It’s 4:25 p.m. the day of the Super Bowl, and we’re about to have some friends over for the game. The veggie platter is made, pizzas ordered, onion dip mixed, the frozen T.G.I. Friday snacks in the freezer just in case we run out of food or I really want a jalapeño popper.
The apartment is nearly done – as done as it can be until spring when we can open the windows and paint the walls, which leads to new curtains and photos hung. It’s hard to believe we’ve been here for a month already. I haven’t blogged a lot recently for a number of reasons – 1) I lost my camera charger in the move and it’s been a traumatic photo-less couple of weeks, 2) I’ve had a lot of writer’s block lately when it comes to this blog, 3) When I spend 8 hours writing on my laptop at work, I avoid it when I get home, and 4) Ryan and I had this bright idea of chipping all the crappy white paint off the metal radiator in the bathroom bit by bit with a screwdriver and until that tedious project’s done, my schedule’s pretty booked.
We’ve been at our apartment a month. I left the keys at my old apartment yesterday – goodbye for good to my first post-college New York home. And as of tomorrow, I’ll have officially been back in New York an entire year. And in a week, an “official” girlfriend for a year.
Good decision on the move, past self.
So living with the boy, one month in. We have come to grips that every single work day, he will wake me up before I intend to be up. And that every single weekend day, I will wake him up because I can’t sleep in any longer and I have a headache.
And you’re thinking to yourself, you wake up on the weekends with headaches? Why so many hangovers? Take it easy.
When really –
Headaches. For some people prone to headaches, sleeping longer than usual on a weekend or vacation can cause head pain. Researchers believe this is due to the effect oversleeping has on certain neurotransmitters in the brain, including serotonin. – WebMD
The way one doctor explained this to me years ago, was that your stress level is at a certain level during the week and once you relax for the weekend it triggers the migraine.
I’d so much rather it be a hangover – “You had too much fun last night.”
But no. “You got too much sleep last night.”
We’ve also come to figure out what shows we’ll mutually enjoy, since I, who apparently lacks interest in life’s miracles, don’t relax to documentaries about dinosaur mummies and Ryan’s idea of a good time does not always involve Friends and Sex and the City.
So, to find the happy medium, we’ve somehow calculated that Dinosaur Mummy Show plus Friends divided by two equals…
Hoarders. Every episode of Hoarders that comes on television. We went out to dinner Friday night and had a 3-episode marathon being DVR’d at home for our return.
We also like Jeopardy, even when I yell at the Teen Jeopardy contestants for being stupid. I’m just saying, if three genius teenagers’ answers to “This flavor of Cap’n Crunch…” is “Oops All Berries” (a one-year promo kind), “Cinnamon Toast Crunch” and (no answer), you’re going to get me yelling “PEANUT BUTTER” at the television. Because everybody knows that Peanut Butter Crunch has been around forever, just six years less than the original.
Living together’s fun. Even if it means sometimes I have someone staring at me intensely while I brush my teeth just to make me self-conscious about any possible stray toothpaste situation. And now I have someone around who might grab the Tylenol for my Saturday morning sleep-in headaches and I have to get over my inability to swallow a pill gracefully.
And sometimes you forget there’s another person in the other room, so you’re doing the dishes in the kitchen and in your own little world, and you hear, “Babe, were you just singing in there?”
And you go, “Um, no, nope I definitely wasn’t. Maybe I was humming to myself and didn’t notice?”
Because I’m certainly not going to get caught singing to myself. Especially by The Boyfriend Who Sings.
So maybe I’ll admit to humming unknowingly maybe, admitting to that with a side dose of causing the boy to think he was hearing things. Because I’m definitely not going to admit singing to myself while I do the dishes. Maybe if I was good. Or the song was good. But I’m not a good singer. And especially not if the song is something lame and cheesy, you know, like on the lines of Celine Dion and Andrea Bocelli’s The Prayer.
Which it was.
No, I’d much rather just let the boy feel like he was hearing things.