Unwifeable(52)

It’s a bunch of ideas.

You can ignore them. But I’m letting you know where I’m coming from. Because I have dreams. I have like recurring dreams about you proposing. It’s making me crazy. And—dude—one thing to be clear on, I am fine if you don’t—but let’s decide now. Or soon. Let’s—or rather, YOU—please, decide soon.

So, in the spirit of symbolic forward movement, I just registered the domain name superpreppy.com.

Here are a few ideas I have.

1. I think that you should propose to me.

2. I think you should do so soon.

3. I think we should meet with a media investor at your fancy impressive place, and he can meet you and be wowed by you, and we can say that we have some big news on the horizon and then he will have the heads-up to write the post when we are linked as being engaged on Facebook. You can then announce that you are launching a lifestyle site on superpreppy.com. It’ll be like PerezHilton.com—for the preppy lifestyle.

4. If you don’t feel comfortable being linked on Facebook, then I question you ultimately feeling comfortable being in the Times with me as your spouse.

5. I think that if we get married—possibly even as early as this summer (this would allow you to get my health insurance right away), we could plan to have a small garden wedding at your mother’s house in E. Hampton with just your immediate family and my immediate family.

6. As I said above—re: all of this, if we break up tomorrow, that is totally cool. Seriously. These are ideas.

7. Ideally, I would like a Tiffany Setting engagement ring—no cheap flower-stand roses, please. (To use an analogy.)

8. I will happily sign a prenup agreement saying I want none of your money. As I said over a year ago, the only reason I even have you pay for dinner and drinks is simply because I cannot keep up financially with this level of leisure.

This is all. Thanks for listening—and thanks for the fun times so far.

Mandy

Are you dead? Did you die? Because I did, and I do every time I look at this hot garbage fire of an email. Every time I think I am done feeling physical revulsion, I slap myself on the forehead yet again. “You can have a site like PerezHilton! I want the Tiffany Setting ring!”

Soon after sending this, I go over to Blaine’s place, and he tells me he thought the email was “funny.” We never discuss it again. Maybe if I had about eighty more bullet points. That would have done the trick.

Not too long after, we go to Stratton, Vermont, to go skiing with all his friends. I go out and buy hundreds of dollars’ worth of wintry clothes to try to look like it’s not my second time skiing in my life, along with a pair of Timberlands so I don’t wipe out in the snow.

As the weekend progresses, as per usual, there is a heavy amount of drinking. After five or six gin sours on the first night there, I’m nice and loose. By midnight, I’m suggesting a game of truth or dare in the hot tub and making out with one of the girls in the house who is a drop-dead gorgeous blonde and a hard-core Republican.

“It’s so funny,” she says the next day as we laugh about it over coffee. “I’ve made out with a girl one other time, and she was also a six-foot-two blonde.”

“I guess that’s our thing,” I say.

While this debauchery is totally enjoyable, I also think I am impetuously trying to show Blaine what a cool, fun party girl I am, and how he will have the best time ever with me if he does decide to propose.

It’s in many ways even more thirsty than that shit show of an email I sent.

Soon after, when Blaine and I go to another party in Brooklyn, we get incredibly drunk on draft beers, and a friend of mine from college, Katie, and I are dancing hot and heavy under the neon lights of the rave-like atmosphere of the Bell House.

As our dancing grows increasingly flirtatious and sexual, I ask Katie and then Blaine if they’d want to have a three-way. Everyone is on board. So we all pile together into a cab to head back to Blaine’s loft, where I proceed to ravish Katie—which is pretty fun, actually—as Blaine watches and occasionally joins in.

Going full-on Caligula is always a good time, but let’s be real, I know what I’m doing. I might as well start bringing in a cavalcade of porn stars to start pleasuring Blaine when I’m not there—that’s how bad I want his approval and commitment and to “close the sale.”

We go to East Hampton soon after, and my stupid non-ultimatum ultimatum is still hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. I find myself unable to concentrate on anything.

“I want it to be summer,” Blaine observes, without a care in the world, as the March winds whip around his sprawling estate.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I ask, not able to follow one train of thought for too long.

To combat this problem, I decide to do a detox. I don’t allow myself any alcohol, caffeine, flour, or sugar like I did before in Brazil. Let’s see how long I can go this time.

By the time Blaine’s fortieth birthday rolls around, I feel slightly reinvigorated. The months-in-the-planning party is a formal affair with his relatives, closest friends, and, of course, his mother. I’m pumped to go, and when I do, I am seated next to an old family friend of Blaine’s.

He’s a lawyer, he tells me. I introduce myself, and he grins.

“Oh—I know who you are,” he says.

I’m so thrilled. This means Blaine has been telling old family friends all about his awesome girlfriend!