The One About Living With The Boy.

So we decided our same-area-code-otherwise-long-distance relationship was a total drag on our gas mileage. Where I worked/lived was 45 minutes from where he lived which was 30 minutes from where he worked which was 40 minutes from where I lived (follow that triangle?). We also decided we might kinda sorta really want to be roommates.

Then we got an apartment (and he got a new job). Welcome to 2013. Hello blog, it’s been busy. We’ve been unpacking, and I’ve been making my way through the 1200 vinyl records I now live with.

Both our names are on the same mailbox. We co-own estate sale-located furniture. When we get home from a date night, either one of us can unlock the door with our identical keys. We split the grocery bill. Not only did he give me space on his bookshelves, our books are all mixed up and alphabetized together! My Tom Brokaw next to his Charles Bukowski! (My nerdy heart skips beats – “He likes me! He really likes me!)

We moved into our new apartment last week – two bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom, living room – which we’ll quickly convert to one bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, two living rooms. Thus someone always has an escape den to write their blog/music while the other watches the Mets/The Bachelor.

The funny thing about living with the boy every day? You totally see him like, every day. Even on your sick days after stuffed-up nights spent snoring and sleeping sitting up.

This weekend, I had a major head cold. I spent time Saturday evening cleaning my old apartment, and in the ensuing hours, sneezing every 75 seconds spent awake.

So, it’s late, I’ve taken cold medicine. I’m tired. I’m sneezy and snotty and hazy.

And as I reach down to throw away a tissue in the trash can, I realize there’s no bag in it. But there’s bubble wrap and an empty paper towel roll inside already. So can I throw something away in it? Or should I get a bag. I mean, I don’t really care. But is that messy? I don’t want to be the messy girlfriend, throwing away a tissue in a trash can without a bag. But I can always get a bag later…

It’s quite the riveting internal monologue.

Except, unknown to me, it wasn’t entirely internal.

No, he was watching me mutter half sentences while stooped over a trash can.

Inducing a panic that his unceasingly sneezing, possibly feverish girlfriend was having some sort of medicine/flu-induced episode.

You know what’s really lame? Explaining to your boyfriend that you were having an internal monologue out loud about whether or not you should put your tissue in the trash can that doesn’t have a garbage bag but already has trash in it.

When you have a same-area-code-otherwise-long-distance relationship, you’re pretty ecstatic every time you see your significant other because you have made it to your date destination with the knowledge “We both made the date commute without getting a flat tire/pulled over/rear-ended/and it’s not even past dinner time yet!”

Now, we see each other every day (I think we’re still pretty ecstatic about it – I’ll let you know after week two). He makes the coffee, I make the bed. Actually, he makes the coffee before I’m even out of bed, and I wake up to a mug on my nightstand… and then I get up and make the bed.

And at the end of every day, we talk about our days. Not on the phone anymore.

And the thing about talking about your day at the end of every day? Not every day is a great day. Sometimes, it’s really stressful. Sometimes it’s something family-related, friend-related, work-related, health-related, your sports team lost, your errand didn’t go as planned, you’re sleepy, you’re cranky, you’re frustrated.

Some days, you have a bad day and your boyfriend goes to heat up leftovers to make you dinner. Your kitchen counter still isn’t installed so there’s a lot of clutter. And he goes to heat up your spaghetti and meatballs in the microwave but the kitchen fuse blows because he was toasting you Italian bread in the toaster oven. So he replaces the fuse, removes the bread from the oven, and on the way back to the microwave, the plate of spaghetti falls meatball-down into the clutter.

And you enter the kitchen (and you the cranky girl can’t suppress a giggle because there’s a meatball on the kitchen floor with a bunch of squiggly macaroni), you make eye contact, you let out a mutual “aghhh!” because what else are you going to do when you’re both already frustrated and fuses are blowing and meatballs are on the floor. It’s no use crying over spilt meatballs.

And then you spend your post workday relaxing night together going to Wal-Mart to buy extra fuses because it’s already 9 p.m. and that’s the only place open, and by the time you’re back, it’s time to drink Sleepytime Tea and call it a day.

But the fun part about this new every day situation, even for the cranky days, is that after today comes tomorrow. And tomorrow will start with a new mug of coffee and a “Have a great day!” on our way out the door. It might not be a perfect day – one of us might have something really frustrating happen or spill a meatball again.

But it’s a new adventure. Which we all know means new stories.


10 thoughts on “The One About Living With The Boy.

    • ha as soon as we have kitchen counters, we’ll be able to have inner dialogue. just happy the spaghetti and meatballs fell between the boxes of cleaning products and still-wrapped dishes.

  1. It’s Cass-
    Janae I’m happy crying again. Be sure to inform the boy. I am so happy for you guys ❤ Can't wait to visit again when you guys are all settled and I can dedicate three whole days to listening to all your vinyls and reading all your organized and alphabetized books and eating french grilled cheese. Love you sis

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