7/26/2008

Today Aaron told his landlords that he is moving out. We had a fight last week. My argument was that if he wouldn't move in, he couldn't possibly be as invested in the relationship as I was. It didn’t help that I’d had about 5 glasses of wine. That accounts for most of the crying. The packing my stuff and threatening to sleep in the car, well, let’s call that the Chardonnay Attack.

The good news is, I didn’t have to sleep in the car because after he told me he’d like me to step away from the alcohol, he explained that this move was a scary thing for him. What if it didn’t work out? It was going to be expensive and really complicated to change the direction of things. But then he admitted he wanted to try.

Eventually it became clear that I was feeling more confident aboutliving together because 1) I have lived with boyfriends before who I didn’t feel as committed to as I do about Aaron and 2) I wrote the book;) so I am feeling pretty certain that not only can we live together, but we can live well together.

I know we both aren’t really considering marriage yet. We are in this thing. That’s what I know. I am finally in a relationship in which I feel respected and heard. I am in love and feel ready to make a home for the family we are becoming. English doesn’t have enough words for the strengthening of a relationship, but this feels so right to me. 

I promised I would be willing to talk more about the logistics of this move and help in every way that I can. Right now, I am just sohappy this is really going to happen. In one month he's moving in! When I say it to him outloud, he turns a little green.

 

I think this is a little like how the kid is feeling about the whole business... 

6/25/2008

We have been staying over here at my place a lot. I refer to it when speaking to people as our Brooklyn home. The Queens place is where we summer. I make sure to reference our domestic state in front of Aaron as often and as glowingly as possible. I am hoping that now that Lisa and Elijah are no longer regulars on the sofa that he will start to feel like this is his home too. I let him take over some of the drawers and shelves. I constantly complain about paying bills alone and am sure to use phrases like, “In my house we put down the toilet seat. In your house we can leave it up…” hoping it will ignite a spark of longing.

Unfortunately, in turn he is making observations like, “I sure do love those 30th Avenue markets in Astoria. You can run right outside if you need anything.”

I counter on those nights we crash at his place, with a four AM elbow in his side followed by, “Bars are closing,” as the alley below fills with the noisy swell of dispersion.

He comes back with, “Queens sure knows how to keep it real.”   

I pout.

5/25/2008

We are hanging out at my boyfriend, Aaron’s place in Queens, when he asks me what I’m going to do after my roommate, Lisa moves to Rome.

I am all sorted out for the next few weeks. A couple is subletting from me for 6 weeks while they get themselves settled in the city. I am going to be traveling for most of that time so it works out. Aaron has already agreed to let me stay with him for the days I’m in town. The subletters will pay for my rent for a month and a half, which means I don’t need to really worry about a roommate until September. This gives Aaron plenty of time to gleefully shout “yes!” when I ask him to move in and then start packing. Right? I mean, he lives in Queens…   

“So,” I begin, “want to try our one week of living together and then make it official in September?” I ask with a confident wink.

Crickets. There is no parade. He does not get up and start a conga line or pop the cork on a bottle of bubbly. He blinks. At least he is still alive.

The subsequent “talk” is the kind that usually involves tears, someone being called a jackass and then, if you’re lucky ends in make-up sex. In this case, we fight and then I go call a psychic. I’m not kidding. That’s what I do. It’s okay because I have a few career questions too and since I’m a first time caller I get my first half hour for $20.

The lady tells me that he isn’t going to move in for a few months but he will definitely move in. She tells me I shouldn’t worry because he’s a good guy. She says that him not wanting to move in right now isn’t about me and that I have to let him grow into the idea. Then she gives me this interesting nugget: “But if you force him too, he’ll move in before he’ll let you end the relationship.”

He had said as much during our fight. She promised me I’d be able to hold out until the decision is his. She advises me to use some of my savings and keep the apartment by myself. I hang up with her before my half hour is over. But not before she offers this wallop, “Look for work in Horticulture, you know, Botany or something. No wait, Bus Driving. Yes. I see your future driving a bus.”

Fabulous. Grayhound or school?

3/1/2008

I don’t want another roommate.

It might be that I am 33. It might be the wheat germ incident of 2001 when I lived with 5 hippies in a Berkeley co-op who found the smell of cooking chicken stock offensive. These people made me chip in to a monthly wheat germ fund even after I insisted that I didn’t know what it was or how to use it. After three months, I moved out and into a place with a vegan tri-athlete in Oakland. A step up, if you can believe it. Or maybe it has to do with how things have gone this whole spring.

Things in roommate heaven took a nose-dive when four large-ish people began, for all intents and purposes, sharing an apartment barely built for two. First, I met Elijah and then through Elijah I met Aaron. Lisa met Elijah through me and pretty soon we were all staying up nights drinking bottles of wine and playing endless rounds of Celebrity. But there was a whole lot of people happening around here. None of us is under 5’8” and the tallest among us is 6’3”. Lisa and I both have those Eastern European child-bearing bodies, so while I'm not calling anyone fat, none of us is what others might call “petit.” The point is, it became really crowded in this Brooklyn brownstone.

When Lisa and Elijah started spending all of their time together in this apartment, Aaron and I started to spend a lot of time at his. 

But I love my Brooklyn brownstone. This place has a backyard, two bedrooms, hardwood floors and a dishwasher. The dryer in the hall is broken, the toilet runs and there is very little counter space, but it is, otherwise, an awesome apartment in an awesome neighborhood at an affordable price unheard of in the city with the most expensive real-estate market in the country. Affordable for two. But if I post for a roommate on craigslist I am liable to end up with a vegan tri-athlete who won't let me eat a turkey sandwhich. Or worse, a person with a boyfriend who prefers our place to his. Then what?

I take a serious look at the guy sitting next to me. Aaron. We’ve only had this relationship up and running since September. He’s got big blue eyes. He snores. He makes a really good hollandaise sauce. He has road rage. I am a writer. I live in Brooklyn, NY. I know. I know. This isn’t going to be easy.

2/15/2008

My roommate, Lisa told me she’s moving out. It isn’t a surprise. She has just won the most prestigious fellowship in Landscape Architecture. It isn’t like I was thinking she’d turn it down. The fellowship will put her in Rome for a year and when she comes back, that’ll be it. We will no longer be roommates. Even though I am not surprised, I admit, I am a little disappointed and suddenly adrift in my consideration of what some might call a “next step.”
    Lisa was not just a roommate, she was the perfect roommate. For starters, we grew up together, are practically related and have no issues telling each other when the dishes need to be washed (well, she had no problem telling me. She was pretty good about dishes…) Further, we could walk around the apartment naked. We didn’t, but the point is we could have. When I define “home” for myself, that’s like point number two. Lisa also, as a famous landscape architect who wins gigantic fellowships, is a workaholic. So a never-home, can-walk-around-naked-in-front-of old friend is kind of the Bert (or Ernie) of roommates. The Rolls Royce. The Thin Mint Cookie. The best. How am I going to top it? Right now, I have no idea.