Saturday's List

1) Today is my first anniversary with Billy. Though I don't feel that our relationship has suddenly taken on an aged or old news sort of feeling, I do feel like we've crossed some sort of threshold into a Serious Relationship. I know it's been serious all this time, but being able to say that we've been together for "over a year," (Which I will start saying as of tomorrow.) tends to carry more weight than "three months," or "seven months." And, yes, I did give people the actual number of months we were dating. Because, when you're working your way up to a year, you have to detail the amount of time, so that people don't mix your serious relationship with a casual, just-dating sort of thing.

So, as of now, I've been with Billy for a year, a feat I didn't think was quite possible.

When we had been dating for merely a few weeks, he was aware that I wasn't putting a whole lot of stock in our budding union. Over dinner, he asked me why, and I hesitantly told him that I "knew" he wasn't a "relationship guy."

"Why do you think that?" he asked, taking a sip of his Jack and Coke.

"I don't know," I replied, my tone unsure and weak. "I guess it's just because you, you know, date a lot?"

"So what? Is there something wrong with dating?"

"No," I said, with more authority this time, "it's just that, from what I understand, you're rarely dating anyone longer than a few months."

"Yeah. Because if it's not working out, why should I waste my time."

"Ah, the eternal bachelor's creed."

"Did it ever occur to you that I'm just looking for the right person?"

It could've been that he just knew the right answer - and, God knows, it worked. It was enough to spur me into letting my guard down a little bit, enough to open up to the possibility of maybe having a real thing with this guy.

A year later, and everything is still the same: Blissful, fun, strong. It defies what I believed. Because, not only did not I believe he'd never dive into a relationship with me, but I didn't believe I could find someone who would make me this happy. And here he is.

2) Thursday night, despite the monsoon that ripped through Northeastern Pennsylvania, my friend and I drove the hour and a half it takes to get to the Garden State Plaza. We were on a mission for one thing: Bare Escentuals makeup. I've seen the infomercials for the stuff, and always wanted to try it, but found two things standing in my way: One, the fact that it was on an infomercial. Surely the excellent coverage and flawless complexion the makeup gave the models was all lighting and camera angles and infomercial trickery. Two, you have to order it. Which perplexes me because a) you have to give you credit card number out, and I don't like doing that (I know it's stupid. Shut up.) and b) you can't see it and/or try it on first. And I'm a big proponent of touching whatever I buy. I know it's antiquated and silly, but I just have to know I'm going to like a makeup before I go and spend nearly $100 on it.

But then I discovered that they had the makeup in the Garden State Plaza. So we drove, after work, all the way through New Jersey - so far, in fact, that we were nearly in New York City- to the mall. Neither of us was prepared for what we saw when we pulled up.

It was huge. Mammoth. Gargantuan. Ginormous. It was practically its own city. We pulled into the parking garage and were lucky enough to immediately stumble upon a a woman getting into her car that happened to be in a parking space right in front. I turned on my blinker and we high-fived each other (figuratively) and waited. And waited. And waited. And the lady in the car turned to face us and pointed toward the mall and mouthed something that I took to say "I'm going back in." And then she turned around and proceeded to reapply her makeup. I waited a little while longer, then, fed up, sped on. "If that woman pulls out of that spot," I said to Lindsey as we crawled through the garage, on the lookout for other available spots, "I'm gonna....I don't know. But I'm going to do something drastic. I swear."

Sure enough, moments later, we were rounding an aisle to see her car backing up and pulling out. I sped up to try and claim the spot that I believed to be rightfully mine, but I was too late. A Honda slipped in ahead of me.

I let out a moan of hate and agony combined, and promptly raised my middle finger to the lady who, as far as I was concerned, cheated me out of a spot that belonged to me.

Drama behind us, we found a spot and walked in. We strode through Neiman Marcus and out into the mall's corridor....And we could not believe our eyes. It was huge. HUGE. The main walkway forked more times than I could count, making it impossible to make a good lap of the mall. And we were on a time crunch. Two hours was all we had, and we had no idea where our destination store was located. I also had visions of buying a dress for the wedding Billy and I will be going to in Mexico. Clearly, I'm an overachiever.

Because, an hour and three dresses later, I bought a just-in-case dress ("I'll take this one just in case I can't find a better one.") and we still hadn't found what we went there looking for: The makeup.

Finally, we found a directory and located the name of the store. "It should be right here somewhere," I said, my finger on the illuminated map of the mall. We were standing in front of Nordstrom's, and according to the map, the makeup shop should've been right there. "But I don't see it," I said, looking in front of and behind me.

"It's right there!" Lindsey said, her long arm extended to reveal the store, tucked into one of the mall's many crevices.

"I'm an idiot," I said as we power-walked our way into the store.

Lindsey has used the makeup before and swears by it. "Trust me," she said, as I fondled a $75 starter kit. "You're going to love it. I promise."

But I wasn't sure. I just knew I was going to be let down because, in my mind, the makeup was a miracle product. And there's no way that four jars of powder could possibly live up to the hefty assumption I had. I eyeballed the girl in the corner, a redhead, who was getting a makeover. She didn't look so great. But, after getting "color matched," I whipped out my card and paid the hefty price, taking my gamble.

"Look," Lindsey whispered, pointing to a small sign by the register, "they have a 30 day money-back guarantee. So you can bring it back if you don't like it."

This gave me piece of mind as I signed my name for the dark-eyed saleslady.

And, as it turns out, I will not be needing to take advantage of their generous return policy. Oh my God. This stuff is incredible. I have the dewy complexion of a thirteen year old, without looking like I'm wearing pancake batter on my face. I can't stop looking at myself.

I wore it to a party last night, and one of my friends actually said to me, "When did you stop wearing makeup? You look incredible without it! Your skin is beautiful!"

I felt like I was in the infomercial. "I'm not not wearing makeup, honey. This is just awesome stuff."

He smiled and took a sip of his Pina Colada. "Well, the idea of makeup is to look like you're not wearing any, right? I guess you hit the jackpot with that stuff."

Granted, it was dark outside, and he could've been a little drunk, but it was my first rave review, and I'll take it.

3) My follow-up appointment on Tuesday went really well. My incisions, which had been covered by a gauzy tape, were revealed to me for the first time ever. They are small, though bruised and sensitive, and dainty. They will heal just beautifully.

"Your right side is more bruised than your left," the doctor said, fingering the yellowish blue half moon above my hip, "because your biggest cyst was on that side. It was so big, it obscured your uterus. We were lucky we got to it when we did."

"That big, huh?" I said, shocked that I'd never noticed something that large in my belly.

"Yes, it was. All the nurses came in and looked at it. We were all amazed. It's one of the biggest I've ever seen."

"Well," I said, shrugging my shoulders, "when I do something, I do it right. I'm not gonna mess around with little baby cysts."

Indeed.

4) Billy and I joke around a lot. A lot. We're both dry, sarcastic people, who spend a great deal of energy trying to be witty. Normally, our senses of humor melt together famously. But, lately, they haven't. I don't know if it's my hormones or my extreme fatigue, but many jokes he makes fall flat.

Last weekend, eating lunch, I interrupted a conversation Billy was having with his cousin to say, "Great, just what I wanted to do: Spent an afternoon talking about Billy's List of Hot Ex Girlfriends."

Billy turned to me, a half grin spreading across his face, and said, "Hey, that's a list you could be on."

Instead of saying something like "Only if I'm lucky," or "it can't happen soon enough," I shot him my most evil look and fought off tears. He let out a nervous laugh and reached for my hand. I pulled it back in one sharp motion, determined to not let him lube me up with hand-holding and mushy commentary. I was mad.

"God," he said, after his third thwarted attempt at affection. "What, did you store your sense of humor in those cysts they took out?"

Apparently, I didn't, because this made me laugh until my stomach hurt.

5) Although it has been well over a week since my surgery, my abdomen is still a little sore from my surgery. I'll be feeling great one day, and I'll behave as though I never had surgery, and then the next day, I pay for it. For instance, last night, when my friend and I hustled our way through a band's rendition of "Car Wash," I acted like my stomach muscles had never been sliced. Today, I'm walking like a decrepit old lady, sore from too much action. Which does not bode well for my anniversary celebration tonight. Which makes me sad. But I will look hot for my date tonight. I will push through the discomfort, dress sultry, walk tall, and be the sexiest girlfriend I can be. Because some things are too good not to celebrate because of some minor pain.