There's no crying in cooking. Also, I totally win the Girlfriend of the Year award. Obviously.

I’m not sure about you, but I don’t consider my holiday weekends a success unless I’ve made a pact with my boyfriend to only cry once a month from this day forward. With a caveat for movies, obviously. And the occasional commercial. Because that’s not being emotional, that’s having a soul.

See, I’m what most people typically refer to as a little bit crazy. But totally in the normal, won’t-stab-you-in-your-sleep kind of way. Allegedly. But definitely in the “I will most certainly cry over fried chicken” kind of way. I mean, I’m only human.

Enter: Me Taking On Way Too Much. And, also, being emotionally unstable.

You see, our weekend plans started out totally fun, care-free, and easy. And then I got involved.

I mean, why just plan on meeting up with your best friends and their kids in the city for some afternoon park fun when you can really amp up your own anxiety level and offer to make said friends lunch in the form of fried chicken? What fun would that be?

Cut to: me crying on the couch at 10:15 Friday night and boyfriend muting the Mets game.

Me: Silence after ruining a huge batch of fried chicken.

Boyfriend: “Don’t worry, it’s only fried chicken.”

Me: “I know.”

Boyfriend: “So we can just pick some up on our way in tomorrow morning.”

Me: “But it’s not the same.”

Confused boyfriend: “Tomorrow doesn’t hinge on fried chicken. It’ll be fine, just relax. Do you want a glass of wine?”

Me: Silence, tears starting to form.

Confused boyfriend: Silence….and doing that reassuring arm rub thing that is a good go-to move when I’m silent.

Me: Sniffles.

Increasingly panicking, confused boyfriend: “Why are you crying? Don’t cry, it’s just fried chicken.”

Me: “It’s not just the fried chicken. I’ve let everyone down!”

…and then it turned ugly, so I’ll spare you. Sorry, boyfriend, you were not spared. Oh, also, the nice men with the straightjackets will be here in the morning.

Thanks for ruining everyone’s really awesome holiday weekend, chicken. I hope you think about what you’ve done and have learned your lesson. 

Now obviously, as my girlfriends pointed out the next day, this was not about the fried chicken. Every single woman who bared witness to this story immediately was like “It soobviously wasn’t over the fried chicken. You’re totally just burned out. Duh.”

Duh, indeed. However, because said boyfriend is (a) a fixer AND very sweet, as well as (b) really wanting to stop any sort of tears from happening – especially during baseball –he made the mistake of asking:

 “Well, do you want to go back to Shop Rite?”

Oh man, poor bastard. I now know that the correct answer to that rhetorical question was “No.” But Crazy Becky had taken over and was currently running for Mayor of Crazytown, so I said “yes.” Hence, the now famous third trip to Shop Rite at 10:30 Friday night.

Whatever, totally normal and I have no idea why I was single for so long prior to this relationship.

Also, it should be noted that this conversation happened just after midnight, post-successful second batch of fried chicken and a Mets win (was it a full moon?):

Me, collapsing into bed: “You’re great.”

Collapsed boyfriend: “You’re a pain in the ass.”

I hope you all had a great holiday weekend, too!