Thursday, February 24, 2011
We were invited to dinner. Wednesday night. No big thing, right? WRONG. His dad's house is out on an island. You can only get out to the island (by car) if you have business on the island and there's a gate house on the bridge. It's VERY exclusive. His dad lives in an Italianate palazzo on "East Egg" Island and I grew up in a crappy condo in "The Valley of Ashes". The initial panic passed. I should have known that "Trip" came from money like that because his name is a Firstname Middlename Lastname III but it never occurred to me that it might be Like This. After dinner we're sitting by a roaring fire (the fire place large enough to roast a pig) sipping lovely red wine discussing stuff. Dim light glints gold off of the Directoire and Empire furniture's overstuffed silks. Yeah, it was like that... I felt like I had invaded Masterpiece Theatre. It was lovely. Absolutely lovely.
"So, how did you meet?"
Oh, crap. The evening started to crash. I looked at "Trip". He looked at me. Deer-in-headlights-style. Do we tell the truth? We have not discussed this yet.
"You just met a few times around at bars or something?" Dad's a psychiatrist, good luck lying to him. He sensed something.
"We met through new social networking tools. Computer stuff, dad."
GOOD SAVE. Dad does not check his e-mail often. Knows nothing of Facebook or internet dating sites. Leave it to a son to know how to lie to his dad.
I just wish that we would have discussed what we're going to say when people ask how we met. It's horrible to have to say that you met on an internet dating site. Or at least I think it is. I'm meeting all of his friends this weekend. Vague answers about the intertubes won't fly with them. I think we're about to overplay the importance of our one common Facebook friend (he went to art school with someone I used to work with). We need to agree on a lie and then stick to it. Otherwise, there's going to be a few awkward silences this weekend.
Monday, February 21, 2011
He found himself looking forward to coming home. Not because he wasn't at work anymore, but because he was looking forward to spending time with me. Cooking dinner together and watching TV. Silly boring things.
I found myself eagerly anticipating him getting home after work. Looking at the clock. And if he didn't come home, or came home late, I was way more disappointed than I should have been. I mean, he was just my roommate.
And after my last roommate (hell satanspawn bitchface hoooker hell hell), it seemed to me a good idea to keep my distance.
But, he had these big blue eyes, see? And I told my friends about it, that I had a crush on my roommate, and they were like, "that is a terrible idea. Remember what happened with your last roommate? Crazyface bitchass. And you weren't even sleeping with her. Don't do it. It'll end poorly, then you'll be out one awesome roommate. He picks up dog poop AND mows the lawn. Also he's super nice. And, you know. I mean, he's single, right? Can I maybe come over for dinner sometime?"
One friend was at least a little more honest.
"If you hit that, let me know how it goes. He's pretty cute. Maybe you could warm him up for me."
And I was like, "Oh, pishposh. Nothing will happen. I'm sure he's not interested in me. Plus, he's such a responsible person, he wouldn't do something like that."
Well. I was wrong. I'm way glad I was wrong.
One really good thing about getting together with your roommate is that you already know you can live together and you're comfortable together. Because moving in with a boyfriend can be really hard -- I know from experience. The guy I was with in college? Even when he was out of work and I was going to school and working full time, he couldn't be bothered to wash a dish. Or scrub a toilet. Ever. I think, in three years, he may have .... no. Actually, I don't think he ever cleaned the toilet.
But Roomie and I were OK with each other's habits. There were no arguments or bad blood about how clean the bathtub was, or who left dishes laying around. All was copacetic as far as home was concerned.
So a few weeks ago, I was going to the bathroom, and I noticed, to my great irritation, that the toilet paper was hung the wrong way. Underhand.
I realized that Roomie and I had never talked about how toilet paper is hung. And I didn't think that I'd ever noticed it being wrong before. I shuddered. Had I just been lucky? Did he have a willy-nilly approach to TP, and somehow, either I hadn't noticed, or it always happened to get thrown on the right way? Had I been the one who'd replaced the roll most of the time? It didn't seem like it ... I've lived with guys who left me empty rolls, and Roomie's just not that kind of a guy.
"Um, so have we ever talked about how we like toilet paper hung? I mean, are you the kind of person who thinks that there is a right way to hang TP?"
He looked at me, and quickly answered.
"Fuck yeah. Overhand."
"Oh, thank god. It must have been your mom."
(Originally posted on Run Bitches Run)
Friday, February 11, 2011
“I’m not saying we all ought to misbehave, but we all ought to look as if we could.”
(In other news, new girl lost your comments on her first two posts. I suck, because they were great, but everything's all straight now otherwise. Sorry, awesome commenters!)
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011