"Rom Com" Life

Hiatus Post: Original Date: Mid-December 2011

"Yeah, when I commuted back and forth from Chicago all the time I drove down that road with my Dad when he picked me up from the train station."

"I lived down that road with my parents growing up."

"Oh yeah, it's hard to see a lot of the houses, they're pushed back pretty far.  But he always drove me down that street because he said he really liked the lights that one of the families did.  They hung huge strands in straight lines from the trees.  It almost looked like someone paused the snow on a perfectly lit night."

"Uhm... wait, are you serious?  You know that's my house back home, right?"

Yes, telling him that my favorite house to see Christmas lights on growing up ended up being his house was extremely embarrassing.  It was his idea to move in together, I get that, but it doesn't change the fact that this made me feel like I was just straight creeping on him. 

Oh, but the trip home gets so much worse.

I went to visit my best friend while I was back in town.  I had never been to her new apartment, besides getting a little lost, I also passed the road that he lived on throughout college, which was the same college my said best friend goes to, so I know it had to be close by. 

While I was taking in all of the coincidences in our lives having been from the same home town I went into my friend's apartment.  Of course while walking up her what seems to be 14 flights of stairs, he text me about how I should just go to his old house from college, tell them he sent me.  Although this was a joking statement on his end (he doesn't even talk to his friends back home about the fact he has a roommate), I was all too close to where he he was talking about, and he had no idea. 

To understand how strange this is for me, I've spent the last 4+ years of my life to leave said town and everything about it (with the exception of a few dear friends) in my rear view mirror.  And everything just keeps connecting me to him, and back to this place.

A few days later, I was going to meet a girl who had been my very best friend, had been being a key term here, but now I would equate it to hanging out with someone I used to work with.  We did work together, but she also went to the same high school as the roommate.

Meeting her at the bar with some of our other old friends should have occurred to me; they all went to high school with him.

I spent the rest of my night sitting next to a girl he dated for years, that had absolutely no idea who I was.  Even though I know they still talk, and I wanted to say the whole time, "You know that one dude you used to bang all the time, oh yeah, well now I do... yeah?  Well we're eskimo sisters, high five!"  But even in my gin-induced stupor knew that most people would not find this as endearing as me... their problem.

At some point in the evening when things and conversations started going in a direction that involved him, I excused myself to go outside with some friends who were going to have a smoke.

Bad idea, Me... bad idea.

The only door that led to the outdoor patio was to walk behind some kind of small shuffle board game at the bar.  Although I did notice that there were people playing, I hadn't paid attention, I was already living in my own personal hell.

Let me explain;

I hadn't been home to actually hang out with anyone from high school... well since I left in 2007.  I come home for formalities, family things, and when I need to re-adjust before moving again.

Every single person in this bar at some point of time I had been linked to in friendship, friends dating, me dating, or friends of exes.  I kept getting awkward looks, and even heard a bunch of drunk girls that I would have considered fairly alright surface level friends whisper about how I was there... but they didn't bother to say hello.  They only cared about making comments on my life, and swift judgements on how I chose to fix what someone else had broken years ago.  I even had a few guys come up and hit on me, before I'd turn and say, "Yo, 'insert name here,' although I'm flattered, you remember when you paid me $10 dollars in seventh grade to date you for the day?"  Which would then be reciprocated with "Holy shit!  Claire*?! I haven't seen you in years!..."  Let me tell you, the whole not seeing you thing, I did that on purpose.

And with that rant of digression:

I walked past the table of extremely bro-ed out guys to stand outside with the smokers.  Into me walks some guy playing the game, and not giving two shits about people trying to get through.  Fuck that, I'm not going to move for you, dude.  He didn't move for me either, then we awkwardly had a 2-second stare off, then I realized every guy playing the shuffle board game used to live with Tristan.  Every one of them.

At this, I saw a friend from high school outside who asked if I wanted get out of there.  I did. 

Actually from Today:

I'm generally a happy-cranky person, I understand that's not real, and shit like "Today is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life," typically really pisses me off.  Every day could be the last day of your life.  It is what you make of it, daily.  Having thoughts and phrases like the above, rule one day of your life will probably result in one productive week, then you'll forget all about the goals you made on Monday morning after taking half an adderall, let's be real.

But fuck it, today is one of those days for me.  I have 217 days left on my lease.

Today I woke up and finally got it.  I've been going back and forth with what I want to do with my future for months now since my move down here, which was not suppose to be permanent.  I have a very rough sketch of what I want to accomplish between now and 215 days from now (day 216 & 217 will be all packing and moving).

I've always had the end goal in sight, but no paths to get there.  I spent about four years foraging my own dirt roads to get where I am, but have completely lost site in the past 18 months of the intricate interstates that I once dreamed of building for myself.  Before I moved here I was in a long term relationship, that towards the end I let rule the adventures I would take.  When that ended I had unlimited possibilities, that I have set to the weigh side until now; due to the lack of my overall drive and own sheer blindness brought on by my naivety to the hole I've been digging instead of the proper paths.

[original date: sometime in early February]

There was a big piece of me while working on this blog and figuring out my boundaries with my new roommate where I felt like this was entirely unjustified, uncalled for, and I should not be so mean, and stop writing this.

Then I gathered myself and remembered that I'm a mean little person and I don't really care.  Also, the feelings that I thought I was feeling I think were also sheer convenience, and now I am coming back to Earth.

That doesn't change the fact that I'm pretty sure he told me he was in love with me last night.  Well, he was whispering something into the sheets.  And refused to tell me what he said, but insisted that they were real words that he knew and I would find out.  Whatever that means when you're banging.

Main point of the story... if you buy the wicker ball set from IKEA, be sure that you don't get drunk with your MMA fighting roommate because you may end up with a bloody nose... just saying. Of course he didn't really notice how bad it was until days later when he realized I still had a gash on my nose.  Spoiler alert; one month later, he threw a blanket on me during "play-fight" (we wrestle around / tickle pretty much any excuse to touch each other), and he also ripped off my nose's scab. 

So, it turns out that I have this weird thing inside of me that pumps all of my blood throughout my body. In my mind your heart is still statistically more likely to kill you than, water, fire, or a plane crash, so shouldn't we not trust our hearts?

Anyway--

Fore-mentioned internal organ led me to feeling somewhat guilty about what I was attempting to do with this project.  I know that I didn't care about my roommate in the beginning, and not to give anything away and say I do or do not now, (before I post everything in my drafts que), but one of my friends got me thinking of how I would feel if he were writing an anonymous blog about me... and I gotta say I didn't really like the feeling.

But let's be real, I'm still me... and having heart is overrated

Thus, I'm back and will begin to update Rom Com with the stories I have written about us in the past few months on my hiatus. 

Setting:

Roommates making dinner together.

I asked if I could stir his "secret recipe sausage" that was boiling in Coca-Cola, because I didn't understand how it got so syrupy and weird.  But I don't drink coke or eat meat, so I didn't understand why he was making this gross thing to begin with.

[note: http://voixdouce.wordpress.com/2008/11/20/ham-in-coca-cola-yes-seriously/ if you don't believe me that people tenderize and boil meat in soda, google it, you'll be disturbed.  Or at least I was.]

"I want to stir your love sausage to see how thick the coke is."  

Yes.  That is a real sentence that made sense at the time.  Yes, it can be taken in many different ways.  I didn't intend on it being funny, ironic, a pun, or it getting me laid.

If I can't break your bones, you can break them yourself while hanging the t.v. for me.  

Just so everyone is aware, if you are holding a 42 inch t.v. to mount on the wall while you're drunk and high, then sort of dance around with it, and drop it right on your foot, you will instantly have a lump the size of a tennis ball under your skin, and you will fracture it.  The fracture will cause you to have to wear "the plank of shame" boot.  It's hard and stiff (that's what she said, sorry, I had to) and you'll stomp around, and look a fool.

The boot has recently supplied me with hours of giggles and jokes on Tristan's expense.  

He decided not to wear the plank to work yesterday, as to avoid questions from the other minions in their cubicle town.  It got so swollen he couldn't get his foot out of his fancy leather dress shoes.  

Shoes from Aldo and watermelon vodka, the kid is kind of a woman.

He did admit the only reason it was healing as fast as it is because I forced him to ice his foot, by duct taping ice to his foot when he went to sleep.  

Neither of us heard the alarm clock go off.  I got a text message from a friend who was going to help us move that woke me up.  It was already 8:30 am.  We were suppose to pick up the u-haul at 7:00.  I rolled over on his bed and smacked him a few times, eventually we got up and got out of the apartment.  We were frazzled; still drunk, and taking adderall to help the hangover with the move we had to start.

We got to the u-haul place, and the guy behind the counter said he was going to give our truck away in 10 minutes to a lady who was there if we hadn't shown up, we just made it.  I don't know how we pulled that off.  After the u-haul we picked up our rented help and started knocking out his apartment.  Everything took much longer than we'd expected.  Neither of us were as packed or prepared for this as we should have been.

We unloaded the truck at the new place onto the sidewalk because we started running out of time (the truck was due back at 1).  They ran to my apartment to get the heavy items the truck was needed for and left me there to watch the stuff.  I bossed the shit out of the items they left behind while they went to my place.  I think since they were three guys, they assumed I wouldn't be able to move anything while they were gone. Wrong.  I left 4 items for them by the time they got back, and everything I left took more than one of them to move.  I literally think Tristan was dumbfounded that I was a girl and did anything.  Dude, I've moved 12 times in the past four years, I got this shit. I'm not one of the bitties you've been with before, I can handle myself. 

Fast forward.  We took a break that ended up lasting too long, which then translated into, let's go get Subway and booze.  One bottle of Kraken Black Rum later he had already teared up telling me about hardships of his past, and I went blank face telling him things about mine that only few know.  There are definitely things I would not have told him without the booze swimming in the smarter part of my brain.  I think we both surprised each other a lot.  I'm not sure how I feel about it.

We were listening to some music (on computer speakers...), which neither of us thought was that loud, but sitting on my bed having a serious conversation about life when we heard some guy in the living room say, "This is the police."  

We ended up picking the keys up early on Friday so we could make a trip or two before we got the truck and rented indentured servants (because that's still totally legal apparently, seriously I'm not joking, it's a state funded program to rent workers, they were both obviously on crack, but they moved fast so I was okay with it).

It was decided that it'd be easiest for us to meet at the new apartment, go back to his place for the night, both crash there, and proceed with moving the next morning together since we got the truck at 7am... and neither of us are remotely morning people.

So, we meet at the new apartment and he bought us a bottle of fruity Grey Goose.  Per our norm, we take shots of fruity vodka, get drunk, talk about everything, pass out, and wake up late for everything we need to do (typically getting to work on time).  We christened our new completely empty apartment by taking shots on our utterly massive balcony.  This is where we heard the children.  

Yep, the ass holes below us have kids, or so we think, we're still very confused on that since we've seen multiple adults with the same kids the past 2 days.  Anyway, we know then we're doomed.  Kids.  Yuck.  

Tristan and Claire.  What a bunch of silly fucks.

In post prior I explain to you the surface level complexity of the Romantic Comedy that I somehow got myself into.

As mentioned, we met in our new city, but were born and raised in the same place without having ever met.  So, we both rebound with one and other off of our previous long-term relationships, decide to just be friends, and now- on Saturday, we will be living with one and other.

On Sunday I received a text message from my life-long best friend, who I have not told I am moving in with Tristan, that simply states, "I heard a rumor about you."  Before she told me what it was, I knew what it was going to be about.

I am not from a small town, it isn't a huge metropolis either, but my group of friends is extremely incestuous and totally gabby about other people's lives.  I had only told two people beyond my parents that I was moving, so how did my friend find out while she was at the grocery store?

Los Campesinos... We've Got Your Back

There are so many songs by this band that describe the utterly dysfunctional relationships I've been in.  This best friend / bed friend / roommateship is one of the most, if not THE most fun I've ever had in a friendlationship.  So, if I'm having a god (I meant good, came back in here to edit god into good... but a god time seems appropriate as well... a god damn good, a god awful, etc. so I'm leaving it) time, why quit it, even if it makes no sense.

Last night Tristan and I hung out, drank some fancy beers and packed up some of his stuff for our move on Saturday.  Of course I planned on drinking 2 beers throughout the entire evening and then driving back to my single (for the last few days) apartment.  But no, we ended up watching trashy t.v. in his bedroom off his ex-girlfriends netflix (not that I can judge, I use my ex-boyfriends, btw; Tristan and I are both ass holes), and I woke up this morning to him ironing his dress pants in the corner of his bedroom.  All tucked into his bed.  That I spilled beer all over, because I have a tendency to fall asleep cuddling bottles of booze. Especially if I'm at his apartment.

There were a few of "those moments," last night, too.  You know what moments I'm talking about.  When you look at each other for too long.  When you can tell the other person is looking or trying to look at you when they shouldn't be.  When you pass something to the other and your hands touch for a few seconds too long.  Then they pass it back (yeah, guess what we were doing passing something back and forth recreationally), your hands linger again.  WE'RE JUST FRIENDS DAMN IT.  yeah, we'll see how that goes.

Let me lay the story out for you.

As a female in my mid / early twenties (I'm 23), I grew up watching romantic comedies, what girl hasn't.  These films are sometimes referred to as: chick flicks, girly movies, bad movies, "rom coms," as (we'll name him Tristan) calls to them,  or just in general utterly predictable and unrealistic movies.

But predictability?  The only reason these movies are predictable is because they end the way the viewer wants them to.  What about the behind the scenes lives of the characters that aren't shown to the viewer?  How does that impact a romantic comedy situation if it were played out in real life?  Well, I'm about to find out.

Me.  Who the hell am I and why am I doing this?

Good fuckin' question.  Let's see.  I'm a chick.  I don't think that's sexist.  I like make up, clothes, and other socially girly things, but that's about where it ends.  This isn't the first time I lived with a boy.  I did for most of my college career, but they were the boys I was friend with.  They were my best friends, my family.

I've always pretty much played by the rules.  Adults like to say things like, "You've got a good head on your shoulders," or "You remind me of me at that age, you're going to go far," blah blah blah.  I'm typically a pretty good kid.  I've had some buyers remorse, have recreationally used cannabis a time or two, and made out with men my parents wouldn't approve of while intoxicated at a handful of dive bars back in college.  And when I say we made out, that's all I mean.  I have never been someone to hook up with random people, I don't really have high morals, it just never really went down like that.  Alas, I digress.  Beyond these small bumps in the road, I've never been an impulsive person.  

I listened to metal and hardcore bands play shit shows every weekend in high school.  I spent a lot of time in college at the art studio.  Today I work in my artsy-ish job and write for a music blog on the side.  Without giving myself away too much (because I am living with this person, there are boundaries... for now), that is a brief summary of who I am.  We'll call me Claire.

Now, I guess I decided to name him Tristan, is nothing like me.  Not even remotely. We're talking athletic-ass hole-king of the kegger-stereotypical-jock.  The tall, sweet-talking, wealthy kid, has always had everything handed down to him.  He's a total dick, but has never had a reason to be one except his overwhelming confidence.  This causes Tristan to be pissed off about things that don't matter much, so I brush them off.

I like to think many minor things in life, I just adjust to automatically because I've had to live a life that wasn't as perfect as the bubble he lives in.

So, why on Earth would I have hung out with this dude in the fist place.  None the less slept with him for a few months before decided to... move in with him?  

That's a tall question, with a long answer.

All I know now is- we're total opposites.  But, we've started spending most of our time together, we play off one and other extremely well.  We're that couple who has been struggling trying to decide things like; Do I like him emotionally or hate his entire existence?

I have already had middle-aged women bar-tending tell us we're perfect together when they've only seen us interact for a few minutes.

But, like with any good story, it's not that easy.  Just because Maude down at the corner pub thinks we're drunk and funny doesn't means we're soul mates.  It doesn't even mean I have a soul to mate with.

In the next seven days I plan to explain what has happened between us thus far:

How did we get from never having met, with mutual friends because we're originally from the same hometown, to living 1,000 miles from home in the same city at the same time, to meeting for the first time,to fucking, drinking, sleeping, cuddling, and eating, together constantly, to being just friends, and finally to being roommates in less than 3 months?

The perfect script for a romantic comedy when we move in together... but what really happens?  I guess this is my sick science project.  

One of us is going to fall.  I've braced myself for that.