I know that all I’ve been doing is whining and complaining about my new life, so you’ll be pleased to know that my past has come back to spice things up a bit…

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?

It’s been a few weeks since I moved in with TNG, and I hope I can say the worst is behind us. We’ve argued, I’ve cried, he’s hid, I’ve packed a bag (and then put it away), we’ve argued some more, I’ve cried some more… and now we finally seem to be getting into a peaceful groove. Dare I say we’re settling into domestic bliss? Don’t get me wrong, the house is a disaster zone and I still haven’t unpacked a box, but now that I’m not a crazy lunatic pulling all-nighters, he seems a little more relaxed and a hell of a lot happier to have me around. And yes, I took your advice and decided to be a little more assertive (and a lot more fun) – and it worked. We went on a “date” last night (got drunk) and I baked banana bread this morning – while doing laundry – how much more domesticated can I get? But now that the beginning chaos is over, I’m realizing how little I know about living with a guy (nothing). After years of living alone, I’m feeling like it’s my first year in my college dorms and I have to figure out how to coexist with my new roommate. So, I have a few questions.

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.

I want to go home.

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.

Last weekend my best girlfriends came over for one last girls’ sleepover before I moved in with The New Guy. We’ve been doing this sleepover for years; every spring for my birthday, and usually once in the fall when school started for their kids. Nothing fancy, they’d just come over to my place and spend the night, just like when we were little girls. Well, except for the fact that these sleepovers include lots of booze and very little sleep.

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.