From Homeless to Squatter, Progress Is Made

Last night I moved five boxes and two bags, aka all my belongings in the world. Being rather wary of encroaching on Re-Boyfriend’s roommate's space, all my belongings in the world now sit in the hallway.

“CB,” Re-Boyfriend asked tentatively, “Don’t you think we should try to fit them in the apartment? You know, so they’ll be safe?”

“If someone is actually going to come all the way up here and carry one of those boxes down four flights of stairs, then I will say ‘You deserve it.’ I mean, I can’t even lift one,” I said with false bravado.

While true that I could not lift a box, I would probably cry were one to disappear, seeing as that would constitute approximately 1/6 of everything I own. Still, I preferred to leave my things in the hall to limit my usage of apartment space. Re-Boyfriend’s roommate had not exactly asked for me to stop by with all of my stuff for a week, take up shower time and not pay rent.

I had a plan to minimize my interference with the roommate’s daily life. I would shower at odd hours, speak in low tones and take out my trash nightly. To preserve the illusion that I was visiting, rather than crashing, I planned to keep as many of my things in the hall as possible. I organized my belongings into the nonessentials (books and clothes kept in the boxes in the hallway), essentials (clothing for the next week and a laptop which would be kept in the apt.), and nonessential but often needed items (shower products, toothbrush, etc. to be kept in an easily accessible bag in the hallway). Through these ingenious divisions, I ensured that at no time were there more of my items in the apartment than strictly necessary.

This morning the plan went into action. I woke up and tiptoed into the hall for my face wash. I tiptoed back into the apartment.

I realized I had left my toothbrush outside. I tiptoed into the hall. I tiptoed back into the apartment.

“Forget something?” Re-Boyfriend asked, emerging from his bedroom, smiling at me as though I were an adorable, if wayward, six-year old.

“No,” I told him haughtily. “This is part of my elaborate plan. The hallway is like my dressing room.”

Then I decided I wanted my moisturizer. I went into the hall. I went back into the apartment.

Oops. A towel.

I went into the hall. I went back into the apartment.

Oh! A hair-dryer for later.

I went into the hall. I went back into the apartment to find the roommate had emerged from sleep in order to scratch his back in the middle of living room.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking at me oddly.

“CB, this is seriously annoying. Just take the bag inside,” Re-Boyfriend told me.

“What are you doing?” the roommate asked, understandably confused. "I thought I heard you leave, like, five times already."

I was pretty sure I saw Re-Boyfriend smirk a little.

I said nothing and went into the bathroom with as much quiet dignity as I could reasonably muster.

Less than twelve hours and my plan has already failed. Seven days to go.

Homeless

I can’t move into my new apartment until September 7th. There are two problems with this:

1. I need a place to stay 8/31-9/7.
2. My crap needs a place to stay 8/31-9/7.

Re-Boyfriend was, at first, delightfully comforting. He wooed me with talk of his fathers’ truck, his hallway space and his bed. He used the word “we” a lot, making me feel as though I had a partner in this mess. There was, as he definitively told me Friday night, no problem.

This optimistic mood remained until yesterday afternoon, when Re-Boyfriend came to my apartment to help me pack. The harsh reality of battling with dust bunnies most likely made him rethink his knight in shining armor complex, especially as his fair maiden filled a large box with clothes before realizing it had not been taped on the bottom.

Making matters worse, I don’t think Re-Boyfriend quite understood that when someone does not own furniture, plates or kitchen accessories, it does not necessarily mean that they don’t own lot of crap.

After we both endured sneezing fits due to the vortex of dirt and dust in my apartment, we left to get a much needed glass of wine. At the corner of my block, Re-Boyfriend casually addressed the sidewalk and said “Sooooo…figure out what you’re going to do with your crap yet?” I took that to mean I was no longer allowed to park anything but my own sweet ass in his apartment from 8/31-9/7.

“I am confident that I will figure something out,” I said confidently. “Don’t worry about it.”

Right.

Update: S. told me I was being retarded and that Re-Boyfriend just wanted to know if my crap was going to be in his hallway or not. I like this theory, aside from the me being retarded part.

Update Part 2: Upon my asking, Re-Boyfriend said, rather exasperatedly, "I told you that you can keep your stuff in my apartment. And I don't think you need to hire movers. We'll talk about it tonight." I went ahead and hired movers, just so everything would be settled.

Knowing precisely when you will be forced to live out of a suitcase because the rest of your worldly possessions are taped up in Home Depot boxes is not exactly settled, but it is as close as I am going to get until September 7th.

Potato Chips

You know what is actually incredibly challenging and rewarding, as far as workday activities go? Trying to eat a bag of potato chips in complete silence while on an international phone-in conference call.

My strategy:

Place chip on tongue.
Allow saliva to absorb salt.
Slowly roll around mouth until all crunch has been lost.
Swallow.
Pause to gauge whether you have inadvertently made a noise and interrupted the conversation.
Place another chip on tongue.

The chips are now gone and so I have resorted to chronicling the experience on my blog in an attempt to ward off sleep.

This conference call, like most things that require only the ability to hold an object to your ear in complete silence, is less than thrilling.

A Conundrum

The person I am ostensibly subletting an apartment from is too busy to tell me when I can move in but is not too busy to send me an e-mail telling me he is too busy.

I am in a bit of a rush since my lease is up August 31st. This Saturday marks the day that my roommate will leave me with a noticeable lack of TV, internet, dishes and cushiony sitting spots. Her keys will be given over to the super, who will subsequently roam in and out of the apartment, painting the living room and trying to catch me naked. While these are not technically slum conditions, they are close enough.

Yelling that I want my damn keys and a move-in date would be inadvisable, since the person subletting the apartment is Re-Boyfriend’s friend. Yelling would also be impossible since the friend is out of the country and accessible, (in the loosest possible meaning of the word), only by e-mail.

My stomach hurts.

Good-bye Interns

The office interns are leaving and I am going to miss them, not only for their proven stapling abilities and new found copying skills. I actually like them, a fact that I have tried to hide to varying degrees of success.

Friday afternoon found me at a “Good-bye Interns” lunch at a local restaurant. I knew I should participate in the big people conversation, where topics included the weather and the likelihood of our company buying new computers, but the 16-19 year-old crowd drew me in.

“I really want to start reading Dave Sedaris,” I overheard someone casually mention as I pretended to listen sympathetically as an older man outlined the details of his diet. I knew I should continue nodding rhythmically in his direction but my head involuntarily whipped around to the Sedaris-loving high-schooler.

“I have all of his books,” I told her.

“Yeah? I really want to read Augusten Burroughs too.”

“Oh my God, I have all his books too!”

“And I have to finish reading The Crimson Petal and the White.”

“I loved that book! Did you know Michael Faber is writing a sequel?”

“Seriously?”

As I nodded, it dawned on me that I had the same taste in reading material as a high-schooler. It was a humbling moment.

After spending lunch with my back to the adult side of the table, I left the restaurant amidst a gaggle of teenagers trying to explain to me how easy it is to hack into someone else’s e-mail. (Creepily, they all seemed to know how to do this, leading me to briefly wonder if any of them cared enough about me to hack into my e-mail).

Back in the office, I was approached by two of the thirty-plus crowd.

“CB, you’re like the pied piper,” one teasingly told me.

“It’s very sweet of you to take care of the interns,” said another.

“You would make a great mom,” said the first.

I laughed uncomfortably, realizing there was something wrong with a twenty-four year-old woman who, instead of playing mom and trying to mold sixteen-year-olds into upright citizens, encourages them to teach her about illegal activities.

And so I will miss the interns, but I’m grateful that they are leaving sooner rather than later. It was probably only a matter of time before my newfound maternal image was revealed as a sham. Then I would just be weird.

Re-Boyfriend's Penis

Re-Boyfriend informed me that the original version of my Tuesday post was “harsh.” I happened to agree, which was incredibly unfortunate, because it meant that I was wrong and that I might start to feel guilty, which is never fun.

I apologized. Re-Boyfriend said “It’s fine. But now you know not to do that.” I assume that means I am not supposed to write about his penis anymore. (I hope that didn’t count.) After the two sentence make-up, we had great sex. (I think that’s okay.) With his penis. (Oops.)

And thank you so much for all the nice things that were said about my unintentionally alarming post below. I didn’t intend to cause a stir--I'm not really going anywhere. If I ever do abandon this blog in favor of an entirely anonymous one, a concept that assumes I am capable of getting over my narcissistic desire to be read, I will e-mail all those who asked. (Re-Boyfriend if you are one of those who asked, I will find out and kill you).

Does anyone else have these problems or am I especially neurotic?

It is hard to vent into cyberspace and feel good about it when (in an excessively stupid and naïve moment), you told certain people about your blog.

People that know about my blog because I have told them:
My boyfriend, my best friend, my mother.

People that know about my blog because the people I have told have told them:
A select few of my boyfriend’s co-workers and a friend that S. has “Oops! CB, I’m sorry!” told. (In S.’s defense, one is probably less than the amount I would have oops-told if the situation were reversed).

People that know I have a blog but not the exact address because the people I have told have told them but not told them everything:
Every one of my boyfriend’s co-workers with whom he is friendly, my boyfriend’s roommate, my boyfriend’s roommate’s friends, almost every one of my friends, my father.

That is a lot of people not to offend.

Plus, due to a lack of interest in getting fired from my job, I periodically enter strange phases wherein I imagine myself to be a spy or a whistle-blower or some sort of mole-like agent. I obsessively change the hair colors of co-workers and the dates of certain incidents in my posts, thinking myself very sly. I formulate defenses for myself, should I ever be called into my boss’ office and asked about The Company Bitch. “It’s my friend’s.” “It’s fictional.” “What’s a blog?”

Then, after a prolonged period of such low-grade paranoia, my perspective begins to get a bit warped. Soon enough I imagine that everyone is reading this blog. I become absolutely convinced that the slightest slip will reveal my identity to everyone I know. I actually had the following conversation with S.:

“I think I have to take down that post about our engaged friend.”

“Errrr...I don’t think she reads your blog.”

“But it was kind of mean, don’t you think?”

“CB, seriously, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t read your blog.”

“But what if she does? She’ll know it’s her.”

“Please shut up.”

And then I had the following conversation with Re-Boyfriend:

“Why isn’t the internet working?”

“I know you’re about to delete another post. You can't delete them all.”

“So why isn’t the internet working?”

“I turned it off. I think you should calm down first.”

I sat, staring, tapping my foot impatiently.

“CB, calm down.”

“I am calm.”

“What’s that?” Re-Boyfriend pointed to the shaking foot.

“I’m just waiting for you to turn the internet back on.”

All told, it is a lot of stress and worry for a hobby that started as a way to relieve stress and worry. I don’t even know what I’m more afraid of, alienating the friends and family that already know or having more friends and family find out.

I feel like I should either get over it or just start another totally anonymous blog, but I don’t know which.

Dear Re-Boyfriend,

*POST REMOVED DUE TO CROSSING THE LINE*

When my roommate moves out this weekend, I will be left with:

1. One (1) bed
2. One (1) refrigerator magnet
3. One (1) broken blue tea kettle
4. One (1) package of plastic forks

It is rather alarming. One would think that by the age of twenty-four, one would have accumulated more material goods.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of reading what may have been the stupidest e-mail I have ever received. Some poor, deluded soul wrote to ask me for relationship advice.

There are two possible reasons for this foolishness:

1. He thinks my relationship with Re-Boyfriend is such perfection as to suggest that I have mastered the delicate art of communicating with the opposite sex.

2. He believes I am mysteriously powerful and that if I read his blog I will make something awesome happen.

Though I am (clearly) a relationship goddess with mysterious powers, I don't have a response to the e-mail, which is below. If you have any advice to give, leave a comment.


Hey CB,
I'm a long time reader of your blog. Everyday at work I wait for the bosses to leave so I can check out what's going on in the world of CB. However, I have never commented on your posts (although I came close once, to posting a comment). I think I just wouldn't do your blog justice unless I had some witty one-liner that Grant Miller could appreciate.

Anyway, my fiancee and I have been engaged for 8 months and we have our ups and downs. She has male friends while I have my female friends. No problem there. However, she sometimes goes out with one of these male friends and what they do can easily be considered a date, ie:

She called me (or actually I called her and then she mentioned to me) and said she was going to a movie with Greg. We were tight for money at the time and I felt partially jealous that this other guy is going to a movie with my fiancee while I'm stuck at work. So I told her if he's paying, it's fine I guess. I still didn't like it. Then I come to find out (by finding a receipt of the same date my fiancee (Steph) and Greg went to the movie) that they went to dinner before the movie, had drinks (which she paid for), and then went to his house afterword.

God I was hurt! I explained how bad that hurt me and now she wants to do that to me all over again by going for drives with other guy friends in her new car and I feel it is only a matter of time before she goes to a movie again or out to dinner or something else.
I want her to hang out with her friends (plural which I stressed the plural part to her) but not on a one-on-one opposite sex date-type hanging out. Am I being unreasonable?

We're both 25 years old CB. I think you can help me because I can identify with you in so many ways from your blog. Please tell me what you think.

Thank you so much,
Hatchet

P.S. If you need to know more about our relationship: www.hatchetphoenix.blogspot.com




Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say the e-mail was entertaining or unusual. I'm assuming it's a “Read my blog” ploy but I don’t have the energy to go look. I’m still hungover.

I am hungover. I am yawning approximately once every minute and a half. I have smudged mascara under my eyes because yesterday was the day that I discovered a genuinely waterproof mascara. I am never using it again, because I don't understand how one is supposed to get it off. I can taste whiskey in my mouth which probably means that I smell.

At 9:30 I went to the bathroom and thought about arranging a long line of paper towels on the floor, curling up on them and going to sleep. I realized that was impractical so I tried to take a nap on the toilet. It did not work. I contemplated throwing up, just to see if it would make me feel better, but I was concerned that someone would overhear me. That risk may have to be taken soon as a feeling of actual nausea is forming.


I just went to the bathroom and threw up a whole wheat bagel and a granola bar. I really hope that was the throw up that cures me and not the throw up that is the beginning of Throwing Up. I don’t think anyone heard me, though if they did, they probably just assumed I was bulimic and needed to throw up my breakfast calories.

To add insult to the injuries inflicted by alcohol last night, I found out that, on the night in question, Re-Boyfriend’s co-worker went home with the previously thought to be gay man and “banged the shit” out of him. Even though no one I have ever met in person knows that I was adamant about that man’s homosexuality (aside from Re-Boyfriend, who never counts) I am now incredibly embarrassed about my previous post. Maybe it’s the hangover, but I seem to have developed the ability to be embarrassed in front of myself.

Ugh, now I am hungry and nauseous at the same time.

No Tourists Allowed

I believe legislative action barring tourists from entering the New York City subway system during morning rush hour needs to be taken. (Rush hour being defined as the period between 8:15 and 9:05 on Mondays through Fridays, not including holidays.)

I understand that this great city attracts a large number of tourists, all of whom want to take the subway and then bitch about how dirty it is. I also understand that the process of purchasing an item from a machine can be very difficult, especially if you are an idiot. And so given my wealth of understanding and kindness, I am willing to let everyone freely use the transit system at all other times, including the afternoon rush hour.

However, when I am running three minutes late, it seems unfair that some bitchy mother and son duo at the MetroCard machine, who don’t want to accept my help because CLEARLY I am a blonde pickpocket in dress shoes, have the power to catapult my lateness from the “Oh well!” variety to the almost-spill-my-coffee-as-I-run-to-my-desk variety.

And naturally, once the mother purchased the card and the argument about the receipt had been resolved (“Did you press ‘No’ Bobby? I pressed ‘Yes’! Did you press it?”) I had to wait another three minutes as the woman swiped and cursed at the entranceway, blocking traffic and generally sucking, which brought my lateness full circle to the “Oh well!” variety again. You just can’t hide fifteen minutes.

You may say “CB, but if you hadn’t had sex with Re-Boyfriend all yesterday morning, you wouldn’t have been late yesterday and I don’t hear you calling for a moratorium on sex.” You may say “CB, if you had just left Re-Boyfriend’s apartment earlier this morning, you could have avoided these visitors all together.” You may say “CB, if you would keep track of when your MetroCard is expiring, you could allot extra time for your commute on the days when it’s necessary to purchase a new one.”

And to you I say, “Whatever. Stay the hell out of the subway during morning rush hour.”

By the way...

I'm sorry about deleting my Thursday post. Sometimes I panic that the corporate They know about my blog and They will be able to identify me through one thing or another. Then I delete a random post. This does not help to preserve my anonymity, but it does momentarily comfort me. Sorry for any confusion.

Scene: Car on the way home from our friend’s country cabin engagement party

S: You know she said her dress was really expensive.

CB: Yeah. So?

S: Nothing.

Pause.

S: So she said she got it at "Sally’s Home"…

CB: Yeah?

S: Do you know where that is?

CB: Oh my God, you’re totally trying to figure out how much she spent on the dress!

S: No! No I’m not.

CB: You so are. You don’t think it was expensive. You total bitch.

S: No! No. I’m not doing that at all.

Pause.

S: I mean, I’m just saying, have you ever heard of Sally’s Home? Because I haven’t.

CB: Ha! I knew it!

Pause.

S: I bet he’s a Republican.

CB: I think our friend is a Republican.

S: No! That would mean we were friends with a Republican in college. How weird.

CB: Did you see them talking at all?

S: No. I don't think they like talking to each other.

CB: I wouldn't like talking to him either.

S: Me neither.

CB: We need to go to Wendy’s and eat chicken nuggets.

S: We really do. Let me know when you see one.


It would not be an exaggeration to say that eating Wendy’s chicken nuggets with fries was the best part of my weekend.

And now I’m back, ten pounds heavier from boredom-induced drinking, and determined to never live outside of a city. Those people were fucking scary, including my friend who has been invaded by body snatchers and replaced with someone who will accept a freshly killed rabbit from her fiance and then, when commanded, skin and cook it. I will admit that that is probably a good talent to have--if there is ever a huge world war that decimates civilization as we know it, my friend will be far more useful than I. But it’s still weird to have a friend turn into a perfect country wifey in under a year. And all I have to say about that is, Ugh.

Not only has my moving situation gotten me all aflutter, it has apparently given Re-Boyfriend twisted panties as well.

It started with the occasional mournful comment: “I really hope you don’t move to Brooklyn.”

This was soon replaced by miserable certainty: “I know you’re going to wind up moving to Brooklyn.”

Then came the detailed panic: “We’ll never see each other and you’ll be mad if I don’t come over to your apartment. And you won’t come here as much because you’ll be far. And we’ll have to plan everything. And we’ll turn into a weekend couple. And I’m going to miss you.”

Last night he entered the tearfully optimistic phase, most likely brought on by a few glasses of wine. “I really want this to work,” Re-Boyfriend said, staring at me with a look of grim determination and love, eerily reminiscent of Scarlet O’ Hara.

My patience finally collapsed.

“You’re being fucking ridiculous,” I told him.

“I’m just worried...”

“Are you going to break up with me if I move to Brooklyn?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m not going to break up with you either.”

“I know. I’m just worried…”

“Oh. My. God.”

I looked at him thoughtfully.

“I’m going to take a year off work and join the Peace Corps. Will you date me when I come back?”

Though this was a blatant lie, I felt that I was raising a very pertinent point. Which was that Brooklyn wasn’t so far. And that love should know no geography. And that I could go into the Peace Corps if I wanted to. And many other points that, in retrospect, are not really points at all but the random musings of a semi-drunken mind.

“You’re not joining the Peace Corps,” Re-Boyfriend said. He was right.

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes I am. And I just want to know if you’d date me when I came back.”

Re-Boyfriend looked at me, trying to ascertain whether I was even partly serious or just totally batshit insane.

“You couldn’t find anyone better,” I told him.

“I could find someone different.”

I hit him. I was hurt. Though I had no intentions of joining the Peace Corps, or otherwise existing in a world without takeout for a year at a time, I still felt that Re-Boyfriend should be supportive of my fictitious plans.

“CB, I don’t want to break up with you ever,” Re-Boyfriend said in his most patient voice. “And you’re not joining the Peace Corps anyway.”

"But I might move to Brooklyn."

"I know, I’m worried."

You know how some couples go to therapy and let analysts tape them arguing, then analyze their "fighting style"?
I will never do that.