"I love you!" I shout at my grandfather as he tries to usher me off the phone - The Big Bang Theory is returning from commercial break and he doesn't want to miss this part (even if I have CLEAR and DISTINCT memories of watching this particular episode 45 times with him). He knows I love him.  I tell him every time we talk, I told him every morning and every night and every time I walked out of the house when I lived with him.  But still, I want to say it.  I need to say it.

Grandpa pauses.  "I love you too, babe."  He chuckles, because we both know the routine to the next part. "Be good okay?" "Never! Bye!" He's belly laughing as we hang up the phone.  It's become our running joke, that I'm the misbehaving one.  We both know I'm too boring to get into any real trouble while all he does is lie and sneak lotto tickets and cinnamon buns into the house when no one's looking.

My grandfather didn't always hang up the phone with a proclamation of love. I tirelessly wore down the Lower East Side tough guy over the years.  My success with him lead me to bully other friends into the same type of relationship.  I need to know that they know how I feel.

I tell the ones I love that I love them because I want to rest easy in the knowledge that if this is the last time I speak with them, I told them how I felt.

It's kind of dark, I see that, but anything can happen at any moment.  When I was eighteen, a dear friend from high school passed away in an accident.  I replay the last time I saw him often.  I was being a jerk.  I was dating a jerk who influenced me to be a jerk and live a pretty jerky lifestyle.  And that jerk was standing right next to me as I rejected a hug from my friend.  When he passed away, I could physically feel the loss of his arms around me.  He had such a specific way of wrapping his arms around you, it was unique to him and my body craved for what was gone. All I was left with to comfort myself was the too-cool attitude I gave him.  It haunts me still.

I recently discussed with a friend how the idea of love varies in culture and upbringings.  Love is something held on a pedestal and it's only meant to be given to those who deserve it or hit some items on a checklist.  But if you aren't giving love, how can you receive it? I'm not perfect and I don't expect those I love to be perfect either.  In fact, I want them to love me because I'm not perfect.

It might be meaningless to the person I'm pressing my feelings onto, but breaking down how I feel about those I love and simply reminding them also reminds me that if I love them, I have to fully love them, flaws and all.  That friend who  keeps flaking on me? Yeah, I love her and if I love her, it isn't worth ranting about how she can't keep her schedule together.  I'll only rant at her once in a while instead.  Or that friend who keeps dating the same type of idiot and lives in a continuous Groundhog Day-like complain cycle?  I love her too, and she doesn't need me to attack her for those issues but to sit and love her in silence.  And when the door opens to gently nudge her in the right direction.

Right now, saying "I love you" is the simplest way to remind those in my life that they aren't alone. It's a safety net for me too, because it's something I can cling to when there isn't much other certainty out there. All I can do is hang on to love and give as freely as I can.

So, if you wasted ten minutes reading this, I love you too.

It was a brutally cold fall evening--the first of it's kind in 2016.  I wanted to attend this monthly festival in the worst way.  Live bands in the street, food and drinks lining the sidewalk.  I'd missed the previous monthly events since moving into the city and I thought I would be able to wrangle this event because it was so close to my birthday and I could guilt people into tagging along.

What I didn't take into account was the possibility that the ridiculously unusual beautiful fall weather that ruined my gorgeous maxi pink skirt birthday outfit (far too warm for pairing that with a black sweater!) just days before would suddenly up and disappear.

All right ladies, I've scoured Pinterest and Cosmo and all of those other outlets we utilize to secure the way to arouse his undying love for us and bind him to our sides for eternity.  Article after article telling me how to dress, what perfume to wear, which giggle to use at which time.  Don't play hard to get.  Play hard to get.  Answer your phone when he calls, but not too often.  Text back immediately or just stare at your phone, waiting for an allowable amount of time to pass to make it look like you have an uber busy lifestyle.  This creates the illusion you are interesting. Never talk about your pooping schedule.

In one month, my brother will stand at an altar and watch a beautiful woman in white come towards him and in front of all those seated in that church, he will marry her.

No one in this world rants as ridiculously as my grandfather does.  Pick a topic, anything, and the man could get started.  More likely than not, his rants included strange throwback insults and a few curse words for color.  Nothing sets him off like the Yankees, whether they were winning or losing it didn't really matter.  Anything that they didn't do perfectly was met with a "Poo, you bastard!"

The following are some of my Grandpa's classic rants directed at weathermen, commercials, TV shows he doesn't understand, and me.

In November, my dad drove out to Long Island to visit my grandpa for a week and as a surprise he brought Charlie along for the ride.  Grandpa was ecstatic and it was probably the worst idea ever because he now expects us to bring Charlie along every time we visit.

The following weekend, I flew into visit some friends and trek back along the Pennsylvania Turnpike with my dad and Charlie.  Charlie is an excellent passenger.  We've traveled back and forth between Cranberry and Bay Shore so many times she's a pro by now.  Her only issue is that she wants to sit on the dashboard and watch the cars go by, it generally makes her pretty happy.  The problem with this, of course, is you can't see past her when you drive this way and that is extremely dangerous.  So Charlie only gets to run around at rest stops and will cry and whine when you put her back into her carrier because it's not fair that she doesn't get to watch all of the cars and trees go by!

I am a memory hoarder.  I keep scraps from events and significant moments and store them away in large clear under-the-bed storage bins.  Typically, upon moving back or moving out I go through these memories and relive the feelings or remind myself of things far off in the past.

Living with my grandpa meant feeling free to indulge in many ridiculous eats.  While Grandpa is not a very adventurous eater, we both took comfort in sharing some of the basics.  Cakes, cookies, donuts, and cinnamon rolls were always found in the house with the excuse that he was buying them for me.  It wasn't unusual for us to boil up some corn on the cob right before an episode of Big Bang Theory.  We enjoyed the occasional Arby's meal and a dinner out at Applebee's.

I stood on the corner of Fifth and Meyran Avenue, sipping contentedly from my surprisingly delicious cup of Chai Tea from Bruegger's Bagels and waiting for the light to change when I looked up.  I shouldn't have done that.

Looming ahead of me, but slightly to the left, was the building he used to work in.  I looked all the way up the massive tower and immediately his name flashed before my eyes.  I tugged on my off-white knit cap, fixing it to cover my ears but really wanting to pull it over my eyes.  I'd done such a good job since that second week when I discovered he'd studied here to distract myself from the thought of him.  I've walked up and down this street so many times, but this was the first time I stood on this corner and looked at his building from this angle.

Maybe, he walked down this street and sat in Bruegger's and drank tea while studying.  His form crossed the street in front of me in a million different patterns.  Talking with fellow students, discussing theories with faculty, or just hurrying from one building to the next.  He wasn't here anymore, I told myself.  I'm always chasing his ghost.

The best first date I've ever been on was with someone I never ended up dating.

In early June of 2012, following the ending of a long distance relationship and a horrifying rebound, a co-worker of mine suggested I go out with her boyfriend's brother.  My co-worker's boyfriend was two years younger than her.  Making his brother three years younger than me, but four years in school.  I hesitated initially.  He was still in college, still two years off from graduating.  He sounded great, but I wasn't quite sure I could let the age gap go.  I politely declined.  Repeatedly.

For almost three years, my grandfather was my roomie.  And it was glorious.  Every day was truly full of laughs.  Most nights, Grandpa would flip between a sporting event or some Big Bang Theory or Blue Bloods rerun while I worked on the day's crossword (I miss you Newsday!!) or some of the freelance resume work I had leftover.  In nicer weather, we would sit out on the front steps and Grandpa would talk about the neighborhood or any other random thought that came into his head.  It was always the perfect ending to any day.

As the concept of Singles' Day isn't wholly American (it's a Chinese tradition, mostly boosting online shopping sales), it's a bit of an unwanted reminder.  Just as Valentine's Day is.  I can buy chocolate/clothes/electronics any day of the year.  Do I really need a holiday based on my relationship status to make these things available to me?

When I started my new job, one of my co-workers cornered me in the kitchen and asked for all the good gossip I could share about myself.  I laughed and asked her what she wanted to know.  Was I married? she asked.  I quickly responded no, which she followed up by asking if I had any children.  Again, no.  "Well, that's all I wanted to know, really."  And she walked away.