Sunday: A photo essay September 16, 2007

I’m writing this on Sunday, because I won’t be in the office tomorrow, because I’ll be out doing something all important-like for my job and please take a moment to say a little prayer that I don’t royally fuck it up and expose myself for the fraud that I am. (Does anyone else feel like a fraud at their jobs? I keep waiting for them to expose me, because I can’t clearly be deserving of the money they are paying me and the title they have bestowed upon me…can I?)

No, they’re not from the Hooters next door because Hooters has many things but good wings is, sadly, not one of them. That Hooters has good wings is a tragic popular misconception:

 

 

 

“Oh, I’ll just have one.” One or, you know, seventy bajillion. Also: Coke Zero is the nectar of the gods, and that bowl came from Ikea, and I heart it with the heat of a thousand suns:

 

 

 

At least there were wings to bring me joy because the Giants certainly didn’t bring me any after getting crushed by the damn Packers:

 

 

Oh! And the living/dining area is starting to come together. You’ll notice that there are no more boxes in this picture, only M’s couches that I am learning to live with and M himself, reading the paper in his beloved lazyboy. Yukka plant Huey makes a cameo in the corner:

 

 

 

 

Yes, we still need a table. Yes, I am very picky. Yes, I arranged the chairs around a fake table. Yes, I am crazy.

 

 

 

I got the urge to bake. (Not shown: the other two trays.) The apartment still smells like chocolate chip cookies. My mouth is happy even if my thighs and my ass are all “fuck this bitch with her fucking cookies.”

 

 

 

 

Oh and my toe! Remember? From the other night? When the god damn toilet paper holder fell on it? It’s healing quite nicely:

Please note: I am very busy. Hence the bullshit below. September 6, 2007

The status of all the major things in my life, in list form and yes, I apologize for this bullshit entry and yes, I think you should leave a comment urging M to GET ON VERIZON so that they SET UP OUR INTERNET so that I can BLOG FROM HOME and not have to PUT UP BULLSHIT POSTS: 

Apartment: Sigh. I heart. I just wish M would be a bit less methodical about his unpacking because damn it the boxes! THE BOXES. The boxes of bullshit. If there are two things we have learned about each other throughout this experience it’s that I never throw away clothes or shoes or bags and M never throws away receipts or pay stubs or ANYTHING ELSE MADE OF PAPER.  But at least my five/ten/fifteen year old shoes, clothes and bags are PUT AWAY AND NOT SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LIVING ROOM. On the upside, shredding is fun!  

Relationship: It’s weird how this move has affected us. For about a week, up until yesterday I’d say, we were much less affectionate than usual. Probably because we were too damn tired to do anything except wave goodnight to each other and turn off the light at the end of the day, but still. It scared me.  I began to overreact (me? No! NEVER.) I began to worry that we would become like roommates. It’s gotten progressively better, we’re starting to settle in to both our place and our old selves. Has anyone else experienced that while navigating the shitstorm that is moving in together? Please say yes. It will make my delicate little feelings happier.   

Operation Buff Bride: You have no idea what I ate last night. I went to dinner with a foodie/wine snob friend of mine and I left the restaurant with my bank account one hundred dollars lighter. We started with goat cheese profiteroles and delicious crusty bread. We split two entrees – rock shrimp risotto (hi, Heaven, I’m Clink. Nice to meet you) and seared tuna with a parmesan crisp disc-like thingy that was clearly created by God himself. We finished the night with a dessert smorgasboard – one of everything on their dessert menu in a smaller size than normal. There was: blueberry crumble, a Nutella-filled éclair, crème broulee, chocolate mousse, tiramisu mousse, a lemon bar and a fudgy chocolate square. Oh, and we finished two bottles of wine. I asked the waiter if he would be kind enough to roll me out of the restaurant; he thought I was kidding. Clearly, I am not exactly on track. Also, $100? EACH? ON ONE DINNER? (*Looks at bank account, sobs*) 

Job: Love, love and also love. My boss is seriously a shorter, blonder version of me. We’ve been going out to lunch and discussing our men, our weddings, the fact that we both want to lose weight before dress shopping. The job itself is a dream. I wish I could say more but I’ll leave you with this tidbit: the job makes me hungry. Like all the time.  

Blog: Neglected, clearly.

Thursday is the new Friday. August 30, 2007

Today is my Friday for tomorrow, tomorrow we move.
 
The Great Move-In Experiment of 2007 is underway, also known as FINALLY! (as has been the subject line of our emails for weeks now).
 
I haven’t really been obsessing (You: Liar! Me: No really!) as much as I have been anticipating. It’s like Christmas and also Easter and also my birthday and also the fourth of July and, literally, Labor Day weekend all rolled into one. I’m like a little kid, pacing and fidgeting and tapping my feet and OMIGOD, WOULD IT JUST HAPPEN ALREADY?
 
A little kid who, um, hasn’t packed a single thing. Not one. Single. Thing.
 
Ok, that’s not entirely true. I did take my extensive collection of headbands (I’m a headband girl; don’t judge) and stuff them all into an old make-up case so that I no longer, at 8:42am, when I should be halfway to work already, have to search through drawers and throw things around and grunt and berate myself for being so careless with my things because WHERE THE HELL IS THAT POLKA DOT HEADBAND (I’m a polka dot headband girl; again, don’t judge).
 
The hardest part of the weekend will be staying on track with Operation Buff Bride. I’m dedicated to eating healthier and less, all for the sake of photographs and my self-esteem on the Big Day. I do not want to be focused on the fact that I wish my arms were slimmer come July 25, 2008. I want to be focused solely on the fact that it is July 25, 2008 and I am GETTING MARRIED. Hence, I must take care of the arm (and all-over) slimming beforehand. Like, now.
 
Last night, there was a party for our office building. It screamed New York: a hundred or so hipsters people from various television and film companies gathered in a courtyard smaller than most suburban backyards, networking and hitting on and being hit on and reconnecting about that project they worked on long ago, and omigod, wasn’t that the worst? There was music and appetizers and, most importantly, free booze.
 
Normally, at these things, I am uncontrollable. Someone is always fetching me another glass of wine, I am always picking appetizers off of the trays making the rounds, sometimes two at a time, paying no attention to what I’m putting in my mouth because it’s a party! And it’s free! And my willpower is about as strong as (to shout out my heritage) a sheet of phyllo dough.
 
But not last night. Last night I plucked exactly three bite-sized appetizers off of trays and had exactly one glass of wine. And when I got home I didn’t feel disgusting and disgusted. Funny how that happens. Funny how I woke up this morning not hating myself. I like not hating myself.
 
So, yes, the long weekend, which I hope you all enjoy immensely.
 
Come Tuesday, there will most likely be pictures of our (!!!!) apartment (including one of the infamous Patriots garbagecan, natch). Either that or pictures of M lunging at the camera because CLINK, would you put that thing down already and, like, start unpacking because, like, this is ridiculous and I’ve had to do, like, everything.
 
Also come Tuesday will be the new job. The first time I will be “the boss.” I’m already practicing the many different ways one can say “bow down to me, the Almighty, you lowly assistant.” You’d be surprised.

Seriously, the Patriots garbage can is ugly. Trust me. August 16, 2007

M and I practically live together. In fact, he refers to his apartment as “that expensive closet out in Queens” and usually spends only one or two nights a month there.  
 
So, officially moving in together come September really shouldn’t be a big deal. Except, it kind of is - but not for the reasons you might expect. 
 
Emotionally, I know we can handle it. It won’t be that big of a departure for us. The physical act of moving in together (as in two people, two sets of furniture, one apartment), however, is proving to be a bit more daunting.  
 
M is, as you may have deduced by now, a boy. Please note I left the word metrosexual – or whatever the kids are calling it these days – out of that description. He’s a boy who has collected boy-ish furniture (mostly through a series of “hey, I’m getting rid of this, you want it M?” or “hmm, that book shelf by the side of the road looks like it’s in good shape”) and now he wants to move that rag tag collection of mismatched-ness into our sparkly new apartment. 
 
To which I say: here are the directions to Goodwill, honey. Give them everything. Including those issues of Sports Illustrated that date back to before I was born.  
 
I didn’t think it would be this hard to mesh our stuff, but this is New York. It’s not like we can just throw his oversized Patriots garbage can in the basement of our spacious suburban home and forget about it. If he wants to keep that Patriots garbage can (which he does, he says it would be sacrilege to throw out or donate), there’s no place to hide it. (Except for under the sink, which is probably where it will end up unless I can convince the movers to accidentally lose it on the way from Queens to Manhattan.)  
 
Another disagreement we’ve been having lately: which bed to keep? There is only one bedroom (again, New York) and there’s no place to store an extra queen-sized mattress and no, M, we are not going to just “leave it in the living room” as a “place for people to, you know, hang out.” I want to keep my bed as it is newer and does not gap in the middle. He wants to keep his cough ten year old cough bed because, well, it’s his and he likes it.  
 
We did buy a bunch of furniture at Ikea, mostly at my urging, so that we could have matching bedside tables and sit at the dining table on chairs that are not of the folding variety. 
 
However, the rest of it is proving to be a disagreement at every turn. Granted, it’s mostly playful, but there are serious undertones. We both like what we have and we both do not understand why the other is being so stubborn.  
 
Don’t even get me started on DirecTV versus my beloved Time Warner Cable. Though, he may win that argument as the alternative to getting DirecTV (which comes with the NFL package so he can watch those beloved Patriots while flicking wings into the Patriots garbage can) is going next door to Hooters to catch the games. Rock, hard place. Goodbye Style Network, it’s been real.  
 
So, I ask all of you who are living with significant others or have lived with significant other or anyone who has an opinion on the matter, really: was it this hard? Are M and I being unreasonable? Should I just submit to the fact that half of my furniture will look like cast-offs from a fraternity house? And who the hell wants to keep an aged, sagging bed over an almost brand new, very expensive one?! WHO?!

Snippets. May 1, 2007

Hi! I have nothing to write about! Nothing at all. Not even shopping (I know, right?) 
 
But I also happen to be a wee bit bored at work, so pointless drivel wins out. Apologies in advance. 
 
-I have been thinking a lot about eloping. Not seriously thinking, more like fantasizing. Kind of like the way I fantasize about going to Australia even though I know it will never actually happen because I don’t think I can be drunk for 24 hours on a plane and it takes 24 hours on a plane to get there. A friend of mine recently eloped. She and her fiancé-now-husband were engaged for all of seven days before they decided to go to Key West and get married at sunset on the beach. No friends, no family, no obscene price tag. “It was just the two of us,” she said, “and that’s all it needed to be.” I know, deep down, that I want the memories and the photographs and to be surrounded by friends and family as I bind myself to another human being for all of eternity. But I also know, deep down, that one day I would like to stop throwing thousands upon thousands of dollars into the abyss that is renting, and the more money saved for a down payment on an apartment or house, the better. I know this line of thinking is fleeting and that once I actually get engaged I will want to plan a wedding. Because I do want a wedding. I just want it to be free is all. 
 
-Speaking of things that are not at all free (and also, speaking of being drunk on a plane), M and I are in the early stages of planning a jaunt to Las Vegas (never been! Not once! Suggestions?) and California (been many times! Love!). We’ve been talking about going to Vegas and LA together since forever and ever. We’re finally starting to get serious about it, to the point that we may actually buy these plane tickets we’ve been mulling over all morning. One of M’s best friends is in Vegas (a short trip for a bachelor party turned into a permanent residence). Casinos are also in Vegas and casinos happen to have slot machines and I happen to be the Queen of All Slot Machines so that bodes very well for me (though not very well for my bank account). There may not be casinos (as far as I know) in Los Angeles, but I’m just as excited to go there. As much as us New York “industry” folk like to take digs every now and then (read: all the time) at our Los Angeles counterparts, I do really love LA. What’s not to love: sun, surf, sand. The three S’s of happiness, I say. I really need a vacation and while I’m still considering Greece in August, August is very very far away. My mental health is not stable enough to make it the next three months without some sort of reprieve, even if it is only 4 days. At least it will be 4 days in 2 very wonderful places. 
 
-The only foreseeable worry about the potential trip (other than the fact that it involves planes! Evil planes!) is that I need my body to be up to snuff by then. And by “up to snuff” I mean “bikini-ready.” While I’ve been great about working out and okay about eating right (okay, I’ve been downright shitty about eating right. Example, from last night: garlic parmesan chicken, lasagna and apple crisp with vanilla ice cream), I need to take it to the next level in order to feel confident come June. I’m going to have to kick my own ass. But maybe the trip as a dangling carrot is exactly what I need to revamp my workouts and my diet.  
 
-My boyfriend is going to Wisconsin on Thursday, to visit his sister and her husband and their delicious child. We were supposed to go this winter, but that fell through because of (my) work. And I was supposed to be going on this trip with him but again it fell through because of (my) work. We were there at around this time last year and while you won’t see me packing up my things and slapping a “Wisconsin or bust” sticker on the back of an RV, I did really enjoy it. Wisconsin is pretty much the antithesis of New York City and is therefore quite rejuvenating. I mean, there are tons of chain restaurants (Like Butter Burger! Which is exactly that, be still my clogged arteries), and no one looks at you funny if you suggest actually eating at one. (I almost lost a few friendships after I mentioned the T.G.I.Friday’s on 34^th Street as a possible dining destination to a group of my friends.) Also, there is sky. And there are stars. And it’s nice to be reminded that those two things do still exist, somewhere.
 
 -This weekend my mom and I are driving down to my alma mater, which is soon to also be my sister’s alma mater, as she graduates later this month. She “needs help” picking out a dress for the dinner dance. That is code for: she wants my mom to pay for the dress. I’m just along for the ride and the shopping at the mall and the free meal (possibly at a chain restaurant! Cheesecake Factory, perhaps?).  Also, spending some time on campus may remind me of just how skinny I was in college which may remind me of how nice it was to be so skinny which may jumpstart my motivation to be Little Miss Twiggy Arms and Legs by the time we go to Vegas and LA in June. Hey, it’s worth a shot.

Insecure. October 31, 2006

I’m having a hard time with something. Part of me doesn’t want to put it out there because I don’t want to have to deal with emails and comments of the “ur so insecure, loserrrr!” and “get some self-respect” variety in return. (By the way, thank you for the latter, John Getz of Property Solutions, Inc. I’ll get right on that.)

But whatever, I’m tougher than you think and last night it came to a head and I think I need to admit on paper (screen, whatever) that hello, my name is Clink and sometimes I am wildly insecure (clearly a conclusion you have probably already come to if you’ve read one or more of my posts on this blog). I need to try and work this out for myself and what is it that they say about blogs? Something about free therapy?

Here’s the situation: The Boy is taking an LSAT review course (2nd round’s the charm) at a school four blocks away from where I live. Yesterday he decided that it would be easier to work at my apartment until 6:30pm and then head to class, instead of going all the way out to Queens. Obviously a logical, acceptable solution if it weren’t for one thing: the Roommate.

She gets home around 5pm because she has a fake job with fake hours that unfortunately pays lots of real dollars. So not only were they alone in the apartment for over an hour before the class but also for an hour or so afterwards.

Let’s get something straight. A few things, actually. I know the Boy loves me. I trust the Boy. I believe that he would never let anything happen, even if the Roommate showed up in the living room wearing a French maid costume and did a striptease for him.

I know all of those things and yet I still don’t like the situation. I don’t like it one bit. It gives the Roommate carte blanch to flirt with my boyfriend, as she has done in the past, as she has done with me present, lord knows what she’ll do if I’m not. While I’m sure that everything was innocent (because, like I said, I trust the Boy not to let it become un-innocent), I still can’t get the worst case scenarios out of my head.

I came home a bit earlier than expected last night. I heard laughing and talking as I approached the door. My heart sank. If it were any other friend, I would be thrilled that they were getting a chance to know the Boy. But it’s her and she is shady and manipulative and a supreme flirt and it bothered me. Call me a drama queen, say I’m psychotic, tell me that the Boy should leave my insecure ass. Fine. But I’m human and I can’t help the way I felt, standing in the hallway, disturbed and annoyed.

It took me a while to warm up to the Boy afterwards. I still can’t warm up to the Roommate. However, I know I have to make myself okay with this situation because it’s not going to remain an isolated incident. He’s going to be alone in the apartment with her a lot because of this class. I can’t let the stress of worrying about that dictate my life and strain my relationship.

And yet, I come back to the fact that I still fucking hate being put in this situation and feeling this way. It’s not who I am. And yet, apparently it is. And above all, it is fucking exhausting.

Such a whore. October 24, 2006

Living with someone whose behavior plays to your very own longstanding insecurities is not ideal. You know, just in case you were wondering or something.

My roommate just returned from London, where her ex-boyfriend is living temporarily, where she did her best to ruin his current relationship, where she attempted to regain his attention so that she could again revel in having him yearn for her, where she could be around someone who is a professional at feeding her starving ego.

I, in case you were wondering, do not approve of her behavior.

She hooked up with him. It’s not the fact that it happened that shocks me, as I know it is rarely the fault of the ‘other woman’ when a man cheats. It’s more her astounding lack of guilt about the situation that doesn’t sit well. It’s the fact that she’s capable of, essentially, ruining a relationship and not feeling the slightest bit bad about it. It’s that she may, in fact, just be a bad person.

She even included the following line in an email to me this morning: “I’m such a little homewrecker, hahaha.”

It’s not as if she suddenly realized that she was in love with her ex and planned a trans-Atlantic trip in order to declare her realization face to face. It was more the fact that she doesn’t have anyone else in her life and therefore wants his attention again, to validate that she is, in fact, desirable to men – current girlfriend be damned.

Women like her make me scared of other women and what they are capable of.

My trust issues, of course, start to stir when I hear stories like this. I’m having a hard time indulging her when she talks about the trip and her ex and the sex. Truth be told, I’m having a hard time not ripping out her hair when she talks about the trip and her ex and the sex. Mainly because I know that his innocent girlfriend was – and still remains – blissfully unaware. I’m a girlfriend too and there’s definitely a sense of unity that comes with being part of a relationship. It makes you respect other people’s relationships and hate on obnoxious, self-centered whores. Like the one I live with.

Update: She won’t stop writing me emails about it. I won’t stop ignoring them. Another gem: “I know I have that power over him. Like, with the drop of a hat, he’ll always fall for me that way. It’s kinda cocky, but I know it.”

I’ve pretty much kept my mouth shut (hey Anonymous, I never said I was going to confront her about her choices), and will continue to. But the fact that from about 5pm until about 8pm tonight she will be alone in the apartment with my boyfriend, uh, doesn’t sit well.

Unbridled Narcissism September 14, 2006

Living with the Roommate hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be. For one, she has surprisingly maintained a respectable distance from my boyfriend, which means that I haven’t had to rip her shiny black hair out (yet). Also, it’s nice to come home and have someone to drink with because, you know, drinking alone has such a stigma attached to it.

However, her narcissism, it knows no bounds. I have never met someone more self-involved or egotistical in my entire life. And I work in TV.

Our conversations go something along the lines of:

Clink: Oh, so the Boy said the cutest thing the other day. We were talking about how much our single friends struggle with finding someone and he goes, “I’m so lucky that I’ve already found the perfect girl.” Isn’t that so sweet?

Roommate: That’s so funny! Because the other night I was at this bar and this guy was like, totally checking me out and finally he comes over to me and is like “wow, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in this city.”

Clink: Heh. Uh, that’s funny. But really has nothing to do with—

Roommate: Yeah, so me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me.

Clink: Actually I —

Roommate: Did you say something? Anyway, me me me. MEEEEEE!!! ME ME ME ME ME ME ME. Me. Me.

Roommate: More me.

Roommate: Even more me.

Clink: I give up.

Roommate: Yeah, so me. An unbelievable amount of ME.

Clink: (Chugs wine, contemplates suicide.)

She’s very fond of herself, brought about by the lethal combination of being relatively attractive and an only child. The world revolves around her and her unparalleled beauty, DUH.

Every day she has a new story about which guy at work wants her, which one of her many male friends wants her, which random dude who checked her out while she was crossing the street TOTALLY WANTS HER.

In fact she is currently embroiled in drama with her ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend because she can’t handle the fact that a new girlfriend means her ex MAY NOT TOTALLY WANT HER. Her ex-boyfriend, whose heart she broke into about five million little pieces by dumping him after he had flown 3,000 miles across the Atlantic to visit her while we were studying abroad, I might add.

He eventually picked up the pieces and met a nice, pretty, HUMBLE girl who he has been dating for a few months. Well, Roommate is having NONE of that, because according to the laws of Roommate’s universe, all men should be pining after her and HER ALONE and ex-boyfriends are most certainly NOT allowed to move on. If they do, the world may actually just stop spinning and THEN what?

So now she is intent on breaking up his perfectly balanced relationship by writing her ex-boyfriend emails about the “big mistake” she made and how she still thinks about him “all the time.”

When I asked her whether or not she wanted to get back together with him, she shrugged and giggled an evil giggle and said, “Not really. But fucking with him is kind of fun. He basically still does whatever I want, nothing has changed.”

She has already booked a flight to visit him in London (where he is working temporarily) in October under the pretense of “a much-needed getaway, and London was the cheapest airfare.” Which, of course, is bullshit.

Sigh. I didn’t think it was possible for someone like that to exist either, until we moved in together and I got a front row seat to the Unbridled Narcissism Show.

But other than all that she’s actually pretty fun! No really! I mean, whatever! I don’t have to drink alone! That counts for something, right? Right? RIGHT?

Delicious. August 28, 2006

I planned to take pictures and put them up on this here blog and then write captions such as “LOOK! THIS IS MY BED IN MY NEW ROOM IN MY NEW APARTMENT THAT I LOVE!” and “THAT’S THE TOILET, ISN’T IT GORGEOUS?” but of course, like a dumb ass, I got too wrapped up in dinner in my new neighborhood and then shopping in my new neighborhood and then having sex and watching the Emmy’s in my new bedroom in my new apartment in my new neighborhood and oops…I got nothin’.

And also? Nothin’ else to talk about.

The Boy somehow convinced me to stay in Queens tonight and I’m pretty sure he must have asked me while I was half-passed out, valiantly fighting against NyQuil-induced sleep to see if ‘24’ would pull of a Best Drama win (sometimes? I care about the stupidest things. That would be one of them) and I must have agreed to it under those quite hazy and surely non-binding circumstances. Bastard. The last thing I want to do is go to Queens. The only thing I want to do is walk around my new apartment naked, like I did this morning (hi, across-the-street office building! I’m Clink! And this is my naked ass and this is my bare chest! I can’t be bothered to shut the blinds every time I step out of the shower! Enjoy!) and marvel that it’s MINE ALL MINE and maybe not so much think about exactly how much I’m paying for it to be MINE ALL MINE.

It feels like home. All of it. From the dishwasher (that I ran half-empty three times this weekend! Because I can!) to the Roommate (who still sucks when it comes to men, but matches me perfectly in terms of how we’re both all “Let’s eat healthy! We’ll make a salad!” and then somehow we’re nursing Wendy’s-binge hangovers two hours later).

All in all, it’s quite delicious (the apartment, not the Wendy’s, though the Wendy’s was also QUITE DELICIOUS) and this whole work thing is getting in the way of me spending time frolicking in the deliciousness and hunting for a coffee table, wine glasses and a bath mat that will make it EVEN MORE DELICIOUS.

On a random yet related note, there’s a Hooters (hi, stalkers!) on the same block and despite the Roommate and I being all “We will NEVER set foot in there, EVER, we are FEMINISTS and it is WRONG and EWW” I predict that we will patronize the place at least once by the end of the week. Mark my words.

(Pictures forthcoming. Not so much because I think you care. More because it gives me an excuse to stare longingly.)

Yes, a milk-chocolate covered burrito. August 25, 2006

It’s Friday, yes, but I still don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next nine hours. I’m bored, unmotivated and pre-menstrual, which is a brutal combination and would everyone in this fucking office please just stop talking and stop laughing and leave me alone and, you know what? If you’ve got so much energy, dear co-workers, why don’t you make yourselves useful and go get me a burrito smothered in milk chocolate because that is what I am SO craving right now.

I don’t want to do any work. I don’t want to even pretend to do any work because that in and of itself is a daunting task and really? I just want to go home and curl up with the Boy and force him to watch Felicity re-runs all day, even if that means that I have to hear “she was so much hotter with long hair, don’t ever cut your hair Clink” about a hundred times.

This weekend is shaping up to be one of the most non-relaxing weekends in the history of all weekends in the entire universe, which doesn’t help my situation. Between moving all day tomorrow and then heading down to Philadelphia on Sunday for the wedding shower of a friend’s fiancée who I met exactly once, while standing in line at a Coldplay concert, there is little time for much-needed relaxation in the form of a 2 HOUR BATH AND I DON’T EVEN TAKE BATHS BUT DAMN IT, I NEED ONE.

After work tonight I will go home to a Boy-less apartment and will begin to pack up my things, which – as the Boy and I agreed upon over sushi last night – is bittersweet. I love the new place and I love that I’m moving back to Manhattan where I belong, but it’s without him. Sure, we’ll see each other just as often because we are, as they say, “glued at the hip” and also very much in love and also very used to sleeping next to each other, intertwined, even if it makes certain muscles and body parts ache the next day. I have gotten so used to both of us coming home to the same place every night, to both of our things sharing space in the same apartment. So has he. We’re going to miss it, the slight shift in our relationship that arose from cohabitation, a shift that brought us closer. Hopefully we can sustain it, even though we have to go back to a gypsy-like, “my place or yours? Please mine, I’m tiiiiiiiired” existence.

There’s a very good chance he’ll come home from work around midnight tonight to find me sitting in the middle of the bedroom floor surrounded by frilly clothing and high, strappy heels and tampons and nail files and all the other female necessities that I brought into his domain for two whole wonderful months, sobbing that I don’t want to leave and why can’t we just move in together and I’m already sick of the Roommate’s narcissism and we aren’t even living together yet. He will sit down next to me and stroke my hair and remind me that it’s all temporary and that this time next year I’ll be moving again – into a place with him.

I’m not looking forward to moving again, next August (who looks forward to moving? No one, that’s who). But since it’s for him, well, that’s a whole different story. However, I can’t keep living for the future. I need to root myself firmly in the present and enjoy this new chapter without always feeling the need to peek forward and anticipate what’s next. What’s next, by all accounts, is going to be, oh, AWESOME but anxiously waiting, waiting, waiting for it isn’t going to make it come any faster, DUH CLINK, JUST ENJOY YOUR NEW PLACE.

And I will. Hopefully. Starting tomorrow. Tonight? Tonight I get to cry about it.