That's a rather saucy title, isn't it? Well before you decide not to read what follows based on an assumption of what I named this post, please pause. This post is about moving in with Boyfriend, or to be more accurate, Boyfriend moving in with me.
For those of you that want to warn him, tell him not to do it, moving in with a girlfriend is a big mistake, you're too late. This fella's been mantrapped. Unless you have a time machine you can't save him. But to ease your worries for Boyfriend, he's not entering domesticity quietly.
When I first moved here I got my own place. We're not as stupid as we may sometimes appear on paper... but for those of you that do take that freaky leap and go from a long-distance relationship to living together immediately, you've got some brass ones. Boyfriend and I both like what we like the way we like it. This is better achieved when one doesn't have to share living quarters, my couch will go here, the painting will go there, the bedding looks like something a bride from the eighties would have worn, the photos positioned just so, blahblahblah (or etcetera if you prefer). This is the joy of living alone, you don't need to compromise about anything. However, being in our amorous relationship, Boyfriend slept over at my place almost every night. There might have been three nights the year that we lived separate that he spent at his place. Eventually we come to the conclusion that he essentially lives at my place anyways, why not just move him on in? Okay, read this part slowly and ingrain it into your head: Sleepovers and living together are not the same thing by any stretch of the imagination. I becomes we, his stuff and my stuff become ours, and then we're left with a massive pile of stuff. All of it stuff that has to be: a)compromised about and b)moved somewhere. Le damn. Between the two of us, we've got double of almost everything: couches, televisions, beds, dressers, you get the idea (or etcetera if you prefer). We come to some conclusions of what stays and what goes, because we both know that for both of us to be happy we have to go out and buy stuff that we both like eventually.
It sounds pretty rational, yes? Well you didn't get a chance to read the unedited version. In that one things are purposely broken so they don't come into my apartment, a bulldozer ran over his couch, and somehow the cat's tail caught fire, and Boyfriend found the remains of a previous boyfriend in my closet. You're welcome for sparing you the evil side of things. I did, in all honesty, She-Hulk pretty badly when he put up some pictures without asking me my opinion of where they should go. I stand by what I said, but the rampage probably didn't help my case.
When it comes to getting rid of stuff, Boyfriend and I are at odds. If we don't need something, especially if it's something of mine, we get rid of it (the salvation army loves us). If it's broken or unusable, it's gone. If I break my hand, you may as well cut it off, it doesn't work anyways (please don't, I'm just illustrating a point, I'm a big fan of symmetry). I'm quick to sever ties to things I've had for long periods of time, because it's just stuff. Whatever. Boyfriend on the other hand (the one that hasn't been cut off) is more like a... I don't want to use the word hoarder... treasure hunter. He seems to have a multitude of things that can't be given away. So what do we do when I don't let it into the house? We get a storage locker, because we need to keep an extra bed, extra microwave stand and microwave, cupboard thing, and all the other random crap that we can't get rid of. We don't even like to go to the storage facility because our locker is so jammed full of stuff it's intimidating to even think about entering. We've probably bought something brand new that we've tucked away in that locker just to avoid having to go find it in the abyss.
My biggest problem with moving is this: I feel that Boyfriend thinks I'm a dude when we're moving things together. I may joke about father/son time with my dad, but I'm not good at carrying heavy things. It's just not in my DNA, the only thing built into my genetic coding is my like of a good pun. Seriously, ask your family doctor, this is a birth defect. But anyhow, moving stuff with Boyfriend, he's in good shape and he works out, plays hockey, yadda yadda yadda (or etcetera if you prefer). He's good at lifting things. I am, in technical terms, artsy fartsy. If I could move a giant-ass television by reading a book, we would have a mountain of big-screens in the apartment... except not, because if you read my last post this is NOT ALLOWED IN MY HOUSE... unless I get scammed during football season. The point of the lifting deal when it comes to moving is that I try. Boyfriend gives me a look, the one where he doesn't have to say how pitiful I am, though he does anyway. He doesn't understand that I lack the muscle capacity to do it. And somehow I always get pinched, or fingers squished, or scratched, or pull something. It is just not fun for me at all. Not that I think it's fun for Boyfriend, but rather than listening to me complain about moving stuff, why not get your boyfriends here to lug stuff around? There's enough beer for everyone! ...No? I may have brought this to a dark place, sorry Boyfriend. And I'm sorry I called them your boyfriends, I know you don't like that.
This post does have a happy ending though. Aside from where Mutt puked on the carpet, I like our little place now. We've replaced almost everything we wanted to and now we're both satisfied. There's no more nasty ol' lady dining room set by the kitchen. No more doll-size bed. No torn sectional that was beautiful in its heyday. And until we move somewhere bigger, we don't have to reposition or negotiate on any more stuff. It's perfect.
Well, time for tea,
K
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