It’s been well documented, on this blog and others, that God hates me. However, every once in a while He throws me a bone and I’m reminded that life is good. Like last night, when after two weeks of agonizing separation I burst through my apartment door into the open arms of my favorite man on earth: Brian. Brian is my totally platonic roommate and the only man I’ve ever wanted to share living space with. Though he has failed me in many ways (most notably by the lack of hot, Georgetown MBAs he insisted he would bring home for me when I interviewed him), there is no one I can count on more to lighten my mood (or ply me with good wine, or tell me to get my fat ass off the couch and go to the gym…), and for that I’m thankful he’s the one I come home to every night.
The best thing about Brian is that he is one of those blessedly uncomplicated men who just says it like it is. This was, in fact, the reason I selected him to be my roommate. My last roommate, who was eerily similar to that creepy chick in So I Married an Axe Murder, confirmed my suspicion that excessive estrogen does not a happy home make. Passive-aggressive conversations about chores and psychotic episodes over milk are way too dramatic for me. So when I began interviewing for her replacement, my script was simple:
Me: If I say, ‘Dude, this place is nasty. You need to pick up your shit.’ How do you respond?
The only acceptable answer was the one Brian gave me: “Uh, I pick up my shit.”
And he does, sometimes before I even tell him to! And he cooks for me and does the dishes and finds it charming when I leave huge bags of smelly trash by the door for him to take out. In short, he’s the best house husband $1100/month can buy. Plus he finds me entertaining, and I’m a sucker for an audience. He has enjoyed a front row seat to The Farce that is my Dating Life for the past year and a half and is a frequent voice of reason when my girly parts take over and I start overanalyzing the crap out of things.
Most recently, I’ve been desirous of his perspective on the latest in my long line of dramatic, yet impossible romances for which I’ve seemingly become the poster child and for which everyone who loves me insists I seek therapy. However, I have been deprived of his wisdom due to his prolonged holiday absence. After our tearful reunion last night, we cracked open a bottle of red and got down to the business of catching up. When he learned that I’d begun the extrication process from the aforementioned dramatic relationship, we launched into a deep and thought-provoking discussion of relationships, during which Brian offered the following pearl of wisdom: “I mean after a few years with someone I feel like we should either get married or break up so I can start banging other women.”
And that’s when I threw my wine glass at his face. But still, it was nice to laugh.
The best thing about Brian is that he is one of those blessedly uncomplicated men who just says it like it is. This was, in fact, the reason I selected him to be my roommate. My last roommate, who was eerily similar to that creepy chick in So I Married an Axe Murder, confirmed my suspicion that excessive estrogen does not a happy home make. Passive-aggressive conversations about chores and psychotic episodes over milk are way too dramatic for me. So when I began interviewing for her replacement, my script was simple:
Me: If I say, ‘Dude, this place is nasty. You need to pick up your shit.’ How do you respond?
The only acceptable answer was the one Brian gave me: “Uh, I pick up my shit.”
And he does, sometimes before I even tell him to! And he cooks for me and does the dishes and finds it charming when I leave huge bags of smelly trash by the door for him to take out. In short, he’s the best house husband $1100/month can buy. Plus he finds me entertaining, and I’m a sucker for an audience. He has enjoyed a front row seat to The Farce that is my Dating Life for the past year and a half and is a frequent voice of reason when my girly parts take over and I start overanalyzing the crap out of things.
Most recently, I’ve been desirous of his perspective on the latest in my long line of dramatic, yet impossible romances for which I’ve seemingly become the poster child and for which everyone who loves me insists I seek therapy. However, I have been deprived of his wisdom due to his prolonged holiday absence. After our tearful reunion last night, we cracked open a bottle of red and got down to the business of catching up. When he learned that I’d begun the extrication process from the aforementioned dramatic relationship, we launched into a deep and thought-provoking discussion of relationships, during which Brian offered the following pearl of wisdom: “I mean after a few years with someone I feel like we should either get married or break up so I can start banging other women.”
And that’s when I threw my wine glass at his face. But still, it was nice to laugh.
