Knowing that my father could do that to my mother has forced me to question everything about virtually every relationship I encounter.  When I call on clients, I wonder if the boss is banging the secretary on the desk where he keeps a family portrait. When guys hit on me in bars, I wonder if they have some girl at home, oblivious to their philandering partners’ ways. Perhaps the greatest toll has been on my own relationship.  Iowa and I often have opposite schedules, since he frequently works nights. That leaves us with lots of time where we could certainly run around. I know he’s not. And I’ve always been pretty fastidious about letting him know exactly what I’m up to, to make sure he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m not cuckolding him.  But lately I’ve found myself freaking out when he’s just a little late for work. I’ve also found myself drinking more, and then rambling about how angry at my parents I am. To Iowa, who responds with his characteristic patience, tolerance, and (above all) logic.

Talking to Iowa and others has made me realize that different people have vastly different definitions for cheating. Some women consider looking at porn a form of cheating. These women are crazy.  Or are they?

What about going to the strip club? Men go and pay for women to rub up all over them. Yet most women turn a blind eye to the occasional boys’ night.  BUT what if someone their man knew were to perform the same acts? Most women would consider that cheating. The conclusion: cheating has to do with personal proximity.  If the act originates as something personal and intimate, it’s probably a bad idea. But looking at some woman whom you’ll never conceivably meet in person–or getting a lap dance from a woman who views it as a business transaction and is perceived as unattainable in real life–simply doesn’t count.

I’d argue that men are more predisposed to these marginally anonymous acts than women.  But we’re both equally likely to do that “all the way cheating.” The whole issue of fidelity certainly raises some thought-provoking questions, even for those in the most stable of relationships.

So have you and your significant other sat down to define what cheating is? Did you agree? And what definitions do you share? I look forward to getting other people’s opinions on this one.

But they never did blow up.  Instead, they just kept getting more super-fabulous.  Ha.  Meanwhile, my brother has gotten engaged, and the wedding invitations are piling up.  The pressure is on. Or something.  But I’m not feeling it. Someone (who clearly didn’t know me very well) asked if I was freaking out about not being engaged yet.  When I said no, she replied, “Well, how do you know it’s really serious?”

Hmm, let me think:

• Iowa eats everything I cook for him and thanks me–even if it tastes like ass.
• He also fastidiously cleans up his whiskers after shaving, since he knows my pet peeve is when he leaves them lying about.
• He endured slogging through mud, standing in the rain, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes so we could take my geriatric dog to the dog beach. He doesn’t like dogs.
• Oh, and my gay friend queened out during all of the above nightmare dog beach trip. Iowa endured all with patience and (more importantly) sarcastic one-liners.
• He went to my brother’s surprise engagement party for his fiancee. Then watched the proposal video over and over again with my family the next day–sober.
• He’s looking into adding me to his medical insurance at work, since you no longer have to be married to do that.
• He wants to be my business partner. (Scary, but I think it will work!)
• He took me with him to buy a new mattress.

And most importantly….

• Iowa is taking down his “Fight Club” poster so that I can have a dry erase board in the office.

Yup, that’s right. I’m more important than Brad Pitt looking all hard core. Who needs a ring when you’re more important to a man than his “Fight Club” picture?

So how did you know when it was “serious”?

Awaiting blackberries’ ripeness as if atnicipating my own readiness…for what and for whom?

I will not longer offer it gift wrapped and prettified–the effort drains me and makes it somehow less real, less immediate.  The pretty paper invites trivialization anyway.

Next time I will hold it out, bleeding and scarred.  I will call out my own injury with ferocity, daring the recipient to accept it for what it truly is: a blood sacrifice.  there is no ribbon to cover the wounds, no glossing over the imperfections.  Easy to accept the gentle curves of the body, but what about the bleeding, beating beast it contains?  Easy to hear the cries of ecstasy, but what about the moans of sorrow? I am both and none.

Not only did I get flowers like I’d wanted, but I got them the best way imaginable.  Iowa had been gone for three weeks, and was returning the next day.  I was freaking out.  My high-maintenance client had sent 17 emails in two hours, all of them bitching about items that were, quite frankly, not my concern.  I was trying desperately to get ahead, so I could take the next afternoon off and pick Iowa up from the airport.

Meanwhile I wanted everything to be perfect for his arrival.  I’d cleaned the house and picked up stuff for a fancy meal: chicken cordon bleu, rosemary potatoes, something green (broccoli?), and homemade cherry pie.  Between the work madness and the self-inflicted perfection freak-out, it was a wicked Monday.  The kind of Monday that smacks you across the face and says, “Sucks to be you, bitch!” Then slaps you again for shits and giggles.

Around 1:00, I needed a breather, and I needed someone to calm me down.  You must know that I never freak out. I mean never.  So this was truly nuclear.  I went out to my car and called Iowa.  He was golfing.  Surprise.  But he answered on the second ring.  Thank goodness for cell phones.  At any rate, his refrain was, “the day can’t get any worse, and you only have a few hours left.  Then you can go home and relax.”

Feeling slightly better, I schlepped back into the office and chugged my third Coke of the day.  It needed a long pour of Jack Daniels.  Alas, no such luck.  I went for the iPod and threw on some “Garden State.” (“You would do somersaults in sand for me”)

I did not hear the door slam, but I did hear a stranger call out over the cubicle maze.  ”Krista?”

“Eh, close enough.  What can I do for you?” I half-stood so he could see my head over the cubicle, then plopped back down and ripped my earbuds out.  My long, dreary exhale was not lost on the intruder.  He looked even more harried than I probably did (and I hadn’t even really brushed my hair that morning–surprise, surprise!).  But he was holding a beautiful arrangement of a half-dozen red roses.

And (OH SNAP!) they were for me! Now, on Friday my co-worker had gotten sunflowers from her married dude.  I’d been shamefully jealous.  So now I had my own.  And Iowa actually dropped the L-Bomb in the card, after using three exclamation points for “see you soon.” Iowa eschews all effusion and public display, including gratuitous punctuation.  So this was quite a message: three exclamations points and the L-Bomb!

I had to call him again.  That was why he’d answered the phone so quickly earlier–and why he’d assured me so confidently that the afternoon could only get better.  Perhaps the best was that he’d ordered them a full two weeks beforehand.  I knew, because about a week into his trip, he told me he’d gotten me something.  He wanted to know now if he got double points for sending them on a bad day.  Uh, yes.

Note: this doesn’t mean I hate your baby or don’t want to see your pictures–after all, I’m predisposed to thinking they’re cute, too.  And even if I think your kid looks like a deformed alien, I’ll still “Ooh” and “Aah” in all the right places.  After all, I have manners, unlike some people.

This year is different.  For once I’m actually looking forward to it.  The big conundrum this year is how to celebrate.  His parents are in town and leave Feb 15, and he leaves the same day for a two-week business excursion to beautiful Arkansas.  So the, er, special day is also last night in town for everyone. 

Confession: I want girly stuff this year.  Like flowers.  Yup, mmm hmm, I’d like some surprise romance.  But that’s not our schtick.  Meanwhile, I have no bloody clue what to do for Iowa.  I exploited his love of golf with a combination Christmas-birthday gift (they’re less than a week apart).  He orders all the other stuff he wants from Amazon or eBay, and I find out about it only after it arrives.  

Certainly a lovely meal is in order, but my culinary skills are not so impressive that the meal will stand alone.  If anything, I’ll need something to distract him from the meal.  At least one item will undoubtedly be charred–or at least singed.  

Compounding this gift conundrum: our one-year anniversary quickly follows Valentine’s Day.  He’ll still be in Ar-friggin’-kansas for this one.  Meanwhile, here’s a brief overview of where we’ve been this year together:

• That weird quasi-dating phase
• The closet
• A “Garden State”-esque ellipses that simply didn’t satisfy
• In bed on a Saturday morning
• Escaping the rain with questionable art at the MOMA
• The warm cocoon of soul-quenching comfort (Iowa probably wouldn’t call it that)
• A hammock on the beach in San Blas
• The kitchen, making dinner together
• The University of Iowa library
• Outfield
• New World Brewery for WMNF’s Tropical Heatwave
• Gasparilla in the rain.  Sober.  
• The Greyhound station in Omaha, Nebraska
• Comfortable silence along Alligator Alley
• That perilous moment of dropping the L-bomb
• Playing euchre in a club on South Beach

So Dear Readers, I need your advice (but not your spam–yeah, I mean you, weird “Starry Night Gifts” commentator!).   It’s probable that V-Day and anniversary will be combined into one romantic holiday amalgamation.  What to do? What to do?  How do I celebrate the man who supports, challenges, and spoons me every day?

1) Do not complain about how much the wedding costs.  This is your choice.  If you don’t want to spend as much on a wedding, elope or do something more modest.  I cannot believe that this particular bride had the audacity to complain that her wedding cost 70K…and she’s unemployed, so she’s not even paying for it.  Really.  Get a grip. 

2) Especially do not complain about how much the wedding will cost if you’re not even inviting me to the wedding.  In this instance, I was invited to an after-party that starts at 6:30 pm and has no meal–and a cash bar.  I really feel like I’m being invited as a way to get another present.  Note that I’m taking the high road on this one and buying a gift, but it’s about half what I would have spent if I actually got to see the ceremony.  This isn’t about reciprocating for what the couple spends on me.  It’s about being made to feel like a second class citizen.  After all, I didn’t even get a paper invitation–just an Evite.  

3) Don’t bitch at me because I can’t attend your wedding.  When you get married on another continent four days after Christmas, you can’t expect everyone to make it.  And don’t worry, I’m sending a gift even if I can’t make it.  

4) When I email you and offer to throw you a shower, even if I can’t make it to said destination wedding, at least have the courtesy to respond.  It’s a ton of work to put on a shower, and that’s my way of trying to participate, since I can’t be there for the ceremony itself.  

5) If you’ve met my boyfriend and know that we’ve been together for over a year, you really need to give me a “plus one.” I would never consider inviting you to a party without your significant other.  It’s not like he’s the Flavor of the Week or something. We’ve been together longer than you and your fiance, for Christ’s sake.  Not our fault you’re rushing it.  

So what are your wedding pet peeves? I welcome your horror stories!

Since when did what I shove down my gullet become other people’s business?! I’m a healthy, intelligent 27-year-old who is perfectly capable of making wise nutritional decisions.  

Yes, that means that a caesar salad and pita chips counts as lunch.  And no, I don’t need Paul Newman’s company–the food tastes fine without dressing.  

Yes, that means I’d rather have a turkey sandwich.  I’m sure that you think corned beef is great, but I’ve tried it and simply prefer poultry.  Different people like different things, so get over it.  I’m not you.  

Nor do I have your oversized ass. Maybe you, too, should have turkey instead of corned beef, before I have to start footing the bill for your medical bills.  And yes, people, it is a reality that my health insurance gets more expensive when the health insurance companies have to ante up for your heart attacks and blood pressure medicine and diabetes supplies.  I pay for your poor choices.  

And really, what does it cost you?  Let’s think: 

1. Extra expenses for more food at the grocery store (not only because you eat larger portions– junk food is less filling and therefore requires you to eat more to feel full)
2. Higher medical bills, both as a residual of the nation’s collective obesity and as a result of your increased medical needs down the road
3. Money to replace your wardrobe as items get too small and have to be replaced, plus other incidentals (like more money for gas for the car to carry a greater load)
4. Possible lost income–it has been demonstrated countless times that more attractive people (who are generally thinner/healthier) are more likely to get jobs, raises, and promotions.  So the money lost here is not even quantifiable, because it represents lost opportunities.  
5. Lost opportunities to invest all the money lost due to the above four categories.  Accuse me of stretching on this one–I dare you.  That shit adds up.  And not in that awesome compound interest way.

So not only are you costing me (and yourself) lots of money with your crappy choices, but then you have to audacity to bitch about the consequences.  And you expect me to offer platitudes and apologize for being thin.  Idiotic.  I refuse to validate your poor choices.

Note this emphasis on choice.  If you are an adult, what goes into your mouth is your choice (and save the sarcastic lines, gentlemen).  Food is not your friend, and it is not a psychiatrist.  It is fuel. That’s it: fuel.  It makes your body work.  

We are lucky that we have to luxury of making our food taste good, but that’s what it is, a luxury.  And quite frankly, every meal need not be a culinary experience.  It need only to fill your stomach and make your body run efficiently.  If it also tastes, good, awesome.  I certainly strive to eat only things that taste good.  But not at the expense of my body’s functioning properly.  

So get over yourself, and keep your fingers out of my food.  Especially because, according to you, there’s not enough on my plate in the first place.