All Signs Point To Yes
When it comes to relationships, there have been all kinds of famous and not-so-famous sayings with regards to “how you know” if someone is right for you.
Meet his family… If he’s good to his mother, then he’s the guy for you.
Okay, so I’ve met TNG’s family. I definitely know he’s good to his mother. And he’s definitely good to me… after his mother, of course.
Get sick. If he takes care of you, then he’s the guy for you.
I got deathly ill and he failed that one miserably. But then I fell face first on a mountain and he passed the yogurt and ice cream test with flying colors. Then I got sick again and he failed miserably again. I guess 80 stitches in your face deserves more attention than a bad cold. Plus, I have to admit I do get sick a lot.
Go on a trip. If you travel well together, then he’s the guy for you.
We’ve been on a few trips together. Yes, my nickname is “Five Stars” and his is “Two Stars,” but I’ve managed to come down a few notches in the last year and he seems to be enjoying his rise in hotel thread counts. Aside from my occasional abandonment into First Class, we seem to mesh well on the road and have lots of stamps in our passports to look forward to.
Live together. If you don’t kill each other in the first six months, then he’s the guy for you.
The initial road to the end of Month 1 was rocky at best, and I certainly shed a lot of tears, but Month 2 has proven to be a little bit drier. Except for my current cold.
Have a garage sale together. If he lets you sell all his shit, then he’s the guy for you.
I made that one up. But let me tell you… that should absolutely be on the list. Last weekend TNG and I had the yard sales to end all yard sales. Being the obsessive person I am, I of course spent the two weeks prior pulling every piece of junk from my boxes and his entire house (mostly his house), organizing them into sections in the living room, pricing every item with a sticker, advertising online and making signs. Each night, he stood in front of the piles of his past looking longingly at his rusted red-painted floor lamp from 1972.
On the morning of the sale, I woke him at 4am. He looked at me like I was crazy. I said, “You think I’m crazy, but they’ll be here in an hour.” Sure enough, just as I had dragged the last stack of plaid flannel bedding out to the table (neatly tied and tagged of course), headlights flooded our driveway. The early birds (or bottom feeders as TNG angrily called them after they offered $1 for his beloved lamp) had their own flashlights, and they were ready to buy. One guy even wore a headlamp.
“How about fifty cents for this?” asked one lady who held up TNG’s poster of a Gargoyle. I saw the words “That’s not for sale” forming in a bubble above his head so I rushed over to her and whispered a price behind my hand. We haggled with our hands over our mouths like the pitcher and catcher in the World Series, and soon she walked off with the poster that used to hang prominently over the couch.
At the end of the day, as we watched the last piece drive away, TNG looked at me with panic. “I think we sold too much!” he said. He spent the next few days wandering through the house saying, “Wow, it looks a lot nicer in here. I guess that garage sale was a good thing after all.”
“Except,” he said, “I shouldn’t have sold that lamp.”
Gotta go. I’ve got cookies baking in my new oven.
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Sell Out
Now I’m really depressed.
It’s not you, it’s me… really. And since I’m not breaking up with you, you can believe I’m telling the truth. I’m not a dreamer and I’m not an idiot. I am fully aware that meeting the family and surviving a garage sale together are moments as common and integral to the success of a relationship as a good sex life and the ability to laugh at each other without wanting to kill each other. I’ve read enough magazine articles and surfed enough Internet to know that what you are saying about the potential and viability of a relationship is defined way more by the small and dull moments than it could ever be by the grandiose and sweeping moments. I know this in my head, but in my heart I still have a hard time making the connection. In my heart, I still fear that this is a truth I may never be able to reconcile.
Allow me to state my shallow case by addressing the menu you have so painstakingly laid out before us, one item at a time:
Meet his family… If he’s good to his mother, then he’s the guy for you.
If a guy isn’t good to his mother, chances are a woman with a pulse will know it by the second date. A guy who treats his mother poorly will usually reveal himself by then. A guy who treats his mother poorly is either, A) a complete asshole, B)… well, he’s just a complete asshole. Passing this test is like passing finger painting in kindergarten… It’s truly nothing to brag about.
Get sick. If he takes care of you, then he’s the guy for you.
The first time I took this test, I received a D. My girlfriend was home alone with a fever of 103 and I played both ends of a softball doubleheader, followed by a post-game drinking session with my teammates. I’ve gotten much better. I’ve taken this test about 400 times since then and I’ve worked my way up to a C minus. My solution is this: don’t get sick.
Go on a trip. If you travel well together, then he’s the guy for you.
Isn’t this kind of easy? Let’s see… cocktails on the plane, hotel sex, great weather, hotel sex, no work, hotel sex, white sand beaches, hotel sex, gourmet meals, conscience-free shopping and yes, hotel sex. How tough is this? If I care enough about a woman to even consider taking a trip with her, the rest is gravy to me.
Live together. If you don’t kill each other in the first six months, then he’s the guy for you.
I’m glad your “living together” engine is running more smoothly of late. I’m happy you’ve moved beyond a menu of daily meltdowns and buckets of tears and you know I wish you nothing but complete and utter giddiness in your new life. Still, there’s four months to go before you reach the end of this mythical, six-month probation period… But let’s not pop the champagne just yet, champ.
Have a garage sale together. If he lets you sell all his shit, then he’s the guy for you.
………………… Oh sorry, I fell asleep on my keyboard for a second.
Call me crazy, but I’d like to think that it takes a lot more than the absence of a domestic felony at a garage sale to help a woman decide if the man of her dreams remains the man of her dreams. But, whatever floats your boat.
Oh, and congrats on the brand-new oven your collective possessions bought you… and the fact that you slept in the same bed that night.
