>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama December 9, 2007
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
December 9, 2007
A couple days ago a situation occurred that most twenty-somethings explore hesitantly and with extreme caution. The situation is a decision made by two separate parties to do the inevitable—to take the next step as a couple—and move in together.
I wouldn’t even know where to start the “maybe we should move in together” conversation, seeing as how I lack experience in the “serious relationship” department. I can only assume it went nothing like this:
Man: Perhaps we should move in together.
Woman: Sounds good. I’ll notify my landlord.
Man: Chinese for dinner?
Woman: I feel like pizza.
Man: Pizza it is then.
I imagine it went something more like this
Woman: I already have a key to your apartment. I don’t see why I can’t just move in. You have more closet space.
Man: Uh….uh…. (surveys all possible exits)….uh….uh…
Woman: You do want to take this to the next level right?
Woman: So it’s agreed then. I’ll have the movers come by on Sunday. You can take a break from Madden and help right?
Man: Uh….uh…what just happened here?
“The way you cut your meat? Wrong. Picking your nose in bed? Wrong.”
Or it could be as simple as a guy having a fight with his roommate. The roommate moves out, and a brutal ultimatum surfaces: move back in with the parents or take the relationship to the next level. And depending on your queasiness, upgrading the relationship may take precedent over seeing your father read the morning paper…on the toilet….with the door wide open every morning for the next three to six months.
Regardless of how stereotypical or serious the conversation went, I found myself in the middle of helping my two good friends move on to the next stage of their relationship, literally and metaphorically speaking. And I have learned two things: 1) Hearing the adornments “pumpkin, pookie, and puppy” by both parties continuously for three hours straight will make homicide appealing, and 2) This moving in together business without a marriage license will only lead to a very messy break up.
Essentially you’re operating without a net once you move in together. In my opinion you might want to have documentation of everything your bring into the place so when you move out you leave with everything you came with. This only applies to women, because when the woman moves out she will leave every item in the place in an array of shredded wood, broken plaster, and charred bits of what used to be his wardrobe…regardless of whether the decision to move out was amicable or not.
It’s the little things that nibble away at the foundation, and I’m talking about termites. Guys, you think it’s annoying the way she criticizes the way you dress and drive? Well, now that you live with her, she’s got her hands on the nag remote and it’s aimed at you 24/7. Over the course of the next three months, you will discover that nothing that has gotten you to this point in your life is right. The way you cut your meat? Wrong. How you sometimes shave against the grain when you’re in a hurry? Wrong. Not putting cellophane over a plate of leftovers in the fridge? Wrong. Wiping down the counter with Windex instead of a chemical containing bleach? Wrong. Picking your nose in bed? Wrong. Not showering before bed? Wrong. And then the day will come when you take a can of beer out of the fridge and pour it into a glass to avoid her saying, “Do you know how much bacteria is on that can?” Even though you’d like to point out there’s just as many germs on her cunt—which is exactly what she’s been acting like.
It’s hard to cohabitate. Suggestions the two of you make seem completely irrational and incomprehensible. The woman needs extra room in the closet for her shoes. Her boyfriend, not optimizing the closet to its full potential, kindly suggests she utilize the kitchen cabinet over the stove to store her heels—the cabinet no household in America uses for the same reason: everyone is too lazy to drag over a step stool every time to reach it. How can you not nag when instead of taking out his beer die table from the closet he tells you to channel your inner monkey and jump on the counter frantically trying to reach your black pumps?
Then there’s the whole “woman troubles” business. You men have heard of period panties, and at least a couple times you’ve all been blue balled when she drops the bomb that she’s got her rag and your dick is hard enough to drill through a brick wall. But never have you experienced the mess that ends up on your comforter accidentally when Martha Monthly visits too early, and you wonder how she’s still alive with all the blood loss, not to mention the Academy Award winning performance of convincing her that washing caked blood off your leg in the shower is no big deal.
Like I said, it’s the little things. How he presses his snooze alarm 17 times before he rolls out of bed. How she uses up all the hot water. How his buddies miss the toilet seat completely, and how her friends always seem to come over sobbing with some sort of catastrophic problem. The female products infiltrating the bathroom, hair clogging the drain, and is that the Spice Girls on your MP3 rotation?
The solution is simple: Go back to the college basics. Stay overnight a couple times a week, eat together, party together, drink together, but ultimately maintain your separate living spaces. The only cool thing about being an adult is that you can budget in a maid service, and possibly an incinerator to burn those exorcist sheets.
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