Tag Heuer, I'm it

Yesterday I walked in the door from work and I pounced. It had been a few days since I had any lovin' and I just didn't want to wait any longer. It took a few minutes to convince the boyfriend to give up on his nap. Finally I lead him in the bedroom where we frantically peel each other's clothes off...

And his watch clips me in the nose.

An uppercut of quartz and metal, I cried out as I collapsed onto the bed. The men's watch is just so much bigger than the women's watch. It's also heavier. Instinctively I pushed against the bridge of my nose to stop the pain and make sure it was still attached to my face. It hurt so badly that I even checked to see if it was broken: my nose, not the watch. It wasn't and I didn't want to wreck the mood, so I pushed against it one more time to stop the blood flow and forced myself to forget about it.

Today my nose throbs. It has three cuts on it from the stupid edges of the face. The bruising is light to moderate. And because he hit the bridge, the pain is between my eyes. A steady, pulsing throb.

Please tell me this kind of stuff happens to other people too.

Anticlimactic, the way it should be

Scott and I had our first fight while living together.

I walked to my SUV one morning to go to work and saw that the passenger door was cracked open. On the running board was a picture of Scott and I from his nephew's baptism. On the ground next to the tire was the replacement glass I bought to fix my side-view mirror. Inside the truck the glove box was open and papers were everywhere. Someone had broken into my truck.

Wildly I thought back to who had my keys last and if I locked the car. The last thing I remembered was giving Scott my keys so he could search through it to find my flashlight. Perhaps he was the one who made the mess while looking for it. I ran back inside.

"Get up."

"What?" he moaned, still asleep.

"Did you open my glove box yesterday to look for the flashlight?"

"Yes."

"Did you leave it open?"

"I don't think so."

I grew impatient, "Well my truck is a mess and I don't know if you did it or if someone broke in." Reluctantly he got up and got dressed and followed me out to the parking garage. After inspecting the mess, he said he didn't do it and that someone must have broken in.

Only there was no broken glass and the car alarm never went off. It looked like Scott never locked my truck when he was done or had locked it, but didn't close the passenger door all the way.

"Did you lock it?" I frantically asked while searching through the piles of CDs and papers splayed everywhere, trying to decide if something was missing.

"Of course."

"Are you sure?"

"This is what happens when you live in the city."

His response irritated me. It was too dismissive and sounded like he didn't care that someone invaded my space and went through my shit while I was sleeping. It sounded like I deserved it for where we live.

"Are you 100% positive that you locked it?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn't the car alarm go off?"

He got irritated at my constant questioning. He accused me of not trusting him because I couldn't accept that he locked the car.

I then told him to not be so dramatic.

He then said that I'm not very sensitive to his feelings.

I then said asking him whether he locked the car was all the detective skills I had.

We sat down and talked it out before I made my way to work, but things weren't fixed yet. Scott's a person who removes himself from a situation when he gets uncomfortable and I'm a girl with abandonment issues. I didn't know what would happen when I came home from work now that we lived together. Usually he would retreat back to his place for the night and come over after work the next day and apologize. But the safety net of his apartment wasn't there anymore.

When I walked in the door, Scott was parked in front of the TV. He seemed fine. I mustered a greeting and walked into the bedroom. He followed me in.

"Bad day?" he asked hovering over me while I climbed into bed.

"Meh."

"I always know you had a bad day when you get immediately into bed when you get home." I never really noticed that, but I guess it's true. "Listen. What do I need to do to be a better boyfriend?" he asked.

I sighed, "It's not that I don't trust you. I just needed to hear it repeatedly because I was in shock. My truck got broken into and I was panicking." I left out the part where I sat in my truck at work and purposely set off the car alarm three times to make sure it was working properly.

He hugged me whispering, "I'll try and be more understanding, okay?"

I couldn't believe he was apologizing without hearing it from me first. I really was the rotten one in the fight. "I was upset and I needed to yell, and I'm sorry it was aimed at you. You did not deserve that," I said back.

And then everything was okay. Nothing was even stolen from my truck.

Benefit of living with someone

You step out of the shower one morning and see this written in the fog of your bathroom mirror:

Evil Genius @ Work

A couple of months ago I asked for a raise, arguing that I had outgrown my position at the company. N had left and I was taking the senior position, including senior responsibilities; it seemed only natural to be paid accordingly. That and I recently discovered the receptionist was making more than me.

I was denied my request and told to "be patient." Instead, I received a second monitor for presumably double the work.

So you can see why I did not laugh when I saw this morning's Dilbert cartoon:

Say you belong to me

When Scott brought his things in the door, somehow there wasn't any room left for my confidence. We'd be eating dinner in front of the TV and I'd put my fork down and look at him:

"Do you love me?"

"Of course I love you."

I know he loves me and I know I'm being silly about it, but I can't stop. A couple of hours later we're snuggled up on the couch and watching one of my shows:

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you."

I've never been that girl, the one who needs to hear it and asks to hear it. We're not a couple that uses those words like running water. But right now I need it. I need to hear that I made the right decision by having him move in. I need to know that I'm not going to get hurt. Because I've realized what an incredibly vulnerable position I put myself in, I need to know that we're going to be okay.

Love Shack

Scott definitely took a bigger risk than me by moving in. Because I had already had a fully decorated apartment with nicer furniture, Scott gave away almost everything he had. His futon and matching (?!) papasan chair, his particle board bookcase, and his coffee table that consisted of a suitcase on top of a milk crate. In the end, we packed a few boxes of clothes and everything Scott took with him to the new apartment fit in the back of my Explorer. Scott's moving in was completely uneventful.

His father came over that afternoon. After approving of the apartment and the building I we live in, he sat down on the couch and turned on the football game. I fetched the boys beers and I began to unpack Scott's box of cooking pans and food. I stood on the other end of the kitchen island and watched the boys drink and watch the game—both seemed completely at home nestled in my our living room. It was then it hit me that this is official. I live with someone and his father is on the couch and drinking beer. My underwear is folded in the dresser in the next room. I don't know if I've ever had a boyfriend's father in such a close proximity to my underwear before.

I forced myself to calm down and continued unwrapping glasses. Father and son had moved out onto the balcony to admire the view: the pool of course, and not the ladies sunbathing adjacent to it. Besides, my father still has no idea that anyone is in such close proximity to my underwear; my parents don't know about Scott's moving in. He's giving me until Christmas to tell them.

Uneventful indeed.

Denial left him all alone

...My heart is pure
I have learned to forget I have suffered these fools
--Paul Brill, "Paris Is On"

I don't know why I still do it. Maybe it's because Jack is my only ex who has one--it's one of the reasons I liked him--and the curiosity to take a peek is too great. Today, I checked Jack's blog.

My exes check my public blog. Jack checked mine about a month after I met Scott and I got all warm and fuzzy as I watched on my stat counter how he saw the final post I wrote about him and then poured over Scott's entries. It was the feeling of victory I never got from that relationship. /END JUSTIFICATION SPIEL

Anyway, you can tell it's a MySpace blog:


Yes, we all mean it! Holy crap, how many people have to call you an uncaring jerk before you think, Hey if a lot of people are saying it, maybe there's some validity to it?



And that was the exact line where my head fell to my desk and my body shook from laughing uncontrollably. I was reading the reasons he's a "uncaring selfish asshole" nodding in agreement and eyes widening, thinking perhaps he'll get it right for the next lucky lady. Then he quickly concludes with "Of course I have to throw this possibility out." Of course. He wouldn't be Jack if he wasn't in deep denial.

He excuses why it's impossible for him to be a jerk (some existential reasoning: "What would be the point of... me?") and then launches into a completely forgettable and far-reaching second possibility. I didn't laugh again until I saw the third possibility:


I'll let you decide which possibility he's choosing to believe. I feel kind of sorry for him. Instead of looking introspectively, he's decided to cut ties with all his friends. I really think he has the potential for greatness if he could only learn to stop putting himself first 100 percent of the time.

Regardless, I think ending things with him was a great decision. Not only did it clear the way for me to meet Scott, but it also distanced me from from this. All of this. I was in such a bad place at the end of that relationship, self-esteem-wise. And with that distance, I've learned to love myself again. Being able to love someone else is just a bonus.

Porno al Horno

Er, sorry.

What for?

I just found your porn collection.

Oh. Who cares?

I wasn't snooping.

I know.

I wouldn't have gone in there if I knew that's where it was. I was just trying to help you pack.

Seriously, I don't care. It's no big deal. I haven't even used it since I met you.

You don't have to tell me things like that.

Okay.

(Pause.) So... porn, eh?

Everyone has porn.

I know... it's just where you keep it.

Well I can't just leave it out. It's begging to be used if I leave it out.

I understand that. But--

What?

The oven? Really? That's where you keep your porn?

Five Days

Thursday night I abandoned my end of Scott's dresser behind my couch in the living room. The black piece of furniture laid stark against my white carpet and muted couch. It was then it sank in: Oh my god, Scott's things are going to touch my things. It was one thing to have Scott over sleeping in my bed, using my towels, and drinking out of my glasses, but that black dresser... his things are going to touch my things.

I collapsed woozily on the floor, with my back resting against the back of the couch and my legs stretched out in front of me. I was dizzy and overwhelmed and I didn't know if it was from the pint of blood I donated earlier that afternoon or one of my anxiety attacks. It was probably a little bit of both. I was glad Scott was back at my truck fishing out the dresser drawers and not witnessing my doubt.

I had been living in my new apartment for a week and a half when Scott got the call from his landlord. Apparently Scott had told him he was interested in breaking his lease when he originally asked to move in with me. His landlord had begun showing his apartment and found a renter and he was to be out by the first of October. When Scott received the call, we were sitting at my new kitchen table and looking over our hypothetical budget should we ever move in together.

He didn't even ask me. We both already knew. I was tired of fighting what felt like every move in the universe pushing us to live together.

He hung up the phone and we went back to the newest spreadsheet as if the call never came in. "Rent is late by 6:00 pm on the 3rd, so you give me your half of rent when you get paid on the 20th and I will be responsible for it," I said, pointing my finger to the rent box and the payday column. "How many days do we have until October first?"

"Five days."

I groaned. Another fast move. Another fast move in two weeks.

And now his dresser was in my living room.

It was just his dresser. We wouldn't have time to move anything else until Sunday. We had my annual company party on Friday and his mother's birthday dinner on Saturday, so I had time to adjust with his dresser in my house.

I was nervous and scared, but I was also excited. I've never lived with a boyfriend before. I have a loft in the city with my boyfriend and my dog. I get up every morning and put on ironed clothes before I go to my 9-to-5. It sounds like someone's else's sophisticated life—not mine.

I got up off the floor and pushed Scott's dresser through my bedroom door and straight into the closet. No one would see it anyway.