Before you meet me, there are a few things you should know. 😉
“Describe me like you’re trying to warn someone before they meet me.”
TL;DR: Five-foot-two, soft-hearted, strong-willed, Champagne-drinking chaos with a bullshit detector and a tendency to love people deeply. She asks too many questions, feels everything, overthinks everything, turns ordinary moments into mythology, and will absolutely make you a motif if you’re not careful. If you matter to her, you really matter. Proceed accordingly. 🥂
Before you meet her, there are a few things you should know.
She is five-foot-two worth of “this seemed like a good idea” with excellent taste and very strong opinions.
Do not mistake the sparkle for softness.
Actually, she is soft. Alarmingly so. But she is a woman who has survived enough bullshit to develop both a titanium spine and a reasonably well-calibrated bullshit detector.
She will ask you questions. Not just small-talk questions. Questions. You may begin the evening discussing where you grew up and somehow find yourself three glasses of wine later explaining the formative experience responsible for your inability to accept love.
And she will be genuinely interested in the answer.
Her memory, however, is terrible.
She will forget why she walked into a room. She may tell you the same story twice. She will absolutely forget the name of that person you already told her about.
But if you’re important to her?
Her brain works differently.
She won’t remember everything you’ve ever said. But she’ll remember things that mattered. The stories that showed her who you are. Something you love. Something that hurt you. A ridiculous inside joke. A tiny detail you mentioned once and didn’t realize she kept.
Apparently her brain has limited storage, and the people she loves get priority access.
And she loves hard.
Sometimes irrationally. Occasionally forever. She does not really know how to care about people halfway.
This can be wonderful.
It can also mean that if you matter to her, congratulations, you now occupy permanent neurological real estate.
She is sentimental as hell but frequently disguises it with profanity.
She cries.
She says “fuck.”
Sometimes these things happen simultaneously.
She has approximately seventeen different lives packed into one woman: entrepreneur, traveler, writer, wine person, Disney person, arts advocate, professional sparkle dealer, recovering corporate human, and enthusiastic collector of experiences that make good stories later.
Speaking of stories:
Assume everything is material.
Not necessarily your story. She has ethics.
But if you say something devastatingly beautiful while rain hits a window somewhere in Europe, congratulations on your future career as thematic inspiration.
And whatever you do:
DO NOT GIVE THIS WOMAN A MOTIF UNLESS YOU ARE PREPARED TO BECOME ONE.
Rain. Champagne. A particular city. A song. A sentence. Some completely ordinary thing that happened once and somehow acquired emotional significance.
She will make mythology out of it.
She believes ordinary Tuesday afternoons deserve Champagne.
She believes Paris is usually a reasonable answer.
She believes you should take the trip.
She believes you should wear the thing.
She believes you should celebrate for no particular reason.
And she believes people should say the thing.
Which brings us to the part you actually need to worry about.
She wants the truth.
Not perfection. Not constant availability. Not some polished version of you.
Truth.
You can tell her something ugly, complicated, embarrassing, inconvenient, or painful, and she will probably meet you there.
But do not give her half-truths dressed up as principles. Do not make her guess where she stands. Do not offer intimacy and then act surprised when she believes it meant something.
Because eventually, she will ask.
And God help you if your explanation doesn’t make sense.
She is fiercely independent right up until someone she loves is hurting. Then suddenly she is emotionally running a FEMA operation.
She will hype you up. Feed you. Buy you something because it reminded her of you. Send you something ridiculous because she knows it will make you laugh. Remember your weird little preferences. Send you a photo from another country because she thought of you.
And she will call you an asshole when necessary.
Sometimes lovingly.
Sometimes not.
She is impulsive enough to make life interesting and organized enough to have already made the reservation.
She has a romantic streak roughly the size of Western Europe.
She is curious. Sensual. Ridiculous. Loyal. Occasionally maddening. Frequently funny. More vulnerable than she likes people to realize.
She feels things deeply, thinks about them too much, and will occasionally turn one completely normal human interaction into a seven-act emotional analysis with supporting exhibits.
But she will also make you laugh until you can’t breathe.
She will make an ordinary night feel like an occasion.
She will encourage the slightly irresponsible idea.
She will order the Champagne.
She will find the joy.
And despite everything life has taught her about how badly loving people can hurt, she chooses connection anyway.
So the warning is really this:
If she lets you matter to her, you will matter.
There is no casual version of being genuinely loved by her.
Proceed accordingly.
And for God’s sake, bring Champagne. 🥂
TL;DR: Five-foot-two, soft-hearted, strong-willed, Champagne-drinking chaos with a bullshit detector and a tendency to love people deeply. She asks too many questions, feels everything, overthinks everything, turns ordinary moments into mythology, and will absolutely make you a motif if you’re not careful. If you matter to her, you really matter. Proceed accordingly. 🥂
Before you meet her, there are a few things you should know.
She is five-foot-two worth of “this seemed like a good idea” with excellent taste and very strong opinions.
Do not mistake the sparkle for softness.
Actually, she is soft. Alarmingly so. But she is a woman who has survived enough bullshit to develop both a titanium spine and a reasonably well-calibrated bullshit detector.
She will ask you questions. Not just small-talk questions. Questions. You may begin the evening discussing where you grew up and somehow find yourself three glasses of wine later explaining the formative experience responsible for your inability to accept love.
And she will be genuinely interested in the answer.
Her memory, however, is terrible.
She will forget why she walked into a room. She may tell you the same story twice. She will absolutely forget the name of that person you already told her about.
But if you’re important to her?
Her brain works differently.
She won’t remember everything you’ve ever said. But she’ll remember things that mattered. The stories that showed her who you are. Something you love. Something that hurt you. A ridiculous inside joke. A tiny detail you mentioned once and didn’t realize she kept.
Apparently her brain has limited storage, and the people she loves get priority access.
And she loves hard.
Sometimes irrationally. Occasionally forever. She does not really know how to care about people halfway.
This can be wonderful.
It can also mean that if you matter to her, congratulations, you now occupy permanent neurological real estate.
She is sentimental as hell but frequently disguises it with profanity.
She cries.
She says “fuck.”
Sometimes these things happen simultaneously.
She has approximately seventeen different lives packed into one woman: entrepreneur, traveler, writer, wine person, Disney person, arts advocate, professional sparkle dealer, recovering corporate human, and enthusiastic collector of experiences that make good stories later.
Speaking of stories:
Assume everything is material.
Not necessarily your story. She has ethics.
But if you say something devastatingly beautiful while rain hits a window somewhere in Europe, congratulations on your future career as thematic inspiration.
And whatever you do:
DO NOT GIVE THIS WOMAN A MOTIF UNLESS YOU ARE PREPARED TO BECOME ONE.
Rain. Champagne. A particular city. A song. A sentence. Some completely ordinary thing that happened once and somehow acquired emotional significance.
She will make mythology out of it.
She believes ordinary Tuesday afternoons deserve Champagne.
She believes Paris is usually a reasonable answer.
She believes you should take the trip.
She believes you should wear the thing.
She believes you should celebrate for no particular reason.
And she believes people should say the thing.
Which brings us to the part you actually need to worry about.
She wants the truth.
Not perfection. Not constant availability. Not some polished version of you.
Truth.
You can tell her something ugly, complicated, embarrassing, inconvenient, or painful, and she will probably meet you there.
But do not give her half-truths dressed up as principles. Do not make her guess where she stands. Do not offer intimacy and then act surprised when she believes it meant something.
Because eventually, she will ask.
And God help you if your explanation doesn’t make sense.
She is fiercely independent right up until someone she loves is hurting. Then suddenly she is emotionally running a FEMA operation.
She will hype you up. Feed you. Buy you something because it reminded her of you. Send you something ridiculous because she knows it will make you laugh. Remember your weird little preferences. Send you a photo from another country because she thought of you.
And she will call you an asshole when necessary.
Sometimes lovingly.
Sometimes not.
She is impulsive enough to make life interesting and organized enough to have already made the reservation.
She has a romantic streak roughly the size of Western Europe.
She is curious. Sensual. Ridiculous. Loyal. Occasionally maddening. Frequently funny. More vulnerable than she likes people to realize.
She feels things deeply, thinks about them too much, and will occasionally turn one completely normal human interaction into a seven-act emotional analysis with supporting exhibits.
But she will also make you laugh until you can’t breathe.
She will make an ordinary night feel like an occasion.
She will encourage the slightly irresponsible idea.
She will order the Champagne.
She will find the joy.
And despite everything life has taught her about how badly loving people can hurt, she chooses connection anyway.
So the warning is really this:
If she lets you matter to her, you will matter.
There is no casual version of being genuinely loved by her.
Proceed accordingly.
And for God’s sake, bring Champagne. 🥂













