Jealousy, immaturity, and breakfast sandwiches.

My poor boyfriend. What a saint.

I should take a moment to explain to my devoted readers the sad truth of the matter which is that I am a crazy jealous bitch. I have my reasons. My last relationship was the kind that could make the entire cast of Love Actually jump into a black hole while Kiera Knightly screams "RUBBISH!!!!" I'll let you make sense of that one on your own.

Essentially, I got played bunches of times. Dude played my forgiving ass like a fiddle, and since then I've remembered the golden rule: Don't take shit from nobody. So let's go ahead and hang on my conditioned responses a giant banner that reads "NEVER FORGET," because that relationship was like the fucking 9/11 of my interpersonal experiences.

(All of the Beyonce songs of the past 3 years should be playing on a loop in your head by now. You're welcome.)

So, after my current boyfriend spent the weekend on a bachelor-party-bender, needless to say I greeted him with some minor inquisition, starting with "Did the stripper's big fake boobs make you reconsider our relationship?" closely followed by "I DONT BELIEVE YOU."

And like I said, the man is a saint. He patiently endured my ridiculous questions and my patented "I am thoroughly evaluating the moral fiber of your character behind these enormous sunglasses" death stare. He didn't panic when I waved my finger and bobbled my head as only the highly-righteous North Jersey woman can. And then, two beers and a chicken quesadilla later, I remembered just who it was I was talking to, and my jealousy subsided.

And there lies the rub: How does one be trustful without being naive? How do I convince myself that mofo isn't cheating on me without driving poor dude crazy? DISCUSS!

I suspect my personal growth and maturity has something to do with the answer... but before I open that can of worms, let me lay out the groundwork for my future bachelorette party: First, I'm going to have a spy inform me of the general level of depravity of my fiance's bachelor party. Then I'll simply ensure that my party is so much raunchier and inappropriate. And then I'm going to say "IN YO' FACE, HUSBAND."

On a sad note, breakfast sandwiches in this country just aren't living up to my expectations. If Marta and Domingo at the local deli can, in a timely manner, whip up a fresh, homemade bacon-egg-and-cheese on a whole grain bagel, why on God's green earth is Au Bon Pan and every other purveyor of yuppy bullshit food using precooked egg product? For fuck's sake people, let's get our shit together and scramble some eggs!

Marta and Domingo, we salute you.