March 25, 2011


I just finished 4 solid days with TGIS. 

The final casualty toll is 3 home-cooked meals, 2 days cleaning the room before he got home from work, 1 hole in the wall, 3 fights, countless “I’m sorry”s, lots of smoking, 3 nights of great sleep, a “You’re so nice to me” and a “You are fantastic” a piece, and 1 invitation out to dinner with him and his dad. Tumultuous and passionate, oh my.

If we made it through that, I’m convinced we’re pretty golden.

XOXO

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May 23, 2011


Period Week: Making couples realize if they could handle living together without the sex/in their old age since she hit puberty.

As the S.O and I were driving back to his condo from smoking hookah at a bar downtown and picking up a few things from my apartment and feeding the cat, I had a thought and promptly burst into giggles. Upon prompting, I reluctantly shared it:

"We’re driving home to make dinner, drink beer, watch two movies, and since I’m on my period, I realized that the time that would normally be reserved for sex can now be spent on starting my next column for Vermont Commons. I just realized that this is what life would be like with us when we’re 70— no sex, side by side in bed at night with our laptops on our laps. Actually, no, scratch that— I’m still going to be having sex at 70."

He, unsurprisingly, didn’t find it quite as hilarious as I did. I told him if he was good, he might get a blowjob. Same response as before: me, hilarity; him, slightly less enthusiastic.

XOXO

P.S— On a different sidenote, I haven’t gotten an Ask in FUHEVAH. C’mon, people, I’m ridiculously open and have an opinion on everything. Asks me the questions! Don’t make me beg for it; it’s just pathetic and indecent.

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July 17, 2011


When my S.O isn’t here for the night and I walk into the master bathroom and promptly sit down on the toilet without shutting the door…that is the one moment from my previous Single Life that I love and keep.

XOXO

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November 17, 2011


Co-Habitation Issues: What Good People Do.

So, I was searching for my cousin on LinkedIn today when I realized I had a mess of connection requests from people I didn’t know, which I went through and started deleting, until I got down to a name I recognized and was all, “Aww, my ex’s uncle wants to join my network; how sweet…” and then started to really think about it, and, with a dawning sort of horrifying feeling, when I looked up to the top right-hand corner by the log-out button…saw my ex’s name. Which would explain it ALL, right up to the people from Switzerland wanting to connect to me, when the longest I’VE ever been in the country was for a 48-hour layover on my way back from Italy; not nearly enough time to network and make friends. 

Of course I immediately feel like an idiot for messing up someone else’s inbox, and start panicking about permanently deleting HIS messages— but then again, he has to be the WORST offender for not logging out of sites when we were living together and sharing my computer (still logged into his LinkedIn, still logged into his Netflix, still logged into his Uncrate, still have his summer class files saved on my hard drive), so, at the same time— couldn’t do much about it other than call and leave him a message fessing up and telling him that I fucked up and deleted a few of his requests— awkward, but that’s what good people do.

So. #CohabitationProblems. Having to check WHO is logged in to every site on your own computer.

XOXO

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December 11, 2011


I Was BORN To Cohab.

The Dude got out of the shower this morning, and I had brought his hoodie, hat, and toiletry bag up from downstairs and laid them out on the bed for him.

Winning since 1989.

…the only time is sucks is late at night, when I’m torn between staying up and writing or being one of those people who always go to bed together. Both are important to me, and a consensus on which will win out has yet to be reached.

XOXO

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December 20, 2011


…This is why I’m actually only neat when I’m cohabitating with someone. I feel the need to set the standard.
XOXO

…This is why I’m actually only neat when I’m cohabitating with someone. I feel the need to set the standard.

XOXO

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May 3, 2012


That Moment When…

You realize some of your early ex-boyfriends are now living with their long-term girlfriends, taking vacations together, and adopting dogs while you’re living at home, engaging in late-night self-satisfying booty calls that never include any daytime time together, where you leave the next morning to go home to your cat.

…I want a co-habitating apartment where I cook my own meals and engage in shared hobbies and activities and a dog with someone I’m in a serious relationship with STAT.

XOXO

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July 6, 2012


The Things Most Single Twenty-Something Women Do At 2 AM When They’ve Been Smoking And Drinking That You Would Never Know About Until You Live With Them:

- Practice their best Model Walks and pretend there’s a runway down the long hallway.

It’s a SIN I wasn’t born 5 inches taller, because my walk is FEE-YURCE.

…In other words, I have just started realizing the extent of my odd little early morning hour habits (random dancing, recreational hard drinking, indulging in classic stoner flicks, shirtless rambling, dish-washing…), and realized I will be staying with a man I’m romantically interested in for three or so days. Terrifying combination.

XOXO

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August 8, 2012


Just the right touch of girly accent when you’re co-habbing with a dude.
Because even men like candlelight, the big softies.
XOXO

Just the right touch of girly accent when you’re co-habbing with a dude.

Because even men like candlelight, the big softies.

XOXO

(Source: lovelyshabbychichome)

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August 12, 2012


This looks disturbingly like Twig’s bathroom. (As strange as it sounds, I really like his bathroom.)
XOXO

This looks disturbingly like Twig’s bathroom. (As strange as it sounds, I really like his bathroom.)

XOXO

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October 14, 2012


November 14, 2012


The Awkward Dating Diaries: Why I Won’t Date Men Without Trash Cans In Their Bathrooms.

I have to admit to one personality quirk that never fails to make me feel faint at the thought of having to share a bathroom with a man: A missing trashcan.

I get it. Most of you guys don’t really have any NEED for a trashcan in your bathroom. I mean, you barely have any use for toilet paper in the first place. I get it. Women’s plumbing issues are very complicated and scary and mysterious. I get it; I really do. I’ve been living with my post-pubescent body for 11 years, and it STILL manages to mystify and unsettle me.

Maybe I’m a little over-sensitive myself about this issue. I can still clearly remember the feeling of distress that overcame me in my grandparent’s bathroom while visiting them at the Jersey shore one summer at the age of 12. It seemed like my body had finally betrayed me, and was going to continue to do so regularly for the next 30 years of my life. I thought of sharks and refused to set foot in the ocean water for the rest of the trip. I was ashamed; I felt weak.

When I lived in Italy, a place with notoriously shoddy plumbing systems— and in some cases, hole-in-the-floor type deals for public restrooms (you have not lived until you’ve been confronted with a “squatter,”)— I realized how much toilet paper I really used. I was poor. It was expensive. I’m both philanthropic enough to care about the environmental impact of it all and selfish enough to have wanted to spend those few extra Euro on shoes. But for a few days a month, I hoarded squares and squares of toilet paper, wrapping them obsessively around and around my tampons like I was mummifying the remains and neurotically burying them in the bottom of the trash can like a squirrel hiding nuts for winter. And then worried about people being offended by my left-over plastic applicators being discarded in plain view. Would it gross visiting friends out? Were any of my fellow female roommates particularly sensitive about bodily issues? And on the occasions I went over to the apartments my guy friends lived in and was faced with a lack of trash receptacle in their bathrooms, I reenacted a particularly stealthy revue of the Helsinki Bank Heist, casually concealing my toilet-paper-wrapped bundle in my hand, sidling over to their kitchen trash can, and quickly and furtively opening it and throwing it in while their bank was turned, keeping conversation up so they didn’t become suspicious of my motives. This may seem like an exhausting charade to keep up, but then again, I never know how a man will react when confronted with a tampon.

It’s for this reason that I love dating men who have cohabitated with women before; guys who have already been involved in long-term relationships. These are the sort of guys you can say, “Honey, can you pick me up a box of Tampax Gentle Glides while you’re at the grocery store?” to, and they actually will come home with that embarrassing pink box. They’re the sort of men who, without fail, have trash cans in their bathrooms and get actually get excited about “Shark Week” because it means at least a few days of prime blow-job time for them. Last week, while I was staying with Twig, I noticed his cute little lift-lid bin beside the toilet (for a second time,) and gave him another little check-mark of approval. There’s something about a man with a discrete little trash can in his bathroom that says, “I love you; I accept you and your body and all of it’s functions. I recognize your uterus is a happenin’ place with needs of it’s own,” to me. Maybe I should make this a new criteria for dating— “must have trash can in bathroom.”

As I’ve gotten older— and dated more previously attached men with trash cans in their bathrooms— I’ve come to realize that what I had identified as a character flaw and weakness in my youth is in fact, just another one of those things that makes me a functioning, normal woman, like sneezing or farting or queefing. It may not be lovely and ladylike; it may be messy and sticky and awkward sometimes, but it’s become less of a production, and more of a fact-of-life. I am a woman. I have periods. I need a trash can in my bathroom. If I’m living with you and you don’t have one, I will supply one, and you will have to witness my empty (clean!) tampon applicators, because I’m not wasting MORE precious toilet paper wrapping those suckers up to spare your tender eyes. When it comes down to it, my menstruation is about ME, and not you. It’s normal, and practical, and only sometimes gross. Women can bleed continuously for 7 days without dying; so don’t you dare tell me we’re not all super heroes.

XOXO

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November 26, 2012