Next month, thanks to my generous family, the Dork Lord and I will be heading to Utah for my sisters’ graduation(s).

<Tangent>Just typing that sentence conjures up some super fantastic images of my own (nine – god, can you believe it? – years ago). I have absolutely no idea if I walked the stage and shook anyone’s hand, though I’m sure I must have. What I do have is a very clear memory of tripping down the stairs of the Marriott Center and breaking the heel off my shoe. In front of a mazillion people. Oh, yeah, it was a pretty special experience. My own graduation was so stressful (what with moving to Boston the next day sans job), that I was uncomfortably and awkwardly heavy from eating my feelings and sporting a complexion that even three inches of Clinique’s thickest goo wouldn’t mask. It wasn’t attractive. And neither was my JCPenny suit. </Tangent>

Not only will my Utah family be there for the event (oh, baby Owen, lend my your thigh), but my everywhere else family will be there, too – grandparents, included. Which, of course, is the perfect opportunity to immerse the Boy fully into the complete insanity that is my genetic affiliation. I anticipate strangeness, if not a complete meltdown or two. It will be awesome.

I’ve always thought that my brother and by beau would get along famously and I’m excited to test out that theory. Though, I’ll admit to being a little worried about letting my brother cook for him. See, to date, the Boy is under the impression that I am competent in the kitchen. My brother? He is truly gifted. And he’s going to make me look bad. I will have to ease my pain with a piece (or two) of his chocolate cake. Ganaaaaache. 

I’ve been fretting about this for a while now. This afternoon, I meet with my Tax Man to figure out just how much I owe Uncle Sam in taxes on freelance work I did last year. It’s funny, it didn’t seem like that much when the money was coming in. Primarily because I was unemployed twice in 2008, and most of the time, that money wasn’t extra in any regard. It put things like eggs in the refrigerator and gas in my car once a month.

What’s more, I was so stupidly diligent when I was employed that this predicament just doesn’t seem right. After being hired in March, I saved and saved and saved so that when the piper came ’round, I could pay him without feeling the pinch. It feels appropriate to insert a sinister laugh here, because seven months later, there I was laid off again. Ah, it’s a love/hate relationship I have with this industry. At any rate, six weeks without a paycheck (rent times two, utilities times two, car payment… you get the picture) and I burned through my little tax nest egg in a jiffy. Since the middle of November, I’ve been quite the little miser, counting each cent, hoarding it away for April 15th.

Only, it won’t be enough. And it’s making me crazy.

I make jokes about what I’m going to do for the money (my favorite at the moment has to do with a brothel in the suburbs of Plano). But you know, death and taxes. Not actually funny except sometimes on reruns of Seinfeld and even then… meh. Every website I’ve read emphasizes how Bad Idea Jeans it is to be in debt to the government and how they recommend begging, borrowing and stealing before engaging the IRS in a payment plan. I’m certain my Tax Man will have some words of wisdom on the matter (which I’m hoping don’t include flee! because my passport has expired) but waiting until then has been torture.

The last time I saw my Tax Man, I’d been laid off two hours earlier. If around 3:00 this afternoon, he throws out a number and I start crying in his office, he’s not even going to flinch. We have a special dynamic.

Update: Well, yippee. It was worse than I thought. Somehow, though, I feel better. My Tax Man put my mind at ease, and then filed an extension (I’ll just have to suck up the late fee in October). And even though it’s a whole lotta money, I’m not as worried. Frankly, I’m just not so great at dealing with the unknown. So now that I KNOW how many of my internal organs I have to sell, I’m much more at peace.

Saturday Mornings. So it’s not cartoons, it’s Battlestar on the DVR, but it’s nice to lazy about with someone to warm your feet.

Dinner. Most every night, I put on my Betty Crocker apron and fix up a mess of vittles. And my darling, he licks his plate clean. It’s all very satisfying. But one night a few weeks ago, while I was on my way home from the airport after a long day of meetings in Austin, the Boy was – as the kids say – blowing up my phone. Where are you? Where are you now? Something had fallen apart at work, he was running late, and I would probably beat him home. Um, okay, hyper-communicator. When I pulled into the parking lot several minutes later, there he was in my rear view mirror. We got out of our cars in unison and when I saw him there, dressed in shorts – not work attire – and carrying a pizza, I grinned. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to cook. Long day? Meet awesome boyfriend.

Anytime Minutes. And I don’t mean for phone callin’. Wink, wink.

Sharing bills and dish duty and grocery shopping. Cheaper and faster, and involves a whole lot more public ass slappin’.

Hearing the words, Do you have any whites that need washing? C’mere you.

Picking up dog poo. For the love of god, it’s STILL WARM.

So. Many. Rules! Before moving in with the Dork Lord, I lived alone* for approximatelyone thousand, seven hundred and ninety days. That is a lot of days. Infact, it is plenty of days to get very comfortable with things being acertain way. It’s enough days to say, expect things to be a certain way. Like say, the shower. I expect it to be a mess of products. And the dishes? I expectthat they will stay in the sink until I am ready to address them. Soobviously, co-habitating with a neat freak very tidyindividual has been something of a growth experience.

Fart Jokes. Only because I know they signify proximity to actual farting as the comfort level increases. It’s only a matter of time.

*Well, alone with His Excellency the Grand Duke of Bad Breath who, while good/obnoxious company, is not exactly a roommate.

P.S. Here’s Erin’s Single-ish take on the same list!

When time permits, I try to read every comment you make the effort to leave (when it doesn’t, I still scan  – mostly to make sure no one says anything super naughty). There have been a few lately that have piqued my interest – a handful challenging my relevance as a love blogger because I *gasp* found love. Truthfully, I don’t think this blog has changed one bit – the tone, the types of stories I tell and the way I look at life – it’s all still me. I guess that little header way, way up there at the top (the one that says A blog that celebrates single life…) doesn’t quite fit. But then, it never did. That label the has always struck me as odd and limiting. Pigeonholed. But that is neither here nor there.

Yesterday, Robin chimed in on a post about my recent co-habbing adventures and for some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So, I thought I’d share it here, along with my response.

“I’ll have to admit, I came to your blog today hoping you and the Boy hadsplit. Not because I enjoy the suffering of others (ok well maybesometimes), but because I found some comfort in knowing there wassomeone else out there with the same relationship struggles.”

Hoo boy!  I’ve been there more times than I care to admit. Yeah, misery loves company. Not that I’m saying you’re miserable, but I’m right there with you in finding solace in the fact that other people are in the same lousy boat I am. Money, love, career. Whatever. And I’ve probably (okay, more than probably) cheered for someone’s failure when they have something I don’t. Mostly because if they’ve succeeded and I have not, there must be something wrong with me. At least, that’s the conclusion I’m tempted to draw. Thankfully, there’s an unlimited amount of happiness available in the Universe and it might just take the right set of circumstances to get your mitts on some. I will be the first to acknowledge that I simply got really, really lucky. And I knew it from moment one. When he walked in the door that night, something inside me said (quite loudly, too), “Oh, there you are.” And that was that. Do not think that for one single second have I taken it for granted. Instead of wishing for the demise of a happy relationship, maybe you could see it as proof that good things are sure to come? Lucking into The Dork Lord has restored my faith in possibility. I’d like to pass a bit of that on, if I can.

“I’ll agree to pop the pity party balloons for now, but only because I’mholding out hope that with cohabitation comes more life complications (and no the pillow incident really doesn’t count).”

Two words: honeymoon period. Complications are sure to rear their ugly heads down the road, but for right now, I think you can expect all of our issues to rate at about the same level of seriousness as the pillow*. I selfishly hope that you will be forced to keep up your hating for many, many moons on this matter. We’re just happy to be together. On top of that, we agree on most major issues that could ultimately drive a wedge between people who otherwise like seeing each other naked. We’re both  committed to saving money and getting out of debt. Our views on god are spot on. Politics, same. Yeah true, I could use a little less of CNN’s doom-and-gloom in my life, but if he notices the furrow in my brow getting too deep, he’s quick to change the channel. To ESPN, sure, but He shoots! He misses! is so much more palatable than, Epic Economy Fail! over and over. I don’t like that the dog is allowed on the bed. He doesn’t like that I drape clothes on every available surface. There will always be things. But we tend to resolve them with wet willies.

“Isuppose given your recent bout of bad luck on the work front you’reentitled to some happiness. I just don’t have to be happy about it.”

Thanks. I think.

*There was an incident with a game of Spades which may have involved a cross word or two. And entire a bottle of wine in one sitting.

A P.S.: For the record, I did not see Robin’s comment as malicious. I saw it as honest. Who hasn’t felt that way? Most of us just won’t own up to it! 

Okay, Facebook kids, I (finally) did it. I don’t know if I did it right, but all the same. As of last night, the blog now has its very own page. Become fans! Throw flowers! I won’t lie: my ultimate goal is to overcome the Archie & Jughead fan club with the sheer force of our numbers. Take that, Jones!