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.

How about you don't make this expensive mistake.

On Saturday night, I had the pleasure of going out to a fancy dinner. Since restaurant week this year was bypassed for five days in Quebec, DK and I decided to treat ourselves to the new nice restaurant in the neighborhood.

Every time I'd walk by, I'd press my nose against the glass to see the candles flickering, customers laughing, and the wine flowing. Seemed like my kind of place, if I could dig my elbow far enough into DK's side to get him off the couch, away from the soft glow of my flat screen TV.

DK and I couldn't wait to try it out. It was out of our normal price range, so we made it a special occasion. A maybe 3-year anniversary (who can know? We don't!). A date. A thing. That we'd drop some coin on.

Frankly, it was unremarkable.

Our server came over immediately after we sat down and pushed a cocktail on us. No menus had been opened, no wine list inspected, not even a breath between “hihowareyou” and “howaboutacocktail”. We said we were still deciding and off she went to be chatty with other patrons and let us sit for 10 minutes too long. That wait multiplied between courses while she laughed with the preferred table of five to our right. They ordered the cocktails. And maybe they didn’t look shocked at her attire. Which consisted of a short black skirt. And a black hoodie. A HOODIE. In a restaurant where 12 gnocchi were $17, and 3 scoops of pistachio gelato were $10, I feel like that waives both the customer and the server the right to wear a hoodie.

The busboy was my favorite hilarious wayward detail of the night. Water glasses? SLAM! There you go! He ran suicides back and forth from the tables to the kitchen, huffing and puffing the whole way. Bread and dipping oil was tossed onto the table, the basket skidding to a stop before he angrily re-arranged our glasses to accommodate the gliding hockey puck of an oil dish. He was so over-worked slamming glasses around; he only managed to refill water once—after we had finished eating.

In fact, the only likable person I encountered was a server who set down my cheese plate. Smiling, she explained which cheeses were which, and said to enjoy.

The food was lovely, but for the money you paid the loveliness of it didn’t warrant that teeny of a portion. DK had the pork belly, which was cooked to perfection, I must concede. My cheese plate was also delish, but compared to the past five days in Quebec without a war on bacteria, the cheese we ate there from the grocery store was decidedly better.

Yet the place was crowded. Packed. People desperate for a nice place to eat without leaving the Hill. Perhaps this is why we Hill people are so persnickety about leaving the neighborhood- we have to all the time just to get some decent food, we could be at least left alone to stare into our $5 beers stumbling distance from our apartments.

I love living on the Hill, don’t get me wrong, dive-y bars and all. I like watching dogs, having Eastern Market a few blocks away, and a knitting store just a few further. But since the government office and the throngs of their workers descend upon the neighborhood for lunch and post-work snacks, it’s not like any place sits idle— no matter how mediocre.

But seriously, the further DK and I get from our date, our special anniversary dinner, the less I liked my experience. This place doesn't know if it wants to be a Hook's Mediterranean little sister or a funky neighborhood bistro. If it wants to be the former, ban hoodies and amp up the sevice. If it wants to be the latter, lower the prices and amp up the portions. Considering there was less handholding and nuzzling on this date, and more “whoa— what is up with this busboy?” the more I think I’ll never try it again.

In fact, maybe you shouldn’t either. It was much better off remaining Meyhane.

Locanda is decidedly disappointing.

I'm comin' out

My boyfriend is handsome, and I'm not just telling the Internet that because he bought me a blender as a present for no reason when we were at Target today.

He's handsome because he's got the smoothest nose I've ever seen. I'm dating a Jew, and he defies stereotypes with a nose is as perfect as any Colorado bunny slope. It's perfectly smooth and quite proportional to his high cheekbones and full, thick head of hair.

I CONSTANTLY compliment him on his nice hair. He is a straight man who has a trendy haircut. Sometimes his nice haircut gets more attention than his pink tie collection.

But that nice hair is both his pride and a curse.

Namely, because it begins at the eyebrow and creeps like vines past his shoulders. WELL PAST THEM.

Normally, when the topic of the follicle-ly enhanced comes up, he waves it away.

"Ain't no skin off my nose," he says, and rightly so. He doesn't see his furry back. It doesn't bother him, usually.

However, tonight, there was some skin off him. Thanks Sally, Hansen!

Yes, Internet, I waxed my boyfriend's back tonight.

JEALOUS?

He thinks you shouldn't be. I told him as I smoothly applied wax to his shoulders to think of the ladies. Think of us, as we get bikini waxes, with our legs up in the air making idle conversation with a lady who doesn't know my name but knows where I have THAT FRECKLE.

He shrugged it off. He was too nervous to have me ramble on about my own waxing woes. This was him, admitting with a receipt for $10.99 that his back was furry.

I told him, "Don't worry. I did my roommate Julie's legs in college. I know what I'm doing."

That made him feel better. (Truthfully, it was just the backs, and it was like twice.)

I ripped.

That made him feel worse.

He didn't yelp. He didn't say anything. Once I got a "hoo HOO!" in pain, mostly some very deep breathing. That was about it.

The whole process took about 20 minutes. 11 strips of wax later, he was done. Smooth, like a turkey.

He was a TOTAL champ. Maybe it was the lavender essential oils in the wax. Maybe it was his pride. Maybe it was the promise of a post-back-wax milkshake, thanks to the blender present.

He got through it. Soon, he was slurping on a milkshake with lots of neosporin on his back. Soon, he was ready to hit the dusty trail.

As he was putting on his shoes, he said to me, "I think no on the S,B,C. B is just fine."

"B?", I asked.

"Sack, Back and Crack" he smiled, "I don't know how those dudes do it. You must REALLY be committed. No, sir. Not this guy."

I smiled at his bravado. He was gasping in pain at the work of my hands not an hour ago.

A jaunty kiss and a spin on his heel, and he strolled away from my front door with a "I'm going to the beach with my friends in 5 days" spring in his step.

And then I understood.

I noticed the shiny with neosporin skin that was pink with new-ness. This was his neck's coming out party. This was his back's independence day.

The Diana Ross could be heard faintly in the background of his stroll.

DK is free. The Jersey shore shall be his oyster. Going shirtless (with pride) shall be his pearl.