I think CN and I are paying for all of our past evil deeds here in Savannah. I'm beginning to wonder if this town is cursed. We had the weekend from hell.
Friday night, his Jeep was broken into. It sucked, but the good thing was that the perpetrator just unzipped his soft top, rather than cutting it, which would have been an expensive repair. And all they got were about 20 CDs. So as far as car break-ins go, it was as good as it gets. But you still get upset and feel violated. He was pretty pissed.
We didn't discover the break in until Saturday morning, as we were on our way to Columbia to move his stuff out of his house and bring it down to Savannah. Filing the police report delayed us by at least an hour. Yeah, we know it's kind of silly to file a police report over some stolen CDs, but CN's going to call his insurance company to see if he can get reimbursed. And who knows, maybe if a pattern pops up, having our report on file will help the police nab this guy.
We didn't start packing up the U-Haul until around noon. I was thinking it would take us maybe 4 hours to pack it up. But I didn't realize I was moving with the Dawdle Brothers, also known as my boyfriend and his buddy. They spent 2 and a half hours taking CN's washer and dryer over to his buddy's house. (It was his gift from us for helping us move.) We didn't finish packing until 9pm that night. For Pete's freaking sake.
Then on Sunday, I went to work (yes, I now work the occasional Sunday.) While I was at work, CN's mom called to tell him that she had looked out the back window of her house to see her dogs attacking her cat, so she ran out of the house to save her cat. On the way out the door, she had a bad fall and had skinned her knees, hurt her back, and cut open the back of her head. She probably should have gone to the emergency room to get checked out, but she couldn't because her husband is on his death bed. Yeah. CN's dad is not eating or speaking at this point, which is not a good sign. Not at all.
"What are you and Virginia doing this coming weekend?" she asked him.
CN told her that we are going to my cousin's wedding in Chicago.
She told him that is probably not a good idea and that she doesn't think he should go out of town right now, because of the state his dad's in.
So when I got home, CN told me that he's not going to the wedding, but I can go without him if I want. But I can't have fun without him! One of the reasons I was so excited to go was so that he can meet some of my extended family. And I can't enjoy myself, knowing that he's all bummed out about his dad. He still wants me to go, and The Czarina wants me to go (I am one of the few people from our branch of the family going to the wedding, so I need to represent, yo.), but I think I will feel guilty if I do. Besides, I hate driving in Atlanta and that's where I'm flying out.
So I really didn't know what to do yesterday. I'm looking at non-refundable tickets, a sick (practically) father-in-law, a bummed boyfriend and a favorite aunt who was REALLY looking forward to seeing me and meeting CN. Argh. I hate making choices like this. And the timing? Couldn't be worse. Not that there's a great time for his dad to get really sick.
I got home from work yesterday to find CN watching tv. And a kitchen full of clean dishes. Which made my day, because I HATE washing dishes by hand. He's the best, what can I say?
"How did you have time to wash the dishes?" I asked."Didn't you have to work today?"
"Nope. I called my boss and told her about my dad. She told me to go ahead and take the whole week off. I'm going to go see my family tomorrow, and I'll be there the rest of the week. Hopefully by Friday, I will know what's going on and how he's doing, and I might still be able to go to the wedding with you," he explained.
YAY! Er, maybe. I guess we will have to see. Something good has to happen, right? Aren't bad things only supposed to happen in 3s?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Growing Pains
Just to clarify for everyone, I am not blogging right now so that I can talk about my boyfriend's "small wiener" because I "don't even like him anymore."
Ugh. This is all I am listening to until my drunk boyfriend goes to bed. It's like a frigging record player. He's joking when he says it, but he's slurring. Which would be funny. The first 43 times.
Oh crap. He just came in and read all of that over my shoulder. Now he's talking about how I "don't even like him anymore." Again. According to him, he is sleeping on the couch (he's not) because I hate him (I don't). Ooh, he turned on American Idol. Sweet. It's like my own personal boyfriend babysitter. Silence is golden. I can blog in peace.
*Mumblings about how I don't even like him because he has a small wiener are heard from the living room couch.*
"No, you don't have a small wiener. It's massive and I can barely handle it," I am saying.
He said something about buttholes. I don't know.
Gotta love this insight into our lives, huh? I am tired and he's drunk. Hence this weird post. We have this exact conversation anytime he has more than 4 beers. Luckily, you are not physically here with us, so you don't have to witness him grabbing my boobs and "massaging" (read: man-handling them like he's tenderizing a steak) them, which causes me to slap his hands away and tell him to leave me alone.
This inevitably leads to another slurring rant about how I don't like him and his theoretically small wiener. Only this time, since my stalker (yes, the same stalker) tried to friend me AGAIN on myspace today, he now follows it up with, "You probably want Sylvester's wiener!! I know it!!"
UGH.
This is actually a perfect intro for what I want to talk about today. I knew that since CN and I have always gotten along extremely well (it's kind of unreal, actually, how well we get along) that ...
"No, I am not blogging lies about you," I just yelled to him.
Negative mumblings from the couch.
"Yes, I do love you," I continue. Please go back to talking to Paula Abdul, I think to myself.
Where was I? Oh yes. I knew it would go pretty well, this whole moving in together thing. I knew we would not have any major problems. And we don't. But the devil's in the details, you know? Here are some things I have learned about him since this whole moving thing has taken place:
1. He gives new meaning to the label "pack rat". He makes me look like an amateur. I told him I'd help him pack up his stuff/get rid of stuff he doesn't want anymore. So we go to Columbia for the weekend to get started on packing his stuff. 15 garbage bags full of trash later, he realizes he doesn't have as much stuff as he thought and I realize he hasn't thrown anything away since the 12th grade. Who keeps notebooks full of notes from college classes????!!
2. He is apparently incapable of closing a shower curtain when he's done taking a shower. This irks the crap out of me, because you might as well tell Mr. and Mrs. Mildew to just sit down and make themselves comfortable on your plastic...
"No I don't! Your wiener is not small and ugly! I love you very much and I am not telling lies about you! Your wiener smells fine!! I'm not telling anyone that!"
Ok, anyway, you get what I'm saying about the wet shower curtain.
3. Did you know that the phrases "resealable packaging" and "to prevent them from drying out" are lost on some people? Yup. My boyfriend is one of them. Baby wipes, cleaning wipes, you name it. Left open to the air. Worthless.
4. He owns approximately 587 towels. Somewhere there is a 20 year old son of a cotton industry magnate, driving his own BMW paid for by my boyfriend's towel collection.
5. Did I mention that he only uses the towel once before they are "dirty"? Which is funny to me, because he only uses them to dry off his squeaky clean body when he gets out of the shower, which will soon be full of mildew, thanks to his inability to understand the concept of fungi. If you are doing the math, this is at least 7 "dirty" towels per week from him. This makes him a complete freak, in my book.
I am not singling out my boyfriend, though. Oh yes. I am also dealing with some harsh reality of self-reflection:
1. The discussion we had about Absurd Overusage of Bath Towels and Their Laundering made me realize that I had no earthly idea how long it had been since I had pulled out a clean towel for myself. If he's the freek, I'm the gross one. I don't know which is worse.
2. I am a little more possessive -- ok, selfish-- about my stuff and my space than I thought. I *ahem* haven't made much room for him in the closet. But only about 10% of his wardrobe needs ironing, whereas about half of mine does. Ok, maybe a third. Yes, his clothes are on the floor of the bedroom right now. In semi-organized piles. Yes, I am a jerk. But I have a plan and a day off, so things will change for him soon. And CN went to grab some pop tarts the other day, and I said, "Nonononononono!!! Those are for work day breakfasts only! It's one of the few things I can eat at my desk!!!" -- Seriously? I am telling this to my 30 year old boyfriend, who not only washed all 587 of his "dirty" towels, but also my dirty clothes? AND folded them? I am telling him that he can't have a pop tart? Was I even listening to myself?
3. Why. The. Fuck. Do. I. Have. So many. Damn. Shoes. Jesus tapdancing Christ, did they reproduce in the U-Haul on the way down here? I remember looking at my old closet and thinking, "Gosh, 70 pairs isn't really that many. I could totally get more shoes. I have collection gaps, definitely." And now, I want to chuck them ALL because I am sick and tired of trying to store them creatively.
Ok, I'm sure there are more things I could add to this list, but let's face it, my self-critiquing skills are not exactly well-honed. And this is my blog. I told him to get his own, where he can bitch about how messy I am and how I don't seem to understand that expiration dates on food are for safety, not gambling with food, or as I like to call them, "adventures in eating". But he doesn't listen.
Besides, now it's time for me to give you the Ghetto Update.
Last Sunday afternoon, I was at work. (Yes, now I get to work occassional Sundays. I don't want to talk about it.) CN calls me. He was looking out the back window of our place, where he saw a group of teenagers sitting on our back stoop. This would only be mildly irritating, because it's just some harmless trespassing, except for the simple fact they were PASSING AROUND A HANDGUN. Which was the reason he was calling me.
"That's it. We are moving out. It's final. This is the last straw," he said.
I agreed, but questioned why he was talking to me and not a local 911 emergency dispatcher.
"Oh. Cuz they left already," he said.
GAH.
And to add rainbow colored candy sprinkles to this ice cream sundae from hell that is our living situation, Sammy has been bringing home fleas from our walks. So this place is a ticking time bomb, probably full of cazillions of little jumping, biting fuckers, marinating in their little wicked egg cocoon pods, counting down the moment until they get to microscopically turn our bodies into Swiss cheese.
Must. Move. Soon. Please. Send. Help.
Ugh. This is all I am listening to until my drunk boyfriend goes to bed. It's like a frigging record player. He's joking when he says it, but he's slurring. Which would be funny. The first 43 times.
Oh crap. He just came in and read all of that over my shoulder. Now he's talking about how I "don't even like him anymore." Again. According to him, he is sleeping on the couch (he's not) because I hate him (I don't). Ooh, he turned on American Idol. Sweet. It's like my own personal boyfriend babysitter. Silence is golden. I can blog in peace.
*Mumblings about how I don't even like him because he has a small wiener are heard from the living room couch.*
"No, you don't have a small wiener. It's massive and I can barely handle it," I am saying.
He said something about buttholes. I don't know.
Gotta love this insight into our lives, huh? I am tired and he's drunk. Hence this weird post. We have this exact conversation anytime he has more than 4 beers. Luckily, you are not physically here with us, so you don't have to witness him grabbing my boobs and "massaging" (read: man-handling them like he's tenderizing a steak) them, which causes me to slap his hands away and tell him to leave me alone.
This inevitably leads to another slurring rant about how I don't like him and his theoretically small wiener. Only this time, since my stalker (yes, the same stalker) tried to friend me AGAIN on myspace today, he now follows it up with, "You probably want Sylvester's wiener!! I know it!!"
UGH.
This is actually a perfect intro for what I want to talk about today. I knew that since CN and I have always gotten along extremely well (it's kind of unreal, actually, how well we get along) that ...
"No, I am not blogging lies about you," I just yelled to him.
Negative mumblings from the couch.
"Yes, I do love you," I continue. Please go back to talking to Paula Abdul, I think to myself.
Where was I? Oh yes. I knew it would go pretty well, this whole moving in together thing. I knew we would not have any major problems. And we don't. But the devil's in the details, you know? Here are some things I have learned about him since this whole moving thing has taken place:
1. He gives new meaning to the label "pack rat". He makes me look like an amateur. I told him I'd help him pack up his stuff/get rid of stuff he doesn't want anymore. So we go to Columbia for the weekend to get started on packing his stuff. 15 garbage bags full of trash later, he realizes he doesn't have as much stuff as he thought and I realize he hasn't thrown anything away since the 12th grade. Who keeps notebooks full of notes from college classes????!!
2. He is apparently incapable of closing a shower curtain when he's done taking a shower. This irks the crap out of me, because you might as well tell Mr. and Mrs. Mildew to just sit down and make themselves comfortable on your plastic...
"No I don't! Your wiener is not small and ugly! I love you very much and I am not telling lies about you! Your wiener smells fine!! I'm not telling anyone that!"
Ok, anyway, you get what I'm saying about the wet shower curtain.
3. Did you know that the phrases "resealable packaging" and "to prevent them from drying out" are lost on some people? Yup. My boyfriend is one of them. Baby wipes, cleaning wipes, you name it. Left open to the air. Worthless.
4. He owns approximately 587 towels. Somewhere there is a 20 year old son of a cotton industry magnate, driving his own BMW paid for by my boyfriend's towel collection.
5. Did I mention that he only uses the towel once before they are "dirty"? Which is funny to me, because he only uses them to dry off his squeaky clean body when he gets out of the shower, which will soon be full of mildew, thanks to his inability to understand the concept of fungi. If you are doing the math, this is at least 7 "dirty" towels per week from him. This makes him a complete freak, in my book.
I am not singling out my boyfriend, though. Oh yes. I am also dealing with some harsh reality of self-reflection:
1. The discussion we had about Absurd Overusage of Bath Towels and Their Laundering made me realize that I had no earthly idea how long it had been since I had pulled out a clean towel for myself. If he's the freek, I'm the gross one. I don't know which is worse.
2. I am a little more possessive -- ok, selfish-- about my stuff and my space than I thought. I *ahem* haven't made much room for him in the closet. But only about 10% of his wardrobe needs ironing, whereas about half of mine does. Ok, maybe a third. Yes, his clothes are on the floor of the bedroom right now. In semi-organized piles. Yes, I am a jerk. But I have a plan and a day off, so things will change for him soon. And CN went to grab some pop tarts the other day, and I said, "Nonononononono!!! Those are for work day breakfasts only! It's one of the few things I can eat at my desk!!!" -- Seriously? I am telling this to my 30 year old boyfriend, who not only washed all 587 of his "dirty" towels, but also my dirty clothes? AND folded them? I am telling him that he can't have a pop tart? Was I even listening to myself?
3. Why. The. Fuck. Do. I. Have. So many. Damn. Shoes. Jesus tapdancing Christ, did they reproduce in the U-Haul on the way down here? I remember looking at my old closet and thinking, "Gosh, 70 pairs isn't really that many. I could totally get more shoes. I have collection gaps, definitely." And now, I want to chuck them ALL because I am sick and tired of trying to store them creatively.
Ok, I'm sure there are more things I could add to this list, but let's face it, my self-critiquing skills are not exactly well-honed. And this is my blog. I told him to get his own, where he can bitch about how messy I am and how I don't seem to understand that expiration dates on food are for safety, not gambling with food, or as I like to call them, "adventures in eating". But he doesn't listen.
Besides, now it's time for me to give you the Ghetto Update.
Last Sunday afternoon, I was at work. (Yes, now I get to work occassional Sundays. I don't want to talk about it.) CN calls me. He was looking out the back window of our place, where he saw a group of teenagers sitting on our back stoop. This would only be mildly irritating, because it's just some harmless trespassing, except for the simple fact they were PASSING AROUND A HANDGUN. Which was the reason he was calling me.
"That's it. We are moving out. It's final. This is the last straw," he said.
I agreed, but questioned why he was talking to me and not a local 911 emergency dispatcher.
"Oh. Cuz they left already," he said.
GAH.
And to add rainbow colored candy sprinkles to this ice cream sundae from hell that is our living situation, Sammy has been bringing home fleas from our walks. So this place is a ticking time bomb, probably full of cazillions of little jumping, biting fuckers, marinating in their little wicked egg cocoon pods, counting down the moment until they get to microscopically turn our bodies into Swiss cheese.
Must. Move. Soon. Please. Send. Help.
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