Cookie Puss.”
“Cookie Puss?”
“Yes please.”
“Standard Cookie Puss?”
“Standard Cookie Puss.”
“I haven’t made one of those before, but shouldn’t be a problem.”
On a random weekday night, I drive to Hartford, collect Cookie Puss and drive back to Boston. Captain is 100 percent surprised. He exclaims,
“Cookie Puss! Where’d you get Cookie Puss?!”
“Hartford, CT.”
“You drove all the way to Hartford?”
“Yup.”
“What’d you do when you got there?”
“I bought the cake.”
“Did you do anything in Hartford?”
“Turned around and came back.”
We’ve been eating Cookie Puss for days now. 

All is well that ends with me being back in bed before 9:00am

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I open a birthday card from Captain: A hot-air balloon ride! That sounds awesome. It starts at 5:00am. Wait, what?

Captain relays his plan. Head to NH Saturday. Get a hotel. Go first thing Sunday AM. A whole weekend thing. Sounds fun. 
Saturday we drive up to NH to go hiking in the woods before sunset with no long clothing or bug spray. We get 20 minutes into the hike when the mosquitos surround us. We are two large all-you-can-drink-blood buffets. We scurry back to the car.

We drive to Salem, NH, the town the balloon leaves from the next morning. Not a destination. There are lots of cute little New England towns and Salem isn’t one of them. We find a good place for dinner and wait for the 8pm phone call to confirm our balloon ride. We get the call. Woohoo! Captain starts calling the few random hotels in the area. The first one is full. The second one is full. The third one is full. The last one is full. What is going on in Salem, NH?

We start looking at hotels near Salem, but they end up being 30 minutes away and our bed in Boston is 40 minutes away. We drive back to Boston. We need to be in a random parking lot in Salem at 5:00am.

Our alarm goes off at 3:30am. Happy Birthday to me. We drive back to New Hampshire. We pull into a lot with a few other cars. A scraggly old man, with long greasy gray hair, a torn sleeveless shirt, and a cigarette hanging off his lip, walks up to the car. He asks,

“Here for the balloon ride?”

He reeks of alcohol. This man is not taking me anywhere. Especially not in anything that leaves the ground. He tells us,

“Your balloonist will be here soon.”

Good news.

The balloonist arrives and runs through the safety drill,

“We never know where we’re going to land. It all depends on the wind. Chances are we will land in someone’s yard.”

Maybe they’ll give us breakfast. The safety news continues,

“Chances are we’ll have a soft landing, but we may have a hard landing. It could be like jumping out of a second story window. All you need to do is keep your knees bent and you’ll be fine.”

I don’t know anyone who can jump from a second story window and be fine as long as they keep their knees bent. I climb into the hot-air balloon basket.

We soar above the trees into the sunrise. It’s gorgeous. People come out of their homes to take our photo. Who are all these people awake and ready to take photos at 6:00am Sunday morning?

Forty minutes later our balloonist announces,

“We’re over half-way through our fuel, we need to land.”

We float over suburbia looking for a good yard. We drop down fast, taking half of a dead tree with us. It’s a soft landing. The homeowners do not appear to be home. Either that or 12 random people milling around their backyard with a giant balloon is not a good enough reason to get out of bed before 7am.

We pack up and head back to the parking lot for a champagne toast and our award ceremony. Awards below. I give my award to a co-worker. She declares,

“I’m concerned that you went on this.”