My boyfriend snores, and other things I complain about to my mother.
He has dreamy eyes, a fascinating career and a witty sense of humor. He brings you soup when you’re run down and chills you out when you’re strung out. He rubs your back when you’re tired, knows his way around the kitchen, and has brilliant taste in music. He’s good in bed and when you ask him to, even makes it. You’re in love with him, sure, but not everything about him is perfect.
That would be too easy.
So I took the liberty of going through all of those little problems that drive you wild, and I think I have some solutions that might keep your near-perfect relationship, if not your near-ridiculous expectations, in check.
[my column over at The Gloss]
What Happens When You Take Stress Out On Your Partner?
Stress can do crazy things to relationships. They can even make you pick a fight with your boyfriend for snoring (which, I theorized at the time, was a conclusive sign that he didn’t care about me or my current anxiety and was therefore a terrible boyfriend and didn’t love me enough. Like I said, crazy things).
[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]
It used to be the case that your private affairs were just that—private. Just like the appearance of the diamond engagement ring, Facebook changed the way women went about broadcasting their relationships. The change of a relationship status in one’s Facebook newsfeed has become a technological rite of passage for new couples. The moment one chooses to announce their new status, the comments and interactions pour onto the website like a receiving line of emoticons and typos.
If Facebook acts like a couple’s own press release, then Foursquare could very well be a couple’s “how we met” narrative. Checking into venues together is a sure way of shining a light on a relationship without making any declarative statements. Suddenly, covert hookups are not so secretive. Social networking can happily shine a light on a successful first date, or else ruin a happy hour rendez-vous with a sexy work acquaintance.
[Yup, that’s me, writing a column over at The Gloss.]
After god knows how many years of diligently updating Subway Philosophy, maintaining a hectic day job and working my way through hundreds of bottles of scotch—
Someone’s actually gonna pay me to write.
Beginning next week, I will be penning a sex and relationship column for a new women’s website.
The editor never read this blog, nor does she know of its existence, but I will always treasure Subway Philosophy as my sandbox, if you will, of lewd, alcohol-induced creativity. I wrote candidly about my relationships, my depression and my thoughts on the city on the blog, and I’ve loved the emails and comments from my loyal readers.
It’s not like I’m giving up my day job. It’s not like I’m going to totally walk away from Subway Philosophy. And of course I’ll continue to use a pen name. You didn’t think I’d crack that easily, did you? Please.
A day shy of our three month anniversary, my boyfriend asked me to move in with him.
That’s why I haven’t been writing. I’ve had so much to say but I’ve been so busy. And when I’m not busy, I’m with him. And he doesn’t know about us. You and me. My readers. Well, he knows. He knows I have a blog and I write about him. But, the devil that he is, he knows he shouldn’t read it. So he doesn’t. Good for him. Bad for you.
It would be stupid to move in with him, right? Right?
My parents met him and they didn’t get along.
I had figured as much, but when it happened it was like a slow-motion disaster. Everyone was on their best worst behavior. He had his cellphone out too often. My dad acted like a jerk. My mother tried to be nice. He was too quiet. They were too quiet. I was too nervous to think of anything to say and kept shoveling food into my mouth like I hadn’t just had lunch. I had. I had eaten too much and I felt full of fish tacos and salad and resentment.
They didn’t get along.
We knew the crowd. It was the same people we saw on random weekday nights—the online literati, the handful of unemployed bloggers, the web writers who moonlighted as msnbc commentators. We had all checked in on Foursquare. We had all kept our iPhones and our Blackberries gripped in our hands or else places them gingerly on the bar, check and re-checking for messages.
Some of them knew about us. We had checked in together on Foursquare in the evenings, and check in together in the mornings. Anyone with an internet connection could see we were together.
He sat next to me at the bar with his arm draped around my shoulders, kissing my cheek.
“I think people know,” he whispered.
He took a sip of his scotch. “Yes. I think people see us checking in on Foursquare together. They know.”
“Oh yes,” I agreed. “Nevermind we just made out in front of a dozen of our friends for five minutes and snuck downstairs together for another drink, or that you felt me up on the staircase.”
“Well, that too.”
“Mmmhmm,” I responded. “Fucking technology.”