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Because now – it’s exactly the opposite.

When he dropped me off at the airport, I could almost detect a bit of giddiness in his voice. He barely hugged me, gave me a quick peck and said, “See ya!” and got back into his car and drove away. I’ve talked to him a few times since I left, and for the first time in the two-plus months since I’ve moved in, he seems downright happy. And it made me a little sad.

Because I think I’m happy too. Happy might not be the right word. Relieved is probably a better choice.

I’m staying at a co-worker/friend’s house, and she’s been out of town for the first few days of my trip. Walking into an empty house was like a huge weight lifting off my shoulders. I unpacked slowly, rather than the frenetic packing (and resulting tantrum) that occurred at home before I left. I took a long bath and didn’t worry about a comment of how much water I use every night filling up the tub. I read a magazine cover to cover, got into bed with all the lights off because no one was reading next to me, and I slept – all night.

When I woke up the next morning with no one next to me, I didn’t have a twinge of loneliness, not even a pang. I had no cats to feed, no throw-up or pee to clean up, no dishes to put away, and no vacuuming to do. Hey wait, shouldn’t I miss him?

Then again, I also had no morning kiss, no coffee in bed, and no one in the shower with me (okay, that part I’ll admit I kind of liked).

Now he’s watching football, working in the garage, puttering in the backyard and going on mountain bike rides. These are all the things he does normally, but I can’t help but think that now he sounds like he’s on a fabulous vacation – from me.

Everyone here is so excited for me. They keep coming in to look at my ring, wanting to know every detail of my wedding plans – of which there are none.

When I got home last year, we almost broke up. It was mostly my exhaustion speaking combined with a little cold feet for the first trimester of a new relationship. We ended up picking up where we left off, having an amazing Christmas, and well, you know the rest.

This time when I get home, we leave 4 days later for a two-week trip with his mom.

So I guess the question is, will I want to go home?

It’s the change in all of my relationships that I’m referring to. I knew that I would see my family less, I knew that I would see my friends less, and I knew those relationships would be challenged in ways that they had not been challenged before. What I didn’t know was that I would feel like I was being punished for finally falling in love.

And for the most part, the person making me feel that way is you.

For the past ten years of our friendship, I have been primarily single. I have been in and out of a few semi-long term relationships but one thing has been constant: when there’s been heartbreak, you’ve always been there to help me pick myself up, dust myself off, and get back on the horse. You championed me; “That guy was an asshole – you can do so much better!” “You don’t need that guy! He’s a douche bag!” We’d immediately get back to our routine of cocktails on Mondays or Thursdays, and for the past few years, our blog. We’d cackle over our love blunders (mostly mine), and it seemed our friendship withstood anyone who came and went in our lives.

But this year was different. This year there was The New Guy. And everything’s changed. Our friendship wasn’t affected when you got divorced. It wasn’t affected when you were crazy about a new girl – or two. It wasn’t affected when I dated Extra Large Jerk, or Salt and Pepper, or even my ex.

But now it’s real. I’m engaged and I moved 60 miles away. And now you’re gone.

I know my new domesticated life is boring to you. But I’m still me. I will still have my crazy stories; my skeletons will still be constantly falling out of the closet, I promise. I can still talk on the phone, and I still have a car.

So I’m asking for me (and for our readers), and especially for our future as best friends, please put whatever bullshit is going on with you aside and be my friend again. I promise to start talking more about sex (when I start having it more), and I promise to continue to tell more stories that remind you of the old me.

For example, did I ever tell you about the guy I dated who worked at the grocery store? The holidays always remind me of him, because one time when I was loading the bags into my car, he held a sprig of mistletoe over my head and laid a big ol’ smooch on me. We dated for a while, but it was 1990 and I honestly can’t remember what happened next.

Well, he just wrote to me on Facebook.

So are you back in?

Meet his family… If he’s good to his mother, then he’s the guy for you.

Okay, so I’ve met TNG’s family. I definitely know he’s good to his mother. And he’s definitely good to me… after his mother, of course.

Get sick. If he takes care of you, then he’s the guy for you.

I got deathly ill and he failed that one miserably. But then I fell face first on a mountain and he passed the yogurt and ice cream test with flying colors. Then I got sick again and he failed miserably again. I guess 80 stitches in your face deserves more attention than a bad cold. Plus, I have to admit I do get sick a lot.

Go on a trip. If you travel well together, then he’s the guy for you.

We’ve been on a few trips together. Yes, my nickname is “Five Stars” and his is “Two Stars,” but I’ve managed to come down a few notches in the last year and he seems to be enjoying his rise in hotel thread counts. Aside from my occasional abandonment into First Class, we seem to mesh well on the road and have lots of stamps in our passports to look forward to.

Live together. If you don’t kill each other in the first six months, then he’s the guy for you.

The initial road to the end of Month 1 was rocky at best, and I certainly shed a lot of tears, but Month 2 has proven to be a little bit drier. Except for my current cold.

Have a garage sale together. If he lets you sell all his shit, then he’s the guy for you.

I made that one up. But let me tell you… that should absolutely be on the list. Last weekend TNG and I had the yard sales to end all yard sales. Being the obsessive person I am, I of course spent the two weeks prior pulling every piece of junk from my boxes and his entire house (mostly his house), organizing them into sections in the living room, pricing every item with a sticker, advertising online and making signs. Each night, he stood in front of the piles of his past looking longingly at his rusted red-painted floor lamp from 1972.

On the morning of the sale, I woke him at 4am. He looked at me like I was crazy. I said, “You think I’m crazy, but they’ll be here in an hour.” Sure enough, just as I had dragged the last stack of plaid flannel bedding out to the table (neatly tied and tagged of course), headlights flooded our driveway. The early birds (or bottom feeders as TNG angrily called them after they offered $1 for his beloved lamp) had their own flashlights, and they were ready to buy. One guy even wore a headlamp.

“How about fifty cents for this?” asked one lady who held up TNG’s poster of a Gargoyle. I saw the words “That’s not for sale” forming in a bubble above his head so I rushed over to her and whispered a price behind my hand. We haggled with our hands over our mouths like the pitcher and catcher in the World Series, and soon she walked off with the poster that used to hang prominently over the couch.

At the end of the day, as we watched the last piece drive away, TNG looked at me with panic. “I think we sold too much!” he said. He spent the next few days wandering through the house saying, “Wow, it looks a lot nicer in here. I guess that garage sale was a good thing after all.”

“Except,” he said, “I shouldn’t have sold that lamp.”

Gotta go. I’ve got cookies baking in my new oven.

Hey (She Said), I know it’s been a few years since we’ve talked (had a one-night stand), but I was in your neighborhood and thought you might like to get a drink (have a one-night stand again). Anyway, if it works on your end (if you want to sleep with me and go another two years without talking), let me know. ~ Joe Schmo

I’m only shocked it didn’t happen sooner. Having been single for so long prior to meeting TNG, I had a feeling that situations like this would arise. It’s actually a good thing that this engagement has taken me out of the area code of my old life.

Hey Joe, yeah, long time. Actually, that’s not my neighborhood anymore. I’m sixty miles away now. Oh, and by the way, I’m getting married. So, sorry about the booty call, but I’m going to have to pass. Take care, (She Said)

Okay, so that’s not exactly what I said, but it’s close.

Wow, that’s great news! I hope he’s a good guy; otherwise I might have to kick his ass. You deserve only the best… Are you sure you don’t want to meet for a drink? You’re not married yet, after all.

Oh, so tempting. Not really.

Yeah, he’s a great guy, so no need for the fisticuffs. (I love that word) Anyway, take care. (She Said)

So… no drink then?

I decided not to answer. And my gut tells me I should never have answered to begin with. But this situation begs the question of what to do in the future. Because, knowing me as you do, this is bound to happen again. Not to mention the fact that I brought my phone number with me to TNG’s, which in hindsight was probably a big mistake. And yes, I am the last person on the planet with a landline.

Here’s the thing: TNG doesn’t know that this exchange took place. Does the “what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him” theory apply here or do I have to tell him every time my past resurfaces? Obviously the conversation was harmless, but I did engage in conversation with the guy. I have to believe that every once in a while, an old girlfriend looks up my man and I’m none the wiser. According to TNG’s gossipy next-door neighbor, this place has had a revolving door on it for the last 10 years (which actually makes me kind of relieved).

Luckily the emails stopped after I didn’t respond. But if the sins of the past come calling again… what’s a girl to do?

After a year of seeing him just on weekends, I’m realizing that he only knew the “groomed” side of me. I made sure I shaved my legs every Friday, I had makeup on, my hair was clean, etc. My question is – do you guys even care? He of course hasn’t said anything, but since I’ve moved in, I’ve definitely been lacking in all of the above. Am I already that woman who I mocked in earlier blogs? The one who trades in her skinny jeans for sweatpants and her makeup for cold cream? Okay, so I’m not totally her yet – but I’m definitely hovering over the drain. Do you think he’s noticed? My gut says no, but I shaved this morning just in case.

Speaking of noticing, let’s talk bedroom – and sleepwear. I sleep in pajamas. They’re cute pajamas, but they’re jammies nonetheless. And yes, sometimes even socks. I know, I know, I just killed the porn dream of the girlfriend who answers the door in skimpy lingerie (which I did a few times) but if this is my home, I gotta be comfortable. So, after I finally found the box with my pajamas, I put them on. Did I just snuff out the fire with one glimpse of heather gray cotton?

As long as we’re on the subject of grooming and sleeping preferences, let’s talk bathroom. I know – T.M.I. – but now that I’m living with someone, I’m really starting to realize just how uptight and tightly wound I actually am. He’s so relaxed about everything; he even leaves the door open. Not only do I have to be on another floor of the house with the fan on… honestly it’s actually better if no one is home. I’ve said it before; I think this man was put in my life to loosen me up a little. He actually snickers at me when I come out looking sheepish. In my family no one can go to the bathroom… call it years of repression. I guess I don’t really have a question on that one. He had to know that at some point in the relationship I would finally go number two.

I’m making small strides. I’m no longer asking for permission to do things, I’m just doing them. I still haven’t adjusted to the fact that someone is in my bed every night (neither has my insomnia) but the mornings sure are nice. Which brings up another question… Now that we live together, do I still have to make the girlfriend run to the bathroom to brush my hair and use mouthwash? I know these seem like stupid questions, but we have met, right?

Hey, at least I’m not crying anymore.

But… I am home.

I moved in with The New Guy last week – and I’ve literally cried every single day since. If someone had told me that with each passing year I spent alone, living with someone would be that much more difficult, I probably wouldn’t have listened, but maybe I would have shed a few less tears.

As I watched the movers pack the last box of my independence into the truck, I knew that life as I knew it had just changed forever. My perfect, neat and tidy little beach apartment that I loved so much was about to be swallowed up in the chaos of a bachelor household sixty miles away – and so was I. And I can’t help it, but I’m feeling every devastating bit of the loss. With each enormous box coming through his door, I watched TNG’s eyes grow wider as he finally wondered aloud what I had been thinking for months – where in the hell was all of this shit going to go? Simply put, there was no room for me in his house. And, there still isn’t… I think it’s partially due to the fact that he hasn’t physically made much room for me, and partly because I haven’t emotionally made any room for myself.

The only way to describe it is that I feel like I’m visiting. My mail is lost in a black hole somewhere, my friends won’t call me anymore, and I’m being watched – all the time. Suddenly the romantic fantasy land I was living in during my year of pre-cohabitation bliss was gone – poof. And it’s weird, it’s like my fabulous relationship got lost in the move too. I’m suddenly living with more than one guy… sometimes he’s my brother, sometimes he’s my lover, but most of the time he’s my father. Because that’s exactly how I feel – like a child, not wanting to disappoint the grownups. I find myself asking him a million questions: “Is this okay?” “Should I put this here?” “Where do you want this?” I know it’s supposed to be my house now too. But it’s not. As I watched his cat claw my pristine furniture, I couldn’t help but feel like she was sending me a message – I don’t belong here.

I’ve cried more in the last week than I have in the last year. At first it was just a quick, quiet little muffled cry hiding in my closet or my office. By day five it became a full-on, snot-nosed wet-neck sob into my pillow while in the fetal position on the bed at 7:30pm. Yes, I’m exhausted. Yes, I’m misfiring on all cylinders when it comes to work lately (direct quote from a big boss – “Your writer leaves much to be desired…”) and yes, I’m sad and I’m lonely and I miss my friends and my old life. But the real reason I’ve been crying?

I’m envious.

Now that we’re living in the same household, I actually get to see how different we are. I’m neurotic and seemingly unstable, and everything rolls off his back like water off a duck. I worry about what people think, and it affects everything I do – it always has. He doesn’t have a care in the world, especially when it comes to what people think. NOTHING gets this guy down. I knew this all along, but now that I’m living a foot away and can watch it up close and personal, it totally pisses me off. I suck at time management. I always have. I procrastinate and then I stress about procrastinating, and then I stress some more, until I work myself into a total frenzy, convincing myself that I’m a total failure until I eventually force myself to succeed. He somehow manages to get his work done, mow the lawn, go for a run and then winds up sitting in the hot tub drinking wine and reading a book by day’s end. Meanwhile, I’ve said yes to 50 people who I don’t want to disappoint and I suffer. Oh, how I suffer. Got a dictionary? Look up the word martyr, and my picture is right there, next to my mother’s.

Maybe it’s all one big lesson. Maybe TNG was put in my life to teach me to be different. It’s 9pm and I haven’t cried yet today. So I guess things are looking up.

If I could just get some mail.

Already the feeling was different on this one. There was almost a smell of desperation in the air – this one would have to be the absolute best girls night ever – because in their minds, it would be the last. I’m their last single friend, and now I’ve gone to the dark side – I’m getting married. They’re losing the last single apartment – now every household “would have a man in it.”

What I didn’t know is that this would also be an impromptu bachelorette party. One by one, they showed up at the door with an evil glint in their eyes, and I knew they had something up their sleeves. Our usual two bottles of “getting ready” champagne suddenly turned into four, and as we got ready to leave, I was ambushed and adorned with a hot pink feather tiara, huge flashing plastic rock on my finger, and blinking pin that said, “Bachelorette” on my shirt. I was also given my very own shot glass to be handed to each bartender.

We started out at our usual sushi place and were greeted with “oohs” and “ahhs” and “Congratulations” from the employees and patrons. My friends giggled with delight as the bartender placed a “Blow Job” shot in front of me. “Wait, one more picture,” they said, laughing as we all posed provocatively for the camera. Even the sushi guy got in on the act, making me an engagement ring out of tin foil. I hate to admit it, because I usually mock stuff like that, but I loved every minute of it.

As the night went on, I kept thinking to myself, this is it. This is my last night in the neighborhood that I love so much. This is my last impromptu night at my favorite sushi joint, with my favorite bartender, and my best girls. The next time will require massive coordination, and couple hundred miles for all of us. I looked at my girlfriends’ happy faces, flushed from laughter and alcohol, and I thought nothing could top this moment.

In keeping with the “This is Your Life” theme of the night, it would seem the whole city came out to say goodbye to me. All of my favorite staff were working at every place we went, the bartenders I’ve chatted with over the last ten years, the servers I know by name… and of course the first guy I dated when I moved to the beach. This guy was my Achilles heel for years. He was Mr. Untouchable… the guy who played me like a fiddle for months on end, and then would disappear until we would run into each other again at these very same spots and start back up on the road to nowhere. As he gave me a longer-than-usual congratulatory hug and kiss on the cheek, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was suddenly “the one that got away.”

Hours later, the girls and I piled into a cab and went back to my place. I made our usual “drunk pizza,” passed out Tylenol and set up piles of pillows and blankets. Early the next morning I looked at their sleeping faces, remembering those same sleeping faces at seven years old.

It may have been our last night in my apartment, but I think this group will be having sleepovers in our sixties. I’m already booking a hotel room for next year.

I plotted prior to the trip – I’ll work the entire flight there and back, I’ll work when people are sleeping, and anytime I can steal in between. This will be fine, I convinced myself, as my stomach churned with anxiety. I can do this. As long as I don’t let myself cry or throw up. If I don’t cry or throw up, no one will know that I’m having a nervous breakdown on the inside.

The airport set the tone for the weekend. I got upgraded, TNG didn’t. Remember, five stars, two stars. I looked at him imploringly. “Take it,” he said, “You have to work and I’m going to sleep the whole way.” Some of you may think this selfish of me, but I took it. And I worked the whole way. And I sent him my wine and Milano cookies like any good fiancée would.

His mom greeted me with a hug. Not an overwhelmingly warm hug but a hug at least. Admittedly, I felt a little awkward and out of place – this is her son, her pride and joy, and I think the jury is still out on me especially because we got engaged since the last time I saw her and I’m shacking up with him in a week.

I swear I was meant to grow up in the fifties, because I actually felt uncomfortable when she showed us to our room. Luckily I worked all night so I never even really slept in the bed with TNG. When they got up the next morning they found me exactly where they left me – at the computer. Think I’m making a good impression for my future mother-in-law? Not so much.

She had rented a beach house for the weekend. It was myself, TNG, his mom, his sister and her husband and kids – all in one house. Let the games begin. It was complete and total chaos. His mom walked outside in her one-piece bathing suit and sarong and his sister in her tankini and button down shirt. My heart sank as I thought of my string bikini, tank top and shorts in my suitcase. Here we go, I thought. I shoved my 34 D’s into the top and headed to the sand. “Oh, I meant to tell you to bring a one-piece” his mom said as she looked me up and down. I could see my scorecard in her head getting another big fat X.

My curves were definitely the subject of the weekend. TNG’s adorable four year-old nephew is a serious boob man in the making, and was pretty much glued to my side, or rather, my chest at all times. At one point he said, “Wow, you have a really big bottom. Have you looked at it lately?” I wanted to bury my J-Lo booty (and my head) right in the sand. But the entire (skinny) family had a good laugh, and I think that was the moment when my scorecard got a its first green check mark.

As she dropped us off at the airport his mom gave me a hug and said, “See you at Thanksgiving!”
And so it begins.

There’s nothing to define that moment where you suddenly realize you’re off the market other than meeting quite possibly the hottest man in the world. I’m talking George Clooney hot. And he knocked on my front door. Literally. Why did George Clooney knock on my door you may ask? Because he’s moving into my apartment. That’s right, this perfect specimen of a man will be parking his ass in the same spot mine’s been parked, placing his head where mine has lain, naked in my shower…

Some of you are going to be offended by this posting, saying I should not be drooling over a man who is not TNG, so you might want to stop reading – NOW.

Let me just set the scene for you. I have been working nonstop, so my appearance was less than desirable. I hadn’t washed my hair in a few days, (yes I bathed) so I had the greasy ponytail going. I had no makeup on, save for a generous gob of Vitamin E oil on the lovely brand-new angry red chin scar from my recent interaction with a boulder. I had on quite possibly the most hideous shirt I own, that even has a ridiculous ruffle at the bottom to make me look 10 pounds heavier than the 10 pounds I already need to lose. To complete the look, I was wearing too-short stretch pants… with holes in them from being stretched too much. Oh yeah, and I had glasses on.

Okay, now that you have a visual, let me describe what I opened the door to. Six foot three, with salt and pepper hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth and a perfectly tanned surfer body. You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Hi, I’m George Clooney (obviously not his real name), I’m the new renter” he said, and gave me a firm handshake. I don’t know about you, but I’m a girl who loves a firm handshake. Mine is usually stronger than most.

As he walked through my apartment, he commended my cleanliness, my enormous flat screen and my labeled shoes. “You’re a clean freak like me,” he said. He’s only known me 5 minutes and already noticed my best attributes. When we walked out to the garage (with me saying my silent mantra, “Don’t look at my ass, don’t look at my ass…) he raved about my car saying, “That’s my favorite car!” Four for four. When I inquired (stuttering) as to why this perfect specimen of a man was renting a one-bedroom beach apartment he said, “I’m getting a divorce.” And then he said, “I heard you’re moving because you got engaged.”

It was at that moment that I had my very first twinge. A year ago I would have thrown myself at this man. I would have worked every angle to get involved with him, even though he probably has baggage heavier than Ivana Trump’s luggage. For the last month, I’ve been waving my engagement ring around like a crazy woman; wanting everyone from the mailman to the lady at Subway to notice how shiny it is and say, “Oh, you just got engaged! Congratulations!” And this is the first person that noticed?

I looked at my beautiful ring, looked up at George Clooney and said, “Yep, that’s right.” And then I said, “Feel free to come back over if you need to measure anything!”

I’m engaged. I’m not dead.