Okay, so The Fella and I were sitting on the sofa at loggerheads:  he was all wanting to get down with the touchy-feely Dr. Phil crapola and I just wanted to watch the fucking movie we’d rented without discussing my shitty day and giving a lolli to my inner troubled child.

“Are you going to talk to me about what’s bothering you?”

I closed my eyes and exhaled.  “You know, Tristan — sometimes people just have a bad day and talking about it only serves to agitate them more.”

“And sometimes it helps.”

Okay, so here was the crux of the thing:  I could either just give in and do what he wanted (and thereby establish him as having the upper hand in all future discussions) or I could deal with it myself like I do everything else (and remain self-sufficient and secure in the knowledge that I don’t need anyone to help me handle my problems but piss him off in the process).  Obviously, I wasn’t going to win either way here so the question was did I want to let pride goeth before the fall (or beforeth The Fella walked out the door in this case) or just suck it up and let him win?

In the end, I figured I had so little pride left, what was my last remaining shred?  So I gave  him the “50 Words or Less” version and The Fella being The Fella, he asked a few more questions, digested what he’d heard, then went in the kitchen and sliced the pizza.   And Dirk being Dirk, I retreated further into myself because (1) I had given in to yet another person’s badgering and done something I hadn’t wanted to do, and (2) admitting I have a problem of any sort makes me feel weak and inferior and I hate the idea of appearing that way in anyone’s eyes.

We ate our pizza in silence, then plopped down on the sofa for a little DEATHRACE.  Irritated with myself for giving in and not really sure I had anything I wanted to tell him at that point, I immediately fell asleep the second cars started zooming around and trying to blow each other up or whatever it was they were trying to do.  Not that Tristan noticed (if it involves Jason Statham or a fireman — or ideally Jason Statham as a fireman – the entire world falls away).

Two hours later, both the video sedative and my nap ended just in time for Nancy Grace. For those of you who have never experienced it, The Nancy Grace Show has great healing powers.  I would not be surprised to hear that in addition to being the cure-all for stress and bouts of gay assholism it also reverses male pattern baldness and shrinks tumors.  It’s that good.

The Fella snagged a blanket and we curled up for the latest on “tot mom Casey Anthony” and the never ending search for justice for “lil Keh-lee” (Nancy can’t pronounce Kaylee for love nor money).  We giggled at perpetually frumpy, outside voiced Susan Moss, mocked callers’ repeated need to congratulate Nancy on the birth of her twins (despite the fact those kids are almost a year old), and spoke to one another in Nancy twang.  Quicker than you can say “shocking revelations tonight in the ongoing Casey Anthony murder case as parents George and Cindy are once again put under the spotlight and the remains of lil Keh-lee lie in a Florida funeral home…when. will. this. child. be. laid to rest?”, our disagreement was forgotten and we were united in our bitchery and shared love of all things Nancy.

“Wanna watch some GOSSIP GIRL?” Tristan asked when The Murderin’ Tot Mom Variety Hour was over.

“You turn down the bed, I’ll get the ice cream!”

We leapt to our feet, ready for action.

Five minutes later, we were cuddling under the covers watching the evil Georgina Sparks torture our beloved Serena van der Woodsen and eating Moosetracks ice cream.  (For the record, I truly believe the middle east crisis could be solved with a big furry blanket, a bowl of sweet frozen dairy goodness, and a liberal dose of Miss Blake Lively.)

As The Fella delighted to the machinations of Michelle Trachtenberg’s Georgina (and is there anyone out there thinking what I’m thinking — that Georgina will turn out to be Lily and Rufus’s long lost baby?), I was pondering the wisdom in going through with my plan to make my feelings known.

We were midway through episode 15 (“Desperately Seeking Serena”) when Tristan reached for the remote and paused the dvd. ”It’s midnight,” he said, leaning over and kissing me. ”Happy New Year…”

“Happy New Year.”

He put his arm around me and we snuggled deeper under the covers, dissing Chuck Bass’s hair-don’t and discussing whether or not Chace Crawford is cross eyed.

After 4 episodes, we were both beginning to yawn so we called it an evening.  The television was turned off, the lights were extinguished, and we curled up under the covers sharing our warmth.

As I lay there in the dark, my mind tried to find the right words and the proper inflection to not only communicate my feelings but more importantly not come off like a fucking needy, clingy ‘tard.

Tristan, I love you.

I love you, Tristan.

I love you.

It suddenly occurred to me that there really was no way to say it without sounding like a total pussy.  Once I came to that realization,  I was ready.

“Tristan?” I rasped, swallowing hard.