This past weekend was Dan’s and mine one-year anniversary. [Ed note: Dan’s and my?] Well, it was the one-year anniversary of the day we met, which is when I count from. Dan counts from the day he asked me to be his girlfriend. But since we’re not 12, I think that’s lame. Besides, the girlfriend question was only posed after a protection mishap, so it was more like, “Don’t worry about herpes, I’m not sleeping with anyone else. Are you?” Regardless, I’m not an anniversary type. No presents required. (But then Saturday I asked if he wanted to exchange presents before or after dinner. After he squirmed -- “Kidding!”)
Anyhow, in honor of this special day, I thought I’d share with you some things I’ve learned about Dan this past year. I know many of his female readers like to romanticize him. And he is, in fact, quite incredible. He’s smart, funny, thoughtful (“Hmm, Brooke, I was thinking you should give me a blow job”), he built me a closet which fits ALL MY SHOES, and he always pays for the emergency contraception. But most importantly, he knows just what to do with his big, black pot. Cook! Yes, he cooks for me. It’s swell.
But it’s not all abortion-avoiding and cookie-eating; on a rare occasion, we fight. And sure, some people would say those brief sojourns from bliss are my fault because I’m the one from the broken home, and I’m the one who ordered those magic pills from Thailand only to discover that they made me really angry. Like a bear. Like an angry bear who had taken speed from Thailand. And while emotional instability may have seemed charming at first, eventually Dan stopped staring at my boobs long enough to discover, “Dude, this chick’s crazy.” But it was too late, he loved me. [Dan’s note: It's easy to overlook her flaws, she fucks like a porn star.]
But last week we had a fight that I could’ve sworn was his fault. And I thought it only fair, as my own brand of anniversary present, if I shared it with you, his readers.
Like all good fights, it began nine months ago and with the best intentions.
The first time Dan was at my apartment, we did that thing where we shared stuff we liked with each other (as opposed to just watching TiVo). He went online and showed me his favorite painting: Chagall’s, “The Birthday.” “That’s my favorite painting, too!,” I cried. And to prove it, I went into my bedroom and walked out carrying a print of that very painting. Oh, great rejoicing, “We’re soul mates!” (No, he didn’t see the painting beforehand. Stop killing the romance.) Anyhow, I had never framed the print because I hadn’t intended on staying in that apartment very long.
And I didn’t. Flash forward to my move (away from Brooklyn) a couple of months later. Excitedly, I tell Dan that I can finally hang our fate poster (I never actually called it that) in my new apartment. And he proceeds to tell me this:
A few weeks earlier he had smuggled the print out of my apartment as part of a truly endearing plan to have it framed for my birthday. (Aww.) Then, on his way home, he FORGOT IT ON THE SUBWAY.
Now anyone that knows Dan knows that he has the same memory retention as Puppy. And sometimes, while running to get a toy, Puppy forgets that he’s playing fetch and sits down and stares at a wall. And just like Puppy, Dan’s forgetfulness is adorable. And while that’s a lie, his forgetfulness is, in the face of all his other wonderful attributes, forgettable.
So after hearing about him losing the poster, I simply laughed. But, my mom had given me the poster, so it did hold a special place in my heart along with the other things my mom has given me: varicose veins, oppressive guilt and an aptitude for math. So I said, “I’d really love if you’d replace it sometime. No biggie.”
Flash forward nine months: We move in together. Needing art for the walls, we browse art.com and come across “The Birthday.” I look over at Dan, and because I’m a girl, I say: “I’m kind of bummed that you never replaced the poster you lost.” Dan pats my head: “Sorry.” Ten minutes pass.
And because I’m a girl, I say: “But, you know, it really sucks that you lost it, and you never replaced it like you said you would.” [Ed note: I am not actually sure he ever said he would replace it, but I was about to declare war, and as the U.S. has shown, there’s no place for truth in war.]
Because he’s a guy: “If it mattered so much, why’d you never hang it the whole time you had it.”
Girl: “That’s not the point, the point is you lost something that mattered to me, and you should have replaced it.”
Guy: “You didn’t even want to hang it [Ed note: False], so why should I have bought it if you were just going to store it in a closet.”
Girl: “Well, why did you say you were sorry you didn’t replace it if you WEREN’T ACTUALLY SORRY!?” [Dan’s note: Good question…]
Door slam. (Now that we have two bedrooms, you can actually storm off and slam a door, as opposed to in Manhattan, where you had to storm off and climb up the loft bed, and then just sit up there where the other person can still see you. Not nearly as effective.)
Five minutes pass. Knock knock.
Girl: “Come in.”
Guy: “If I had known the poster mattered so much, I would have gotten it for you.”
Girl: “It’s not the poster that matters. I just wanted you to make the effort.”
Guy: “I’ll go get the poster tomorrow.”
Girl: “Forget it. I don’t even want the poster.”
Happy anniversary, baby.