Thanksgiving is only the beginning. A practice round, if you will, that leads to that dreaded week comprised of Christmas and New Years. Whatever your religion, those days matter because unless you are a cop, a bodega worker or someone who “works from home” you are likely to have those days off—you, your boyfriend and his entire extended family.

A huge problem with these inevitable and often dreaded days is the fact that the only thing on TV is some kind of football game. For some of you this might be a blessing. But if you are anything like me, the best thing about football is the potential for alcohol consumption. So, instead of getting to sit in front of the TV for a little mind-suckage, you are more likely to find yourself in your guy’s mom’s kitchen helping to prepare something like a Yule log and hoping to your toes someone thought to spike the eggnog.

These are the holidays and in America they are all but unavoidable. Even if your tradition involves Chinese food and a movie, every family has one. And when you are only the girlfriend and not the “daughter-in-law” your place at the party is vague at best. Do you get to be in all the family pictures? More importantly do you want to be? Further, how do you each field those inevitable and pesky questions about your marital status? Are you planning vows or dodging them like some kind of Molotov cocktail of love?

If you and your man haven’t talked about this stuff in a while, maybe you should—and maybe you should before December 24th sneaks up on you like a rodent dressed as Santa. I say this because at the holidays you and your man had better find a way to be a team or else there will be a whole lot of glarin’ going on over the heads of the carolers. You need to sit down together and make a pact: He will not leave you alone with his mother for more than half a quarter to watch the Buckeyes and you will not tell the story about the office party where he took off his pants and sang “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” to the staff.

Even more than that, you will have a set bag of answers to the question of matrimony. Even if you guys aren’t sure what the plan is yet, keep your answers light and carefree. “We’re not going to get married. Instead we are going to start a cult,” is a good one. If you guys are in agreement about your future, a simple, “Whenever he’ll marry me,” or in his case, “…she’ll marry me” is an easy way to brush off the question with a laugh. Just expect them to ask and prepare any non-confrontational reply. An off the cuff “Fuck you, Aunt Mabel,” is just bitchy. But ultimately, make sure you guys are together on this.

Also, make sure you are able to find moments to decompress by grabbing him and sneaking him into the bathroom for a hug and a check in. If that feels too complicated, an across the room wink can reconnect you in a flash, and an in-passing hand squeeze is definitely a great way to remind each other you have each other’s back.

The holidays can be stressful. But one thing to remember is that before you were coupled, holidays were some of the saddest times of the year. This year, if you can’t do it for each other, do it for a sad single person. Have fun and appreciate each other. It’s the right thing to do. And way more fun than spiked eggnog. Or well, way more fun than a Buckeye game, anyway.

   

Aaron and I having a great time at Thanksgiving with his awesome family. He randomly squeezed my ass several times that day, which also helped.

I just got back from the dog park where my dog, Dee Dee accosted every older longhaired dog she sniffed because she thinks it’s funny. I, on the other hand have become that dog owner which sucks because I always want people to like me and the inflection is wrong for me to assume that that’s what they mean by that dog owner. Meanwhile Dee Dee doesn’t understand when I try to explain to her that hysterical barking and nipping at furry asses will make neither of us very popular at the dog park. And isn’t that what all of us want at the dog park? Popularity?

But that’s the thing about dogs, they have the mental capacity of a toddler who never grows up. They can understand 6-10 phrases but quickly master “treat,” “walk,” and “do you want…” They have a harder time with, “stay,” “don’t hump the house guest,” and “stop trying to eat the cat.” Like a two year old they require a lot of attention, a lot of stimulation and a lot of toys (except they prefer ten dollar nylon bones flavored with “chicken” that smells like vomit.) So how on Earth can you and your partner explain to this, frankly, wild beast that it is freaking you out to be licked on your exposed leg while you and your guy are, well, compromised? The fact is you can’t.

Bringing a dog into a cohabitation may not seem like such a big deal, after all, no one had to nurse anything (I hope). However, acquiring an animal—as opposed to one of you already having one before you move in together—are two very different things. If one of you has a dog or cat going into it, you’ve gotten to explore the whole can’t-get-enough-of-each-other-while-kicking-the-animal-off-the-bed, literally, foot into butt onto the floor mid-sex. Before you are focused on figuring out whose turn it is to start the fight about doing the dishes, you have already learned how to cope with the world’s cutest head in your lap waiting for you to drop a piece of burger onto a waiting tongue. Before you are in each others faces about who does or does not know how to operate a vaccum, a pet hair plan is likely already in place. But if you get your pet once the cohabitation has begun, you have just doubled your adjustment factor—if not quadrupled…(For the bleacher seats: Animals have four legs. Get it?)

The issue of bringing new pets into new cohabitations came up recently when we had a group of people over for pizza and Celebrity. Two of them were a newly cohabitating couple and were asking Aaron and I about Dee Dee (who was sitting squarely in one of their laps intermittently licking her butt and their face) and how it went when we got her. The woman explained that she had little experience with dogs and that she expected her guy to take the lead in caretaking. He, on the other hand felt like they were ready to get the animal but would need to share the responsibility 50/50.

Let me just say this. I was not about to get a dog until Aaron moved in.  The same went for having a car or even considering the possibility of owning property. This is far more commitmentphobic than it is anti-feminist or even being a good planner. The truth is, having a partner takes the pressure off. What if I decide that I need to jet off to Uzbekastan at a moment's notice? What if I don't want to touch the tennis ball she just peed on, then passed to another dog to pee on then peed on it again? A partner is a built in back up plan. But part of the plan requires that they want the pet as much as you do. This is why I recommend and encourage taking your time and shopping for the right one. Even if you go into it pretty sure you want it more than your partner, I can guarentee that all bets are off when your guy imagines himself on the beach with his own furry BFF indulging him in the best game of frisbee ever, for hours, or when your girl sees the little beagle that resembles her first stuffed animal, except this one is alive and will be warm to cuddle with during a rainy afternoon nap. Not to mention, we're in a recession and visiting nearby towns to walk through shelters looking for a droopy-eyed buddy to rescue is free. There is the emotional cost of shelters-- they are vaguely depressing-- so I recommend planning a secondary post-shelter activity like going for a swim in a nearby lake, having a picnic, or going garage sale shopping. Also, bring twenty-bucks or whatever you can afford to leave behind with the shelter staff. It will make leaving “Joe” the sweet-as-punch Rottweiler with kennel cough behind a little easier, even if it was the medication that made him sweet-as-punch. If you approach the whole thing correctly, pet hunting can be a great way to spend a few weekends with your partner.

Of  course, inevitably you will wonder about the fact that sharing a pet is an additional shared responsibility that, like buying a sofa together will inextricably bind you and your partner together even more. This can be a good thing or a bad thing depending on your relationship. If you are living together because it is financially viable and not necessarily a love for the ages, you might want to take a minute and decide who will take the pet when the relationship ends. If one of you wants it more, the decision might be an easy one. If both of you want the pet equally be prepared for a shared custody plan. If you go in agreeing that you will both remain in the pets' life for the duration and if one of you moves away the other gets it by default, it can definitely work out. As I’ve said before, just have a plan in place. No one likes to talk about endings, but when you are dealing with things to whom you cannot explain the concept “it wasn’t your fault that mommy and daddy fell out of love,” you have to be logical. If, on the other hand, you are in a stable relationship and by moving in together you realize you are ready to try out your parenting skills on something furry and slobbery, by all means, visit your nearest ASPCA and choose your pet.

But don’t fool yourself. While in many ways Dee Dee brought Aaron and I closer together than ever (we cannot believe how much we love this creature, bad breath and all), every four AM when she crawls up from her doggy bed and wedges between us, inevitably steeling all the covers and most of the space, we are again reminded that this cute little dog also has the power to push us apart. You have been warned.

 

 Dee Dee's first day at home. Who looks the most freaked out?

What is the rule when it comes to Mother’s Day and our boyfriends' mothers? Are we supposed to ignore them just because we don’t share rings? Even more importantly can we ignore them just because we don’t share rings?

The question of what to get our Unlaws (the parents of our boyfriends) comes up at birthdays, holidays and inevitably Mother’s and Father’s Day. Whereas Gift-giving-specific days like Christmas, Hanukah and birthdays feel totally fine when it comes to sending cards and cool t-shirts or scarves we think his mom will love, Mother’s Day feels a little more like a potentially serious ass-kissing move. This one is for the girl trying really hard—perhaps trying too hard. This is for the girl who in high school moaned a little when she raised her hand. This is for the chick who accidentally burnt down his family cabin sneaking a late night cigarette in the dry field beside it.

It’s a mine field out there. This is your chosen partner. How do you play this one?  If you and your beau have been together less than a year, I say skip it all together. If you are around when your guy is talking to his mom on the phone, call out a “Happy Mother’s Day” and let him pass it on. If you answer when she calls him to remind him to call her, say it then. Or even better, get your man to tell her that you reminded him to call in the first place (which let's face it, she already knows if the call comes before 7PM). That one might get you your own stocking on the mantle next Christmas.

If you have been together for more than a year, get your name on the card. Even if it’s one of those, “Joselin and I wish you a happy Mother’s Day” that you instruct him to scribe, that will be a great, non-brown nosey way to get your message out there. Offer your guy half the money for the gift or card if you need to buy your way in.

For the girl who may as well be married to the guy for all the time they’ve been together (especially if you have kids together!) make sure you are a part of the card, make sure your kids send one of their own and also make yourself a part of the Mother’s Day phone call. It’s just good etiquette. She may only be your Unlaw, but she’s the mother of your honey and it will make you look awesome. But make sure you don’t volunteer to clap the erasers. That’s just lame.

I was out at a bar last night chatting with an old friend. She mentioned that she's been with the same guy for a few years now and they finally moved in together. But now her family thinks it's hilarious to call her guy their "sin in law." Her guy, on the other hand, doesn't think it's so funny. I don’t know what it is about cohabitation these days that feels so normal, contrary to the family of my friend. Whenever Aaron and I start talking about getting married I can tell neither one of us is opposed to it. I mean, it’s what folks do— But there is something so completely right about living together and being together as we are now that makes it feel like it’s going to require a shot gun to make it “legal.” Or a lease.

Aaron and I have decided to begin making steps toward becoming Domestic Partners. I really love that this option is out there. It feels like the same level of commitment as marriage without a lot of the modern social pressures of a marriage. Now let me just say, with complete earnestness, we are not doing this in opposition to marriage nor are we making a political statement, like: Not until same-sex unions are allowed to marry! (although, if that’s a bi-product of Domestic Partnership than that is awesome too.) However, Aaron and I are looking for joint health care, tax breaks and the ability to hold each other’s hand in the event that one of us falls on the subway tracks and onto the third rail, (a real fear of mine) as much as the next guy.

To begin, Aaron is going to get his name on the lease. Beyond that we have to wait several months. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted. (If you and your partner are interested in your state’s domestic partnership laws, check them out, as they vary. In New York: go to http://www.cityclerk.nyc.gov/html/marriage/domestic_partnership_reg.shtml#requirements)

In the meantime, we will continue to sin. Which coincidentally brings me to another exciting bit of news: My new book, The Purity Test: Your Filth and Depravity Cheerfully Exposed in 2,000 Nosy Questions, published by St. Martin’s press was released last month. I am pleased to say it is laying on a table in the Union Square Barnes and Noble, in the DOWNSTAIRS! on a table that says, Odd, Curious, Cool. I am hoping this book is cool and not odd. But the top one looked well thumbed through. And that makes me happy. I stalked the table for 10 minutes until someone picked it up, ran over and yelled shrilly, “I wrote that!’ We stood there for a moment as my new fan, terrified, looked from side to side. Slowly he replaced the copy to the table and backed away. No other words were exchanged.

Party for the release is on March 19, 2009 at Dempsey’s in the East Village from 7-9. Please come if you are in NYC! That is not desperation. That is sincere hope, and a little desperation.

Right, so, my new book testing purity which includes the question, “Have you ever fucked the foamy head of a Guiness pint or wanted to?” is out. I am continuing to live (happily) in sin. I will also mention that Elena and I have turned in our newest book, The Good Girl’s Guide to Getting it On, to be released in 2010, that is if the world doesn’t end before that, as my lovely boyfriend continues to tell me with each and every (sinful) literary step I take: “The end is nigh.” But whatever, he has spent a lot of his life egging things so he can’t talk. Sin in laws. What can you do?

 

  Domesticating Partners

Book on a table in Barnes and Noble.

We were living together for all of 3 weeks when it suddenly seemed like an excellent idea to get a dog. We had discussed it for a whole week and figured it was probably the right thing to do, what with the move having gone as well as it did. We seemed to like each other enough, and frankly, after chipping a corner of Aaron’s grandmother’s armoire, I had no interest in moving him out again. It would be like insurance against us breaking up. Who needed marriage? We were going for the canine plan! And anyway, what was the big deal? How long do these things live anyway? Twelve years, fifteen tops? And that’s in a place not surrounded by busy streets. Who knew? This dog could have bought it in ten seconds with one good wriggle out of its collar.
    
Armed with the above “logic,” we set out for BARQ, a no kill shelter in Williamsburg. There we met Roxie. A fun loving pit bull in the middle of an insane asylum. Roxie was caramel colored with a cute pink nose. The thing I liked most about her was that in a sea of hysterically barking animals, Roxie was all smiles. She was about 45 pounds of love that when attached to a leash was easily able to pull about 10 times her body weight. I’m not kidding. This pooch could have pulled a sled through the tundra carrying me and eight of my closest, largest friends single handedly…I mean, single paw-edly.

Now here’s the nice thing about choosing a pet with a partner, Aaron called after me as I flew through the air, “Not a great walker, eh?”
    
“What do you mean?” I shouted back over my shoulder and then lost consciousness as I flew into the side of a brick wall. When I came to I finished my sentence: “She’s just excited.”

The next day we visited the 92nd Street ASPCA in Manhattan. The Ritz Carlton of shelters, the ASPCA dogs had larger accommodations than we had in Brooklyn. It felt a little weird taking an animal from a place as great as this, toys, love, food and space, a veritable Disneyland for dogs, and shlep it to a basement apartment with a half a backyard. But when we met the dog with the longest tongue in the world, we decided to be selfish. This was our dog. The best thing is, the ASPCA will replace that slot with a dog from a kill shelter, so in the end we felt less guilty.

However,  the minute we left with our bounding bundle of energy (see picture...just kidding. She wore herself out) we began to fight over her name. The ASPCA called her "Peanut" but clearly no one else ever had because she seemed to have no idea who the hell Peanut was. I decided to implement a new communication technique: Goal oriented fighting-- where I saw my goal, "Nugget" and steadily walk towards it. Why Nugget, you ask? Andrea Becker. Andrea Becker was a very cool girl I once new who had a dog named "Nugget."

Aaron made one of those "phts" sounds when I told him my great idea.

"Sounds like shit," he said.

"No! It sounds great!" I insisted.

 "No I mean, it sounds like a nugget of shit," he replied.

Frankly, it did. I had been thinking of "Gold" which, looking back isn't a much better use of the word, "Nugget." Then I started getting so many gross images of that word in my head that writing this blog is freaking me out...

Needless to say, we named her Dee Dee Ramone after Dee Dee Ramone. (Wouldn’t it be funny if we named her Dee Dee Ramone after like, Fred Flintstone? That’d be crazy.) Aaron has always been a Ramone's fan. And I could sing, "Dee Dee is a Punk rocker!" Doesn't that work better that Nugget? Nugget is so not punk rock...

 We are now completely in love. But the thing about love is, while it is great for things like getting over muddy paws on the sofa and 6AM lick attacks, it does not take dogs for walks or make sure you are home in time to feed them. That requires a live in boyfriend! Just kidding—Although Aaron would whole-heartedly disagree with the part about “kidding.” But bringing Dee Dee into the house gave us a whole lot of new things to fight about. We disagreed about the eating schedule, the location of the dog bed and whether or not to force her into a cage. However, she also had another, better impact on our life. We suddenly shared something that we both loved so much. It was a new experience for us both.

When you live together, couples often continue to maintain certain important separations in their lives. In our case, we still have his and hers friends, his and hers furniture and his and hers books—not to mention a whole host of other things. However, when we began living together we suddenly had an apartment that belonged to both of us, not to mention milk and garbage bags. When Dee Dee came along, we added something new to our bond—an adorable dog that we often call our monkey. And you can be sure that the minute she tried to scramble out of her collar for the first time, we got a harness. We’re gonna try and keep her for as long as possible.

I think these blog entries are starting to have something of a theme. However, while I don’t fancy a Pope picture on my wall (see the last entry and the one before last), I also don’t consider myself religious. The truth is, when people say things like, “Oh, I think of myself as spiritual rather than religious,” I have this urge to punch them, so I’m probably not even really so, ugh, spiritual. I am however, vaguely freaked out that right now there is a big, if festive Christmas tree in my living room.
    
In trying to explain this to Aaron I said that not having a Christmas tree to some Jewish families is what having them is to Christmas-celebrating households: special. I know, I know, a lot of Jews (especially ones from Cincinnati) have Christmas trees and Hanukah bushes as readily as any other red-blooded American. Some even decorate with lights on the outside of their homes. But while my family enjoyed a good Christmas Eve light-seeing trip, we never had lights of our own except for those specific to the festival thereof.

So my anxiety about this tree is not at all a bah humbug whine-fest, but more like, something that doesn’t fit quite right. Of course, Aaron got it all up in his craw that not wanting a Christmas tree could be likened to, say, steeling a Baby Jesus from a Nativity scene. Therefore, I gave in, as long as I could pick it. So I did. And it’s awesome and bushy and the kind with the long pretty needles instead of the short ones. This is a very huggable tree.

I know what you’re thinking, a girl who speaks of her tree so effusively must secretly in her heart have always wanted a Christmas tree of her very own. And I’m not going to lie—I was really excited by the mini-Elvis painting and orange glitter pistol ornaments I scored at Urban Outfitters (my new favorite store since discovering their non-Christian-y and even non-Christmas-sy ornament collection as well as learning last week that they will carry my new book The Purity Test come February!!). But the truth of the matter is that Aaron and I are trying to share a home, and I have as much of a responsibility as he does to find a way to create holidays that belong to us both.

I think if I’d really put my foot down, Aaron would have accepted a tree-less holiday. But I also think it would have put a damper on our first holiday season as a cohabitating couple. I remember hearing once about an interfaith family whose philosophy is to take all the good things about all the holidays and make them into something new and special that belonged to all of them. I have also heard a very sound piece of advice from another couple merging two religions into one household: It is all about respect. I don’t have to believe in any religious aspect of Christmas to respect it. In fact, I don’t even need to get a Christmas tree. But for the record, the menorah, a bag of Hanukah gelt and a picture of my great-grandfather, Rabbi Morris Furman are right beside it. And believe me, Aaron is respecting the hell out of them all.

(I’d also like to say for the record that I have never stolen a Baby Jesus, tackled a blow up Santa nor have I tried to drunkenly ride an animatronic reindeer. I know the words to almost all the Christmas standards and am willing to sing them in and around school choirs. But despite not hating and even pretty much enjoying Christmas and the time of year in general, I am still raising the dog Jewish. But I have to admit, our home this holiday season is lovely.)

We were doing really well. We had set up an IKEA shelving unit that had been in my old bedroom and put it in the living room. It became a pretty awesome way for each of us to display our tchotchkes, nick nacks and crappity crap. This is, in fact a really great way to begin merging your styles when you are moving in together. Aaron and I have remarkably different tastes. But somehow this shelf displays it all together in such a way that one might ALMOST think they were meant to live together. There are Aaron’s glass buoys and bobbers, my books (color coordinated), some flowers I dried and a bunch of Aaron’s toys and, um “collectibles.” I even put all of our collected seashells in a glass vase and stuck Aaron’s sailboat on top. We have also been able to add a few things we found or bought together. I was so into perfecting this shelf that I didn’t notice the pounding coming from the bedroom. Later that day, when I walked in I saw that my hilarious boyfriend (totally not being funny) had hung a picture of JFK with a crucifix wedged into the frame and beneath it, a plate bearing the likeness of John Paul II.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I think Kennedy is swell. I think JPII was seriously like the best Pope ever. And nothing wrong with Jesus hanging on the cross. However hanging on my bedroom wall? What was next? A sex fantasy with me in a habit? Now the thing is—and let me begin by saying there are many more things wrong here than one—but one main thing is that I was raised in a Jewish household, and somehow, a picture of the pope on my wall just felt really, well, wrong. (I have to say though that if I was not Jewish, I think this would still freak me out.)

Aaron, having once been an alter boy (although I can’t picture it) defended the pictures. He even went so far as to call me anti-American. When that didn’t work he launched into the artistry of the display and then quickly moved into the nostalgia factor and how these two pieces had always hung on his walls. As he was reminding me that it was my idea that we move in together, I finally put my foot down, and by put my foot down I mean, found a compromise. 1. Kennedy could stay. No one calls me Anti-American without fully succeeding in their manipulation. And 2. The Pope and the dying Jesus could not. Aaron’s reply: Kennedy and the crucifix will not be parted!

Now this is where the genius of our shelving unit came into play. Aaron decided he could make a home for his Pope plate and his Kennedy with Crucifix somewhere in our display, and I could filler up until it would take some heavy looking to find them. So, somewhere between my mother’s high school picture and her grandmother’s Hanukah Menorah, Jesus, the Pope and JFK are smiling.

So, there we were staring at this apartment full of, for lack of a better word, shit. It was just a giant maze of his and her crappety crap. From pictures of the pope to boxes of books, our faces turned whiter than the Osmond’s mid-winter just looking at it all. And then, here’s something else we learned about each other. In times of stress and strife, Aaron rolls up his sleeves and digs in. I go to sleep or play computer solitaire. The thing is, I really like my way better.

It was eight PM and Aaron’s stuff had been successfully moved. I figured it was time to crack open a can of Bud and pop in a Netflicks. I was just picking up the phone to order a pie when I heard the distinctive sound of a Leatherman cutting open a duct taped box. When I turned around to look, Aaron was knee deep in redundant kitchen supplies.

“Dig in!” was what he said, or something to that effect.

I hung up the phone.

“Really? Now?” I asked.

“Sure! Why not?” He said, all smiles as he tore into a box of records with no available shelf space for miles.

“Why not? Why not!” I began, certainly waving my hands around for effect (which I have been told is in the same family as flailing,) “Because it took everything out of us just getting the stuff here, is why not!” I said indignantly.
    
“What do you mean, out of us,” he asked pointing sharply at the fact that I had been home all day, well, playing computer solitaire, while he alone waited for the movers.

My eyes darted from side to side. I swallowed. My eyes, again darted or closed all together.

In the book we suggest making room for the partner who is transitioning into your space. I hadn’t moved a single thing. I started in the kitchen, taking his kitchen items out of one box and replacing them with some of mine. In the end, we managed to take the best of everything and put into storage the, um, picture of the pope and stuff. I still think, however, it could have waited until after the pizza.

A few weeks ago I was interviewed by Chick Chat Radio without Elena and almost passed out in terror. However, they were very nice and I am pleased to say I managed not to put my foot too deep in it. Interview begins at 00:28:04. Thanks for listening:-)

Download it here

Sept 1, 2008

Aaron moved in last Monday. It has been quite a week and has required a week to…well, process:

We hired movers. We didn’t get fancy, we just went for the guys who hang the signs on the telephone polls all over New York City for $19/hour. That, you might be thinking, was mistake numero uno. However, I used them myself back when I moved from Williamsburg to Ft. Greene. Two adorable Russian Mafiosos whom then-roommate, Lisa and I came to affectionately refer to as “our Russians” helped us move about 90 boxes to our new brownstone. Things that day went swimmingly. We were all moved in in under two hours for just over $100 dollars.

Fast-forward three years. Aaron, as I phone him back in Queens for the fifth time, is still waiting. It is almost three o’clock. I had left at 10AM, an hour after the scheduled arrival time. After calling and getting a definite “We are on our way!” from the Russian headquarters, I took a load in the Jetta and left him surrounded by boxes. The nice thing about Aaron is that he is very organized and has everything ready to go. The not as nice thing about Aaron is that he doesn’t have much patience for tardiness or general disorganization. So by 3PM he is really hating on my Russians. I don’t blame him. The last phone call where someone actually answered the phone ended with, “For an extra hundred we can be there in a half an hour.”
    
The thing about moving, in my opinion is that it is always best to have overlap, fifteen days if possible. Aaron had six months. Of course, he only had one month from the point at which he knew himself to be moving cross-country, from Queens to Brooklyn. He had already moved a few smaller items which included toothbrush, pillow, two pairs of boxers and one clean t-shirt. But other than that, everything was waiting between the hallway and the living room of his one-bedroom in Astoria.

I was still swearing by my Russians at 5 O’Clock when the price had already gone up to $500, a record collection and any small pets. At this point, Aaron told me to politely f’off with my Russians (“Why don’t you move in with one of them?”) and called the Chinese Mafia instead. These guys, turns out, are listed on-line, cost two-dollars per hour less and were outside his door in less than fifteen minutes.

They moved everything in, collected their hundred bucks and a gorgeous tip from me to show Aaron that I appreciated his gumption and respected that he turned his back on the boys from the Motherland, and were on their way. Now, with a maze of furniture littering the place, we sat down on my couch between a box of kitchen supplies and two garbage bags full of linens and took deep breaths.

On the exhale I think we were both pretty clear on one thing: This was not going to be easy.