He ate her food.

Ladies and dues with boyfriends who do not co-habitate, does this sound familiar to you?

You have made dinner. With minimal help from a boy, who's flopped on the couch catching up on whatever brand of Law & Order is on. Generally, he's stretched out as far as he can be on the sofa, a hand is on the belly and shoes are off. If he helped cook noodles, have a gold star handy, you'll need it.

This is fine. You like cooking. It's relaxing. You also know you are a better cook than your boyfriend, purely because of the training your mother gave you. Maybe because she liked it, or maybe because she was used to it.

You eat the delicious fruits of your labor: sometimes something that braised for 3 hours on the stove, sometimes something that popped fresh from the toaster oven onto a plate.

And yet you get stuck with the dishes.

Perhaps you, like me, inhabit that gray area-- where this is my house, and this isn't his house. I can't expect him to be as interested as dusting as I am, but on the other hand he spends a lot of time here. I'd like to not feel like he may start expecting turn-down service when he is around. I'm not wearing an apron, after all. Not even with a touch of irony.

A friend of mine has perhaps, the most illustrious experience.

Mine is known as the "get me water" fight. I'm sure you can see where that went. Let's just make it fair to say I was not headed for the kitchen.

My friend? Her boyfriend ate her food.

Hurriedly preparing for a fun night out, she had nuked a turkey burger to inhale before a few drinks with friends. This friend of mine has effortless composure, even after a few whiskeys. She's bad-ass. It must be the burgers! Her boyfriend arrived as it was freshly plated.

She turned around after greeting him, and found him mid-bite. In her dinner. In their rush. Because he was hungry. So hungry, in fact, that he didn't have the time to ask if he could forage for a snack. He just saw food on the table, and assumed he had full access to it.

This fight generally happens in the gray area of "we have been dating for a while and you are around, but you aren't living here, so you are a guest (?)". And guests get glasses of water handed to them when they ask. And plates of food set out are often for them.

But this dude isn't a guest, he's a part of your life. And when a part of your life puts you into a box without consideration, but in part because you let him-- the line of politeness and caring constantly shifts. You want to do nice things for him, but you don't want to be walked all over. Likewise, he gets used to being too comfortable in his divet in the couch and then when you pitch a fit, he's surprised. He had no idea, that in that moment, of his hands on his belly, or wrapped around your dinner, that he is not a guest. Nor are you the harried hostess who has a dinner party 3 - 4 nights a week with no dishwasher. And a monthly grocery bill that is triple his.

People aren't moving from their parents' house right onto marriage. People don't blindly accept that because I'm a lady I take care of the inside of the house, and a boy would take care of the outside. Because I rent an apartment, and I call shenanigans on whomever takes care of our front lawn (man or woman) because it needs HELP.

I'm already a multi-tasker, and I don't have children! I can put laundry in, clean the bathroom, update my Facebook profile, and make dinner all at once. FOR ME. FOR MY HOUSEHOLD OF ONE. I've lived alone for well over a year and I like things how I like them.

This brings me to the other issue: living alone has made me particular. Also my genes, but that was sort of undeniable anyway. I used to not get it when I "did the dishes wrong" as a child, but now I totally see it as clear as day. You're a fool to wash the pots first, and there's no argument you can make to change my mind. And that's an uphill battle with my own neuroses that I battle every day. The reality of it is that I can't imagine sharing an apartment, chores or DVR space with a boy. There's barely enough room for all the Top Model reruns and hit movies of the 90's in mine.

But that's what a relationship is: choosing your battles. Building a partnership requires give and take, but if both of you are carrying your relationship around in tandem, and one of you is constantly the one walking backwards, you start to resent his view of the future. Of course it looks awesome.

Because all you see is a trail of socks and shoes from your front door. And a collection of dirty glasses on the coffee table in your dishwasher-less apartment. But he sees a great gig with a girl who's funny but sometimes inexplicably furious. Suddenly, the boy who once "broke all the rules of dating" to take you out two nights in a row is completely unable to stand up and hydrate himself. Or if you're my friend, the boy who whispered sweet nothings in your ear in a language you don't speak had blatant disregard your schedule, and above all, your hunger.

So how do you fix them? How do you undo years of their mommies mommy-ing them and then even the years of your desire to be nice to them and do it the only nurturing way you know how? More mommy-ing? Greater interest in sports? More beer chugging like one of the guys? How can you show your appreciation without sacrificing your self respect so that when it comes to making big decisions you don't let your resentment speak for your heart?

Because hearts generally are better leaders, and often lead you to the good sense to have a dishwasher. And boys, take note-- they are necessary.

Can't spell insomnia without MIA

It's two am.

I am wide awake.

blink blink.

W-I-D-E A-W-A-K-E.

In my living room. Gone AWOL from the bed because isn't that what you are supposed to do? Only sleep in bedroom, no fidgeting.

Where did I go wrong?

I suppose I slept in too late this weekend. That probably robbed me of a decent night's sleep last night and tonight. When you sleep 24 hours total in a weekend, why would you need weekday sleep? Aren't you supposed to not sleep in?

I suppose I shouldn't have taken ONE Tylenol PM last night in order to start the week off on the right sleeping foot since i slept until noon both days. I was strung out on it well past 4pm and useless at work. I was so exhausted from being drunk on whatever a half dose does to you that I fell asleep for twenty minutes this evening.

I suppose I shouldn't have taken a power nap at 7pm. I was just so tired from being drunk on Tylenol that I needed to give into the exact urge I had been fighting for 12 hours.

I suppose I should have been less combative in a meeting today, but I have no patience for self importance amid your post-it notes.

I suppose I should be more patient, or at least, learn to let my mini-grudges go. I think a large part of my insomnia is residual anger that just snowballs.

I suppose I should be less angry, and might learn from his that going to the gym exhausted is better in the long run for your mental well-being. Working it out at the gym is better than muttering to yourself about everything you are angry about at 2 am on an idle Monday night.

I suppose muttering might be ok, because it drowns out any creaks and groans from my apartment building that are crazed lunatics trying to break in. My windows might be 7 feet off the ground, but lunatics are raised mighty tall these days, and are hankerin' for a break-in.

I suppose whipping through "The Boleyn Inheritance" is not the best way to soothe yourself to sleep. First of all, it's heavy enough to fend off any potential attackers, and secondly, it makes me angrier about girls treating each other horribly throughout history, the lack of feudal feminism, and how I might end up poisoned or beheaded, or both.

At least there's Bourdain on for me at this hour. He's in Brazil, the least I could be in is lala land.

home is where the hemming tape is

I have lived in my current apartment for 8 months.

I have only, today, put up curtains.

(I have good blinds, for the record)

I had been putting it off, because they are Ikea curtains. You have to hang them up just to take them down, and then iron them, hem them, and cut off the excess fabric.

Seemed easy enough on paper.

It took 3 hours.

Have you ever tried to iron curtains?

It's not a particularly easy job. I swore a bunch. There I was. Trying to make a straight crease with an iron, only to RE-iron that crease with a piece of hemming tape precariously balanced between the two layers. And make it look straight. They are sheer, so they were slick to iron and kept falling off my ironing board. I had to take a break and have some lemonade.

I could have used a more grown-up drink, but I had plenty of margarita from the night before coursing through my veins. Enough so that I was trembly the next day. Not hung over, but reeking suspiciously of anxiety. Trembly. I thought "what eases tremblings?"

A TRIP TO CHINATOWN!

Nothing eases anxiety like over-stimulation. Blinky lights! Neon hoodies! Fuddruckers!

I went to Bed, Bath and Beyond and bought hair die, a new toothbrush, and an iron.

My head is now RED. Like, the streaky red that everyone dyed their hair in 1996. I'm rolling with it. I could use the change.

I went to Urban outfitters and bought a shit-ton of decorations for my apartment. New "artwork". New picture frames waiting for photos to "Rasterbate".

And, I only did it today, because when my mother was visiting a few weekends ago, she remarked upon my lack of iron (in self defense, i had one, but it rusted) among other things, including decor. She could not believe that I didn't iron my underwear into perfect triangles and where were the hospital corners on my quickly made bed? She said to me and some of my friends at some lovely springtime outdoor festivities,

"oh, well with such nice friends like yours, who needs an iron?"

I let that fester. I bought an iron. I hung up curtains.

YEESH.

Done. With. It.

Right now is one of those times where I hold up the white flag. This is me surrendering, people.

I, Katastrophe, am not cut out for apartment living. I am just not.

Upstairs neighbor (remember her?) is HAMMERING THE FLOOR. HAMMERING THE F-ING FLOOR. In my day dream, it's called "securing your new THICK, THICK wall-to-wall carpeting that will block your stomp foots and your boyfriend's vocal boom" but I doubt that is true. She's probably doing it just to be irritating because I've complained about her behavior and she's been gone for the weekend so she has to get her digs in. But seriously-- it's not human to wear high heels and clomp around your not-so-carpeted-should-be-carpeted bedroom floor at 6am. It is not human to listen to your TV that high or to let (make?) your linebacker-who-let-himself-go boyfriend stay over every freaking night. Doesn't that stort of immature bad girlfriend behavior fade when you start getting wrinkles?

Outside, in the back of the building (which my bedroom faces) the owner of the building is ice-picking the parking lot free from its wintry tyranny.

Inside the lobby (right outside my front door) the landlady is vacuuming, making sure to bump into all the corners that she can.

It's been like this since 10am.

Is it impossible to have a QUIET apartment and not pay 1600 for a one bedroom? A federal holiday is a precious thing, and I'm wasting it sitting around thinking about how MAD I AM. It's not like I don't pay a pretty decent amount of money for this place. I know some of that is being on the first floor-- but I am just losing it here, and I am not an angry person. I am mad at being mad.

My man-friend has never had a loud apartment. Yeah there was street noise, but that doesn't bother me as much. He never hears a peep from anyone else ANYWHERE. But he always lives somewhere swank and shares the place with a friend. I'm trying to afford my own space, and my budget is different.

Tell me of apartments available on the Hill, because complaining a lot often gets you out of leases. Tell me of how I can get this stompy fool to move out. Tell me how you cope with this, because all my own answers are falling short and I am about two weeks away from hammering my ceiling back and starting a serious war, instead of going through management and trying to be polite.

Being nice only gets you so far.

Help me oh internets

So, say you lived in a wonderfully cheap apartment building. You love your apartment, but the neighbor above won't give you much rest (hello, VACUUMING BEFORE 9AM ON A SATURDAY MORNING).

You beg and plead with God to make her stop. You sleep with the air conditioner on even in the fall so that there's some white noise cover.

You shake your fist. Hourly. MUST YOU WEAR YOUR STILETTOS INDOORS?

You told her about herself already ONCE.

You practice conversations with yourself to figure out exactly how to come off like you mean business without sounding like a TOTAL bee-yotch for the NEXT time.

And then God smiles upon you.

A crooked, crooked, smile.

My landlady informed me that someone on the TOP (TIPPY TOP) floor is moving out. She knew I was only half moved in, and figured she'd ask to see if I wanted to move upstairs.

On paper, sounds PHENOMENAL. Same building, but the sunnier side. Same lay out. Same rent. Park view (over a smaller building, but still).

The catch?

That apartment is surrounded by old people who chain smoke in their places and that smoke travels up. INTENSELY. The smell of smoke pours from her kitchen sink, seeps through her closets, and stains her windows black. She spends $30 on candles a month to cover up the odor. She fabreezes herself before she goes to work. She has already had her couch cushions dry cleaned. She changes her sheets every 4 days so they don't reek.

I enjoy a cigarette socially every now and again. Usually after a blurry-fun night. But all the time? At least Stompy goes away sometimes.

I ask you. Which is the greater evil?

Stompy or Smokey?