Posts Tagged ‘moving in


The boxless move

Well, Phase I of the Texas Twister’s move is complete. All her stuff is here—piles of shoes (as she likes to point out, she’s half-Filipino), the beakers, the practice violin made out of a yellow sponge and stick. The cats are adapting… Max has welcomed her by peeing on a pile of her clothes; Minnie seems to spend more time in her favourite hidey-hole, under the bed. (In an example of life imitating article, one of the first pieces I wrote for Click by Lavalife was on compatibility between pets and lovers; I feel like now I could write a book.) It doesn’t help that, this morning, the Twister, in the midst of brushing her teeth, approached Minnie, thus spooking the cat, who isn’t used to hairless giants approaching with toothpaste foaming at the mouth.

The whole move has me pondering past transitions. It also has me wondering why, at the ripe old age of still-younger-than-George-Clooney, I’ve never lived with a girlfriend up until now–but that’s for another entry, or my next therapy session.

I, like most sentient beings, hate moving; that’s one reason I stayed in the same one-bedroom hovel for 10 years. Imagine yours truly and two cats (same ones) in a 500+ sq. ft. apartment… and I was working out of my home, which means I was there ALL THE TIME. I still can’t believe my work station was a computer on the kitchen table, surrounded by piles of paper. I must have appeared insane to outside observers.

A good chunk of my 20s, “the grunge years” as I like to call them, were spent living out a lifestyle that suited the term… me and three other guys living like animals in a beat-up old house. We’d turned the basement into a practice space for our rock band…. There was a bedroom down there as well, and the guy who took up residence there painted it black… flat black. The toilet didn’t work, or it didn’t work very well, so he’d fill up big glass juice bottles with urine and bring them upstairs to dump out. He used to watch reruns of Dragnet, which he ordered through the mail.

We had some good parties there, though. Sigh.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I moved in with two girls I met through a roommate wanted ad. Karen and Abi chose me as a roommate, apparently, because I had a VCR… or was it a stereo? Something like that. After living in a house with 3-4 guys, this was a welcome change, believe me. For one thing, these girls flushed.

And that was it, except for a few years ago, when J., my girlfriend at the time, moved in because she’d had a fight with her roommate.  But, because she was moving out East anyway in a month, that had a time limit on it, so I was able to prepare myself mentally for the psychological trauma of sharing my bathroom counter space.

So I guess my point is, this whole living-with-a-girlfriend is unexplored territory for yours truly. If we fight, where can we go? One of us in the living room, one in the bedroom? The nearest bar is several blocks away.

We already disagree on something—her method of moving which, frankly, I think is insane. For some reason, the Twister decided at some point that she was going to see if she could do a “boxless move.” What this means is, she’s been filling her numerous bags—a red Adidas gym bag, a couple of canvas totes, a big wicker basket—with her stuff, and transporting it thus. Call me old-fashioned, call me a traditionalist, but I’ve always thought boxes–sturdy, dependable, and easily transportable—was the way to go.

Anyway, she did achieve her goal—she brought over the last load last night. What she doesn’t realize, of course, is now we’re going to have to put most of it in boxes.


Love is indeed fleeting

People say that women “of a marriageable age” see a cute guy and immediately imagine ourselves shacked up with him, and having his babies.  I’ve even read chick lit novels that confirm it. Apparently this is “too much, too fast,” even when it’s purely in our own minds.

In that case, I have the following question: What’s the deal with men who start quizzing you about future plans (and your whereabouts last Friday night) before you’ve ever properly met them, and a half-hour into your first date, they’re already deciding where the two of you are going to live?

Jesus Crikey on a popsicle! Talk about moving too fast!

In those situations, I can’t ever figure out if it’s pure 100% meaningless blather, if they think they’re saying what the woman wants to hear, if they’re sort of kidding (but not completely, b/c men never joke about that stuff unless they kinda mean it); or if they’re just on an obsessive nutty hunt for a wife and any woman will do. It baffles me. I just sit there looking confused and trying to figure out a polite way of saying, “SHUT UP!! YOU FREAK, I DON’T KNOW YOU, WHY ARE YOU ACTING LIKE WE’RE ENGAGED?”

Maybe they’re trying to make me comfortable by being decisive? In that case, time for a different strategy.

But on the positive side, these hyper-activated one-sided relationship trajectories tend to burst into full flame and then wither and die within about 72 hours. Seriously. A couple weeks ago, I was talking to a guy who already was concerned whether I’d quit working to raise the kids before he and I had ever MET. We got in a tiff while trying to plan the third date: it came to light that I enjoy restaurants, and consider dining to be more of a pleasure than a chore.  He, on the other hand, might as well be eating from a feed bag for all he cares. What’s more, he told me, ALL MEN feel that way. I disagreed. In a dolorous voice, he said, “I don’t know if this is going to work out.”

Gee. You think?

Then, last Thursday, I met the mystery man from three years ago. Before I left the house, I told him I couldn’t spend too long out, because I am moving out of my apartment over the weekend. He said, “Not to sound weird, but I have a spare room, and you can stay there for a couple weeks.”

Um, yeah, that sounds weird.

We met, we recognized each other, we went to have a drink, and within a few minutes I remembered why I didn’t talk to this guy for years: HE’S ONE OF THOSE ONES.

Our conversation revolved around his work–which is poker–and my work. I hate poker, and I usually don’t like the people who play it. I told him this before I ever agreed to meet him. Nonetheless, I was treated to a lengthy monologue detailing the career highlights and comparative skill levels of a half-dozen random players I don’t give a hellshite about.

Then I treated him to a lengthy monologue about book publishing vs. magazines…and I think he may have fallen asleep for a few minutes. Then he woke up and asked me what we were doing the next night. THE FOURTH OF JULY, mind you. I said I had plans. He said, “Fine the next night. ” I said, I’m moving. He said, “No no, I’m going to help you move, we’re going to go pick up some day laborers from Home Depot, so on Saturday you’re free to share a bottle of wine with me.”

Gentlemen: This would be such sweet music, coming from someone I’d dated for a couple months. But on the FIRST DATE? It is completely and utterly insane. And presumptuous.

“I really am not sure I’ll be able to,” I said.

But he wasn’t having it. Till Saturday afternoon, when he texted me and I responded that I couldn’t make it…whereupon he texted me back huffily, telling me he was getting on a plane to Vegas to hang out with a bunch of girls I don’t know.

I guess I’ve been dumped. Good thing I didn’t take him up on the spare room offer.

April 2020

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