By Saturday afternoon I’d already seen Star Trek twice. I know what you’re thinking. That I’ve totally become one of those girls – the ones who snag a man and forfeit their entire personalities, suddenly favoring things he loves, like spray cheese and NASCAR. And yes, while being with the Dork Lord has subtly increased my tolerance of sports bars and basketball (yeah, no, it’s still not over because it WILL NEVER BE OVER), my love for the nerdy things in life began long, long ago. Probably with Space Camp and the year I requested that for my birthday slumber party we rent the “Star Trek whale movie.” I won’t lie: I’ve been suffering unrequited love for Captain Jean-Luc Picard for years. And now, now that there’s a fresh, young (read: pretty effing attractive) cast it’s like… well, we’re reunited and it feels so good. Also, it’s just a damn fine movie. Because even if you’re not into sci-fi and space and warp speed I’m betting you’re into hot and funny. Which there’s plenty of. I do so love a badass with a healthy disrespect for authority.

Is it wrong that it’s Monday and my brain is focused entirely on the weekend? Good friends from Boston are flying in Thursday night and I’m clinging to that visit like a life raft in a sea of boring. They’ve never been here, so I’m excited to take them out for Tex Mex and, if the rain sees fit to stop for a couple hours at a time, show them some of the sights. The Nasher maybe? If you’re a Dallas-ite and you have suggestions, I’d love to hear ‘em. Er, read ‘em. Whatever.

There are some mornings I wake up and I just know it’s going to be a Miss Piggy day. Everything in me wants to eschew all socially acceptable behavior, get my ire up, throw some wildly irrational tantrums and karate chop offenders Hiiii-yah! right in the throat. Today is one of those days. On anabolic steroids.

Update: Still pissed. The issue remains largely ignored and thus, unresolved. Disrespect is gross.

“Oh crap! Fire!”

I turn in the keys to my apartment today. If you listen carefully, sometime around noon Central Time, you’ll hear a gigantic sigh of relief.

The transition is nearly complete. My mattress has even been given away. And I’m totally not nervous. Because if the Boy turns me out on the street, I’ve always got an Aerobed in the trunk.
   

If I had bothered with Facebook status updates while I was away in Utah, you’d have noticed a strong central theme developing around Oreo consumption. But updating was out of the question as I was just far too busy eating chocolate sandwich cookies and rolling around on the carpet with my stupidly cute nephew to find time to share the joy of my gluttony and sloth. I wish you could all see my nephew do The Worm. Soon it will evolve into actual crawling, but right now it’s more like break dancing and it is a sight to behold. So is the room full of adults (many of whom witnessed the live telecast of the first moon landing) oohing and aahing and clapping as though it were truly the most amazing thing we’ve ever seen. 

The Boy, as predicted, got along so well – so naturally – with my family, it felt as though there had always been a spot for him in our brood. Like, the corner piece of a giant floor puzzle that ended up beneath the sofa, discovered on accident much later. “Oh, there you are!” That’s how I’ve always felt about him – like he was around here somewhere and as soon as I spotted him, I just knew he’d fit right into that empty space. Spending time with my father was somewhat anticlimactic, as my dad did what he always does in the face of new and possibly uncomfortable situations. He didn’t show up. Missed graduation entirely. The details aren’t important, but when it comes to choosing between understanding his shortcomings and being pissed off, I’ve gone with pissed off. It feels right.

Got dandruff, some of it itches!

When I was a kid, my dad swore like a sailor. Or rather, a G.I. I’m pretty certain that the depth and breadth of his swears catalog was developed somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam – where he also picked up a love of the drink and one or two pretty little drug addictions. Not that he admitted to that sort of first hand knowledge when we were young. Back then, he’d “read it in a book.” Back then, he also used to end all of his swears with, “don’t tell your mother.”

He’d give Jesus a new, colorful middle name and then top it off by asking us to keep his potty mouth a secret. As though there was any keeping to be done. Mom knew full well what could leak out of his mouth. And while she herself very rarely even ventured into the hells and damns (though, I vaguely recall the shock of hearing her yell the non-family-approved version of “Shoot!” when something once went horribly awry), there was very little she could do about my pop’s penchant for obscenity.

We were forbidden from following his example, however. Hell, we couldn’t even say, “shut up” or call someone stupid in our household. Mom had stewardship over our souls, and until we were old enough to be tasked with the burden of our own eternal salvations, well, it was pay heed or get the soap. I’m laughing to myself now because my lord, soap tasted bad – worse than any fruits-of-the-forest stuff they make now. Oh, the lengths I went to in order to avoid chomping down on a slimy bar of Dad’s Lava soap.

That didn’t mean we wouldn’t come as close to the line as possible without actually stepping over it. If dad was a creative swearer, we were creative non-swearers. While a slip at the tool bench could send Dad challenging the legitimacy of your birth, your mother’s virtue and the lord’s divinity, we’d myna bird away, employing only technically clean and mother-approved language.

“Got dandruff, some of it itches!”

My favorite was, “Frickin’ frackin’ dan it!” Dad would chuckle and warn that we were going to get him in trouble.

One night during family night, my mom decided to offer us a lesson on swears. In the process of making chocolate chip cookies together, she pulled out a bag of rat poison and proceeded to add its contents to the mix. We lost our brains. Noooo, we wailed until she showed us that, in reality, the contents were brown sugar and we stopped our tears. From now on, she told us, we need to see bad language and misbehavior as the rat poison in our lives. We don’t want bad behavior in our home any more than we do rat poison in our cookies. We supposed she had a point. We really liked cookies. She then tasked us each with policing each other – even Dad – in order to crack down on the evil that was gripping our household. From then on we were to yell, “Rat poison!” at the offender of our domestic bliss. Oh, what eager and self-righteous youngsters we were in taking up that banner.

“Rat poison!” we’d yell, at the slightest provocation. I don’t have to tell you how long that lasted with my father, whose entire gritty existence was a celebration of rebellion. And as satisfying as saving his soul may have been, we were more afraid of his wrath than of eating rat-poisoned cookies. 

First trip, first fight: they’re the hallmarks everyone tells you will define your sparkly new relationship. The You Can’t Possibly Know Your Mate Until… definitive. When the Dork Lord and I were a month or two into dating, my hairdresser, whose first trip anywhere was with her husband on their (stressful) cruise ship wedding, asked if we’d taken our first vacation together. We hadn’t. But it wasn’t something I was worried about. And Stephanie – whose battles with her equally stubborn partner are an integral part of their fiery dynamic – didn’t ask if we’d had a fight, she insisted we needed to have one.

“I just know that you don’t really know who someone is until the shit comes down.”

I wasn’t sure I agreed.

Of fights, we’ve had two arguments that I can recall. Did shit come down? Oh, I don’t know. There were tears (I pretty much cry any time I’m frustrated or hurt. Or watching scary movies or reading stories about baby animals. So, it’s not really an excellent indicator) and apologies. But no yelling. Never any yelling. We do have disagreements from time to time that lead one of us to declare, “We’re in a fight.” and the other to make a fart joke. It works for us.

Of trips, we’ve been to the Ranch for a weekend of total relaxation and zero responsibility. I packed the snacks. He drove. We made out a whole bunch. I’m not sure that it really counted as a vacation, and so this weekend will be our first. We leave on Thursday for a long weekend in Utah to celebrate my sisters’ BYU graduations. There are connecting flights and family accommodations involved. It could get sticky. But! But I’ve already learned some pretty important Dork Lord characteristics that will (hopefully) make this experience low on stress. For instance, I know to tell the Boy that we need to be somewhere (the airport, graduation, dinner) a good thirty minutes before we’re actually expected to show up. See? Prepared.

I’ve also laid the groundwork for the first meeting he’ll have with my dad.

“Has he ever met any of your boyfriends before?”

“In high school. But since then I’ve always lived far, far away.”

“What’s he going to think?”

“He’s going to think that he loves his daughter something crazy and if this guy makes his daughter happy, then he’s happy, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He looked so relieved, I went ahead and left out the part about my dad sleeping with a firearm under his pillow and occasionally hearing voices. And as for meeting my grandparents?

“Just tell them how much you love golf. Maybe they’ll put me back in the will.”

Today is Moving Day Part I. And while waiting for the movers (who are now two hours late) to put my worldly belongings in storage until the middle of June when our apartment is finally ready, I started digging through blog archives. I found this gem from four years ago this weekend, a story I hardly remember writing, but one that makes me smile. I can’t say I remember much about the day-to-day of having another family live with us, but I remember Mr. Lucas and his quietus.

There are two things that the Dork Lord and I will never agree on: Red Sox baseball* and bedtime.

Me, I like to be in bed by 10PM. Actually, if I’m going to show up to work on time (who keeps office hours that begin at 7:30AM? We do. It’s inhumane) I NEED to be in bed by 10. I know this makes me an old lady. I know it makes me a bummer. But I just can’t function on six or seven hours of sleep BECAUSE I AM NOT THE BIONIC WOMAN. There are things that go on while I sleep that take time – processes to keep me beautiful and witty and always ready with the ‘your mom’ jokes that make the workplace and our household the epicenters of intelligence that they are. Besides, next to hungry, I think tired is the most torturous of sensations. Tired makes me emotional. It makes me cranky. And, despite popular opinion, I don’t particularly like to be cranky. Because I am not House MD.

The Boy’s typical response to my snooze requirements includes harmless jabs and jokes about granny’s bedtime, even though sometimes I know it genuinely bothers him that I’m yawning on my bar stool at 9:30. So, now I opt to stay home a lot of nights — send him out with his friends so that he may enjoy the majesty of whatever occurs after 10:30 that is so life affirming. I’d make a off-color suggestion about free hand jobs from the bartenders but I’ve seen the bar keep at his favorite watering hole. Shudder.

Last night, though, the Dork Lord employed a new tactic: kidnapping. Early in the evening, we met his friend at a driving range to hit a bucket of balls. Side note:  Though I averaged about six swings per actual contact, when I did hit that ball, it sailed in a very neat, straight path every single time. I am most likely a natural and you will see me on tour next year. End side note. Then there were burgers and beers back at the friend’s house and of course, ohmygodwhydotheyhavetoplaysixtimesaweek, the Mavericks game. That’s when, toward the end of the fourth quarter, my beloved announced,

“It’s going to be a late night.”

Let’s watch the next game! And then LOST! Everyone else in the room (the night nurse and the recently unemployed) was in. Naturally. And then there was me. The wet rag.

“No, it’s not.”

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice being the wet rag. I used to be a Mormon. 

*My friend Lee tookme to Fenway eight years ago and my fate as a fan was sealed. The Boy?Eh, he hates ‘em. He has no reason to hate them (because what,the Texas Rangers are competition? Please) and so I can justlaugh off our difference of opinion. Mostly because I know I am right.

In college, I moved every year. Sometimes more than once. Come spring term, I’d cram all my junk into a few boxes, toss them into the back of someone’s truck and relocate, either to be closer to campus, or to find a better roommate situation (for a while, I had one of those Look at me! I’m amazing! Wait, why are you paying attention to HER when I’M in the room? kind of roommates. She made the scab picking finger licker of the previous semester seem suddenly dreamy by comparison). When I lived in Boston I moved a lot, too. It was the never-ending search for cheaper rent and more space that ended, naturally, in a 280-square-foot, sixteen-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment in New York City. Because that is what we call LOGICAL.

What’s unfathomable to me now is, I didn’t even mind it back then. I actually liked moving. And now, with the movers coming Saturday and my living room a dizzying mess of cardboard and assorted WTF Did I Buy This items, I kind of want to swallow my own tongue.

On Saturday, my mom and I spent the better part of the day cleaning, boxing, and priming walls. Mom did all the bending work (she does not eff around, people. My oven is so clean you could set it to low and keep your baby warm in there. Not that I’m encouraging you to bake your baby – it’s just that hygienic) and I inched my way through the apartment with my hand attached to a paint roller. Now, there are blisters. And parts of my body that do not work. I recognize that this is just what comes with getting old(er), but I swear, if today is the day they come around asking for volunteers to be in a Magnum P.I./MacGyver sandwich and I’m not able to raise my hand, I am going to be SO bent out of shape.

The part of this move I do like is the part of moving I have always liked. All the newness. New spaces to decorate, new closets to over stuff. I’ve also really enjoyed setting up my soon-to-graduate sister with all of my gently used extras. For instance, between the two of us, the Dork Lord and I have upwards of a DOZEN sets of white sheets. And as we’re not running a brothel or making any living room forts (yet. Though, frankly, is there any other reason to have children other than living room forts and lying about Santa Claus?), I figured, why not share the wealth. And what do you know, the whole giving thing is actually really affirming. You know, as in, it makes me feel like my massive credit card debt wasn’t accumulated in vain.  

I’m sorry to bother you, but is that the yellow curry? It smells fantastic.

The Boy and I were sitting down in a booth at a local hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant. And I wanted what she was having. So I asked. The older woman at the next table smiled and nodded.

“It is fantastic! But it’s not the yellow… it’s called ‘Gang Bang’ or something. Though, hmmm…. that doesn’t sound right.”

She was not making light. For the entire exchange, her face remained unchanged, totally placid, as though to say, “Gang bang is a perfectly natural name for a spicy curry dish.” I turned to my menu and quickly shot a raised-eyebrow WTF look at The Dork Lord who mouthed, “Gang bang?” before going back to his list of exotic beer. Giving the menu a one-over, I located the intoxicating smelling dish.

“I think you mean Gang Dang?”

“Yes, that’s it!”

The woman smiled again and went back to her food, and I turned back to our table thinking one, that I was glad I didn’t have to order a gang bang, because seriously, I wasn’t sure I had it in me. And two, old people these days.

When I walked into work on Thursday morning, Liesl sat back at her desk.

“I can see the GLANDS in your neck from HERE.”

She glands as though it were goiter or pulsating alien egg sac. I put a hand to my neck and grimaced.

“I know. I woke up this way. Last night, I couldn’t get off the couch.”

By mid-morning I went to see my BFFs at PrimaCare where the silver-haired doctor with the claymation face told me I had strep. And the flu. I wondered if there was going to be a bonus round. Scarlet Fever? When I told him my throat didn’t actually hurt, that I simply appeared to be farming extraterrestrial life forms, he smiled one of those smiles that said, oh, you poor silly thing.

“It will.” And then he wrote me a mouthful of prescriptions.

And boy howdy, he was right about the hurting. By evening I was a big dopey vicodin mess on the couch (I’d been a big dopey vicodin mess on the floor a few hours earlier in The Great Faint of Oh Nine, an important lesson about painkillers and stairs), while the Boy fetched popsicles and generally looked very sympathetic.

Pestilence and disease sorta killed my weekend – which was meant to be taken up by packing and cleaning my apartment. And instead, even after the throaty business had subsided I was still effing exhausted. I spent most of the last few days either lying down or leaning – on counters, walls, big dogs… really anything that would be still. Pathetic. And moreover, I did not get to go see The Fast and The Furious: The Sexy Reunion like I had intended. Which is the biggest tragedy of all.

There’s no pill for that kind of bitter disappointment.

Me: Honey, while we’re waiting, I think I’m going to go upstairs, run the vacuum in the bedroom and maybe tidy up the bathroom.

Him: Whoa.

Me: …?

Him: That just really turned me on.

This weekend, we added an extra six inches to our bedroom life. And what do you know, I’m still not satisfied.

The dog, he likes to be on the bed. Not when we’re on it, mind you, but on it just the same. And it wouldn’t be such an issue – I could probably be convinced to look past the hair (my GOD, so much HAIR) – if he wasn’t getting up there in years and all his body parts were functioning properly. First there was this gland thing. Which came with lots of licking and oozy juices and… skid marks. Are you feeling ill in your tummies? Yes? Good. Me, too. We sort of solved that by throwing a gigantic, thick blanket down before we leave. But then there was the day that either he was pissed (my GOD, so PISSED) or so out of control of his bowels that he took a gigantic 75-pound-dog dump on the bed, pushed the covers over the mess and LAID BACK DOWN on it. Have you ever had to scrape smooshed dog poo from the duvet cover because your sweet, loving boyfriend who would otherwise gladly have cleaned up the mess won’t be home for several hours? No? Well. It’s pretty much the exact opposite of awesome.

Me, I had a meltdown.

We weighed our preventative future meltdown options. Shutting the bedroom door. That one quickly got shot down – Sir Hal is not one to be where you want him to be at any given moment and say he was hiding under the bed when the door got shut. He’d be without food and litter box all day. Do not want. Baby gate was the next option considered, along with bed risers. Bed risers! That’s perfect! The dog is old and has a hard time managing the bed as it is. Six extra inches would do the trick! So, off we went to Target and then an ungodly number of bed & bath places in search of extra long dust ruffles. Oh, so many miles we put on our feet and the car, but we were victorious.

The Boy went off to play with friends and I settled on the sofa with a copy of It Sucked and Then I Cried. And some Chubby Hubby. Because this is how we celebrate victories. After a while, the dog, who normally makes a very noisy production of gallumping up the stairs and heaving himself onto the bed, made his way up and soundlessly to sleep. I ASSUMED on his DOG BED. But I would be making an ass of you and me because when I went upstairs thirty minutes later, I found that dog, having sailed effortlessly onto the now very high bed, deep in a very drooly sleep. Mocking me.

First I frowned. Then I rolled my eyes and chuckled.

I firmly but kindly (I learned this skill from Frauline Maria) asked him to dismount – which he did – and then I petted him for a good long while and scratched his tummy because I’m training myself to love him so much I can’t possibly resent all this bed shit I’m going through with him. Because sometimes, I really feel resentful. Like when I lie down at night in and imagine poop juices leaking onto my pillow. GAH. I’m trying so hard to see this from the Boy’s point of view – that having a dog for twelve years and allowing him twelve whole years of unrestrained bed time is difficult to undo. But this is where I sleep. Not where I practice my veterinary skills. I want it to smell like fabric softener and the Boy’s shampoo and not dog musk and gland gunk.

So, bed riser fail. I guess that leaves the baby gate. And I swear to god, if he pulls some spontaneously growing opposable thumb crap, I’m going to lose my mind entirely.

Flying monkey weather again today. If this lasts any longer, The Dork Lord is going to come home one evening to find that all the fixtures have been fit out with full spectrum light bulbs – the whole apartment ablaze with light and, me, laid out buck nekkid on the coffee table. Me, I’m a survivor.

On Saturday, the Boy and I have planetarium plans. And I’m disproportionately excited about it. Four dollars, people. That’s all it costs here to catch a show on the dome. I remember the last time Sarah and I shared some planetarium magic, I was forced to live on a steady diet of Marshmallow Mateys and (generic) canned chicken noodle soup. For weeks. But I also remember that it was narrated by a yummy-voiced Robert Redford, and that Sarah and I spent the entire show moony-eyed and drooling, “Mmmm. Spaaaace. Sexy.”  I’m betting the four buck version doesn’t have Robert Redford. Maybe someone a little more low rent like, I don’t know, someone from the cast of Charles in Charge. Or Dustin Diamond. Ooh, that would be awkward. But still, four dollars. And I’m poor and therefore far less picky about my voice overs.

Speaking of voice overs: the other evening, the Boy and I were sacked out on the couch watching some naturey program about blue whales having illegitimate babies with finn whales and the moment that show came on, my P.I. radar went off.

“Is that Magnum? Oooh, Tom Selleck wants to tell me about whales. I’m in!”

“That’s not Magnum. It’s some old guy.”

“Click the info button.”

“It’s not Tom Selleck.”

“Hit the button!”

Vindication. Sure, he’s sounding a little older (he’s sixty something, for heaven’s sake), but baby knows her Magnum. I dream of those jogging shorts every night.

Fast forward to last night when my ears perked up during the crazy starfish episode of Planet Earth.

“Is that Ripley?”

“You mean Sigourney Weaver?”  the Boy laughed. I gave him a face that said, you heard me. RIPLEY. After he’d forced me to sit through Aliens, Ripley and I were well acquainted. 

“I’m not sure. But I’m not really in a position to challenge you on voices.”

I confirmed my suspicions with the cable guide, laughed and said I liked how this was going. If all goes according to plan, it won’t be long before he’s not in a position to challenge me on much at all. Total domination! Because that is how all healthy relationships operate.

Feeling grumbly and tired, I was sitting here at my desk wondering how I could get my hands on a desperately needed a doctor’s note to get out of gym class life today, when I happened up this Facebook status:

Lori is going to go get a cup of coffee and try not to punch anyone in the face.

And then I chuckled into my computer screen because, well, it’s like the calls are coming from inside the house. The elastic waistband of my slip is too tight, the dog crapped in the house and my complexion bears a remarkable resemblance to Pizza the Hut. So it’s no surprise that during this morning’s rainy commute I found myself in a climate controlled temper tantrum, hurling insults at my fellow commuters*. Karen Carpenter tried her damnedest to soothe me but only succeeded in making me feel sad and angry that my 3.8 mile commute was taking longer than an episode of Two and a Half Men. Seriously, even when Karen’s singing a happy song you can’t feel anything but sorry because of how things turned out. I know. I saw the movie.

A conference call, some bad customer service and oh my god, this gloomy weather (I fully expect to see flying monkeys within the hour) and just getting up out of my chair to grab a cup of joe seemed like a very risky venture. But then Lori made me laugh. God, this misery loves her company. It’s kind of pathetic, but sometimes just knowing that someone else is feeling stabby, too is all the talking down I need. You, too, huh? Honey, I’ve got a flask in my purse. Meet me in the bathroom in 5.**
 

*Road rage freaks me out. I mean, on the list of useless emotions, it’s right up there next to buyer’s remorse and Ben & Jerry’s guilt. So, in an effort not to indulge my own futile behind-the-wheel anger, I limit my outbursts to “You’re a really bad driver!” and “Burn! Take that, Honda Accord!” It doesn’t take me long to feel foolish rather than feisty.

** I once had a boss who would, on occasion,  roll a joint and make a pitcher of margaritas. Two words: employee retention.

Back by popular demand, This Fish Needs a Bicycle T-shirts v2.0!

Through my experience with the Beta version about oh, five years ago now, I learned somethings. Like, the ability to fit nicely into a baby tee is directly proportional to how many years one has been on this earth. Also, folks, they like variety. For such reasons, I have chosen to go with Cafe Press. It’s maybe not the cheapest route, but it offers something for everyone. Curvy, straight, pink, white, preggers(!) – you have options. There’s even a coffee mug and some notecards. Oh, and some baby paraphernalia because my sister said it would be “rad.” And I want to be rad.

I’d like to thank Daniela Merkens who did a whole lot of work getting my tiny .gif logo into print-worthy shape. She did such a bang up job – I’m head over heels with the end result.

Further, I’d like to thank you all for being so supportive. It has always meant a great deal to me. I told someone today that my silly hope is that I run into someone somewhere someday wearing one and it will feel like I’m in a club with a secret handshake.

Finally, if you have any trouble with your Cafe Press shopping cart (as some of my sweet, patient Facebookers found out earlier today), please mind yer cookies. Check your security settings on your computer and making sure you have third party cookies accepted for CafePress.com.

P.S. Depending on the demand, this shop may only stay open for the next two weeks. After that, only one item will be available (probably the pink t-shirt, as it is currently the most popular).

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!

I’ve got a bit of a flying problem. Not that I’m scared of flying; I’ll be the last person on the plane white-knuckling the armrest during take off. And it doesn’t make me sick. Except for that time I was winging it to my brother’s wedding cracked out on the vicodin cough medicine the good doc had given me and wouldn’t you know, liquid narcotics and turbulence do. not. mix. And if I thought horking at home was bad, it was nothing compared to the hygienic nightmare of the airplane lavatory. And there was no bathmat to curl up on.

Yesterday morning, I seriously misjudged the amount of time it takes to get from my new digs to the airport. I’m used to a 20 minute door-to-gate commute. And having already checked in online, that’s exactly what I allowed myself. Silly me. As it turns out, my new drive was at least 35 minutes, the security lines were exceptionally long for it being only 7AM, and after stabbing my feet back into my shoes, I went running for the gate. I’d say sprinting but let’s be honest, it wasn’t anywhere near as graceful as the word sprint implies. I was gallumping. It wasn’t pretty. And my laptop smacked against my thigh so many times, I may have discovered a cure for cellulite. By the time I found a seat (Oh, Southwest, you and your wacky no-assigned-seats policy) and made sure my seat belt was securely fastened low and across my hips (me, I follow instructions), the door was shut and the flight attendants were halfway into their safety routines. My heart was racing. Then on went the engines and… I woke up 40 minutes later.

And, therein lies the problem.

Who goes from competing in the Awkward Olympics to comatose in twenty seconds? I do. I had an hour’s worth of work to do on that flight. And an hour’s worth of work to do on the flight back later that evening. And yet, I spent both of those hours working on nothing more than putting deep plastic window cover creases into the side of my face. Twice now I’ve fallen asleep with my boss in the adjacent seat while we were supposed to be going over our meeting agenda. Embarassing? Uh, a little. But it’s like taking the crying baby out for a drive; the moment the vibrations start, I’m catatonic. And once we land and hustle off to our meetings, I’m hardly raring to go. I’m sorry, what did you say? I was busy digging the sleep crusties out of my eyes.

I’ve got to do this all again on Friday. I’m looking into adrenaline injections. 

My boyfriend is a pirate.

After work yesterday, I picked up some groceries for our dinner and then stopped by my apartment to grab a few essentials: the contents of my make-up drawer, a bottle of Grey Goose, and my pillow. Oh, hello old friend. It was pretty warm in the afternoon, so by the time I’d struggled up the three flights of stairs to our apartment with my loot, I had sweaty strands of hair plastered to my face, a trickle running down my back, and red, welted rings on my arms where the grocery bags hung.The very moment I stepped through the front door, StepDog was at my knees, blundering around in his lampshade (he has a licking problem, okay?), cutting just close enough to send me pitching forward, make-up compacts and heads of romaine lettuce flying.

Don’t yell at the dog, I told myself. He doesn’t know.

I set my pillow down, giving it a place of honor on the end table, and took Lampshade out for his afternoon constitutional. Then I started dinner. An hour and a half later, after we’d polished off our plates, I scooted upstairs for a quick shower. If the climb up the stairs hadn’t undone me, a stupidly complicated meal over a hot stove and hotter oven finished the job. When I came down, fresh and clean and ready to finally relax with the DVR and Wednesday night’s episode of LOST, there was my sweet fella, done with kitchen duty, crashed out on the couch watching a basketball game, his noggin resting peacefully…on my pillow. 

Commence meltdown in five, four, three…

Don’t yell at the boyfriend, I told myself. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know that in this entire apartment, one average-in-every-way, polka dotted pillow is about the only thing that is mine. I mean, unless I wanted to curl up with my hair dryer or the wok, that was it. My pillow. Mine.  He also doesn’t know that while he was at the Mavericks game the other night, and I sat at the apartment feeling misplaced and homesick (and silly for it), the only comfort I could think of was that damn pillow. Standing there, on the bottom stair, it took about three and a half seconds to degenerate into toddler mode.I felt like I was watching a sibling play with with one of my toys -and forget that there were heaps and heaps of toys in the toy box (and a bed full of pillows upstairs), Iwanted that one. Because it was mine. But instead of cracking him over the head with a Tonka truck – like I’d have had no problem doing in my actual toddler days – I put some cookies on to bake, and then cuddled up next to him on the sofa.

I won’t lie, I eyed that pillow like, the whole damn time.

But I said nothing. Because on the What’s Really Important Here scale, I chose to rank the Boy over the pillow. The Boy, whom I love, who tries so hard to make me happy (and yes, who would have given me the pillow without hesitation, had I given in to my petty inclinations), and who sleeps so soundly that if he tried that shit at night and crossed the imaginary line down the middle of the bed, there wouldn’t even be a pause his snoring when I yanked that pillow right out from under his pretty little pirate head.

Mine.   

Irony or really, fiercely ugly coincidence? I suppose it’s not unthinkable to be the victim of a crap economy three times in 18 months, so it’s only coincidence that mere days after I post about employment woes, I’m in the middle of ‘em. Again. Details later, but for the moment, I have a job. And for that I am grateful.

But with money being tighter (one hefty freelance gig has already dried up due to budget cuts), and with the fear that it will only become more constricted in the coming weeks, the Dork Lord and I put our moving-in plans into, how do they say, hyper drive. God, I’m so tempted right here to make some sort of nerdy Battlestar Galactica reference, but I’m not sure I have the frackin’ lingo down quite yet. Anyway, on Monday, I closed up shop at my apartment – canceled what was left of the amenities (um, that would be Internet. Cable went away a month before), unplugged the appliances, scooped Hal up into his portable torture chamber (honestly, you’d think so by the way he hollers in that thing) and relocated to the Boy’s apartment. Two months ahead of schedule.

It’s a lot, really. True, we haven’t spent a night apart since the second week we were dating. But for a girl who’s been used to residential autonomy for the last five years, just getting over feeling like a visitor in his our apartment is going to take some work. I worry about stressing him out, moving into too much of the closet all at once. Watching him box up nerd books to make room for my shoes. Saying silent prayers to feline deities that Hal doesn’t turn his black leather sofa into a high end scratching post. It’s like I’m on constantly.

Obviously, it’s not all stress. One of the nicest things about us is how easy we are. Even playing the Yours or Mine game, which I think he’s been letting me win, just to keep me from reaching stress levels ordinarily reserved stockbrokers, air traffic controllers and the cast of Grey’s Anatomy. Your vacuum or mine? Your dishes or mine? Your rules about gigantic dogs on the bed or mine? We’re like The Brady Bunch over here, only instead of little girls in curls we’re melding things like salad spinners and living room sets. And as for stepchildren, mine’s a 75 pound German Shepherd/Lab who doesn’t listen to a word I say except when I’m holding meat. Yeah, I’m the Bacon Lady.  

I’m also one lucky lady. The worry over losing my job in the near future is real. Very real. But being part of a “we” makes it somehow less scary. And adjustment periods or no, I know when he says that whatever happens, we’ll be okay, it’s true. We will.  

Sure, it’d be even better if he were like, 87 years old, a millionaire, and wheezing his last breaths from an oxygen tank. But I’ll take what I can get.