A question for my readers????

I know, I know.  I did the math wrong on Stonewall.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I knew it was 40 years, but on two different occasions wrote that it was 30 years.  Hmmm.  Maybe I’m getting old.

Speaking of gay pride.

The word “FAGGOT.”

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been in a snit over the use of the word.  I don’t like it.  I don’t like it when gay people use it.  I especially don’t like it when straight people use is.  Unfortunately the word gets tossed around a lot at work.  Tonight I counted four different occurrences including being called a fag by a fellow waiter who thought she was being cute.  There’s a hispanic worker who calls me a “maricon” every time he get annoyed with me.  I hear things like “don’t be a fag.”

For the past couple of weeks I’ve really been calling people on it.  Tonight when John used it I explained, once again, that the word was offensive.   There is no other way around it.  If I were black there isn’t a single person in the restaurant that would say to me “don’t be a nigger.”  It wouldn’t happen.  What I don’t understand is why people assume it’s okay to call me a fag. 

I don’t like it.

So my question to you guys is:  What do I do to make them stop?  Do I go to management and have them do something?  Do I just realize that if I had a sense of humor it wouldn’t be an issue?  Do I just take back the night and start using the word as well?  I’m kind of in a quandary.  Clearly it’s bothering me or I wouldn’t be writing about it here.  I’m tempted to go to management and have them say something but I’m about 90% sure everyone will know who’s said something.  

Before you say it’s inappropriate, I agree.  But in a wait station in a restaurant there is a lot said and done that is not appropriate.  There are sex jokes, innuendoes, lots and lots of inappropriate conversations.  I do have to admit that for the last couple of months I’ve gone out of my way not to engage in these activities.  

What would you do in this situation?

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Gay Pride.

Tomorrow marks the 40th anniversary of The Stonewall Riots in New York City.  It is amazing to think of how much has changed since that day.  Adam and I can walk down the street hand in hand, even in Washington Heights without worrying of being berated for it.  I can go to work and be as out as I want to be and no one cares.  I work with two transgender women (I think it’s fucked that WordPress doesn’t recognize transgender as a word.  Of course it doesn’t recognize WordPress as a word either) and their transformations celebrated.  I have been out of the closet since 1987 and for the most part have not really worried about it since.  I can get married in a growing number of states, and I’m sure in 1969 no one would have thought that possible.  And all of this is a direct result of a few pissed off gay men and women who had been pushed too far.

I think too often as we get older we forget about the people who’ve come before us that have paved our way.  I work with 12 year olds at work who have been out of the closet since they were old enough to know they liked boys.  Gay rights have always been a part of their lives.  It’s important for all of us to remember where we’ve come from, and who brought us there.  It’s important to celebrate their lives and the  consequences they faced in standing up to the establishment.

So tomorrow, go out and celebrate the pissed off men and women who fought with their fists for us.  Have a drink and say a thank you that we are all able to actually march in parades tomorrow as proud and out gay men and women.

The following is the news story that ran in the Daily News following the raids.  It’s filled with mockery.  

HOMO NEST RAIDED – QUEEN BEES ARE STINGING MAD
 
-by Jerry Lisker, New York Daily News, July 6th 1969

She sat there with her legs crossed, the lashes of her mascara-coated eyes beating like the wings of a hummingbird. She was angry. She was so upset she hadn’t bothered to shave. A day old stubble was beginning to push through the pancake makeup. She was a he. A queen of Christopher Street.

Last weekend the queens had turned commandos and stood bra strap to bra strap against an invasion of the helmeted Tactical Patrol Force. The elite police squad had shut down one of their private gay clubs, the Stonewall Inn at 57 Christopher St., in the heart of a three-block homosexual community in Greenwich Village. Queen Power reared its bleached blonde head in revolt. New York City experienced its first homosexual riot. “We may have lost the battle, sweets, but the war is far from over,” lisped an unofficial lady-in-waiting from the court of the Queens.

“We’ve had all we can take from the Gestapo,” the spokesman, or spokeswoman, continued. “We’re putting our foot down once and for all.” The foot wore a spiked heel. According to reports, the Stonewall Inn, a two-story structure with a sand painted brick and opaque glass facade, was a mecca for the homosexual element in the village who wanted nothing but a private little place where they could congregate, drink, dance and do whatever little girls do when they get together.

The thick glass shut out the outside world of the street. Inside, the Stonewall bathed in wild, bright psychedelic lights, while the patrons writhed to the sounds of a juke box on a square dance floor surrounded by booths and tables. The bar did a good business and the waiters, or waitresses, were always kept busy, as they snaked their way around the dancing customers to the booths and tables. For nearly two years, peace and tranquility reigned supreme for the Alice in Wonderland clientele.

The Raid Last Friday

Last Friday the privacy of the Stonewall was invaded by police from the First Division. It was a raid. They had a warrant. After two years, police said they had been informed that liquor was being served on the premises. Since the Stonewall was without a license, the place was being closed. It was the law.

All hell broke loose when the police entered the Stonewall. The girls instinctively reached for each other. Others stood frozen, locked in an embrace of fear.

Only a handful of police were on hand for the initial landing in the homosexual beachhead. They ushered the patrons out onto Christopher Street, just off Sheridan Square. A crowd had formed in front of the Stonewall and the customers were greeted with cheers of encouragement from the gallery.

The whole proceeding took on the aura of a homosexual Academy Awards Night. The Queens pranced out to the street blowing kisses and waving to the crowd. A beauty of a specimen named Stella wailed uncontrollably while being led to the sidewalk in front of the Stonewall by a cop. She later confessed that she didn’t protest the manhandling by the officer, it was just that her hair was in curlers and she was afraid her new beau might be in the crowd and spot her. She didn’t want him to see her this way, she wept.

Queen Power

The crowd began to get out of hand, eye witnesses said. Then, without warning, Queen Power exploded with all the fury of a gay atomic bomb. Queens, princesses and ladies-in-waiting began hurling anything they could get their polished, manicured fingernails on. Bobby pins, compacts, curlers, lipstick tubes and other femme fatale missiles were flying in the direction of the cops. The war was on. The lilies of the valley had become carnivorous jungle plants.

Urged on by cries of “C’mon girls, lets go get’em,” the defenders of Stonewall launched an attack. The cops called for assistance. To the rescue came the Tactical Patrol Force.

Flushed with the excitement of battle, a fellow called Gloria pranced around like Wonder Woman, while several Florence Nightingales administered first aid to the fallen warriors. There were some assorted scratches and bruises, but nothing serious was suffered by the honeys turned Madwoman of Chaillot.

Official reports listed four injured policemen with 13 arrests. The War of the Roses lasted about 2 hours from about midnight to 2 a.m. There was a return bout Wednesday night.

Two veterans recently recalled the battle and issued a warning to the cops. “If they close up all the gay joints in this area, there is going to be all out war.”

Bruce and Nan

Both said they were refugees from Indiana and had come to New York where they could live together happily ever after. They were in their early 20’s. They preferred to be called by their married names, Bruce and Nan.

“I don’t like your paper,” Nan lisped matter-of-factly. “It’s anti-fag and pro-cop.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t see what they did to the Stonewall. Did the pigs tell you that they smashed everything in sight? Did you ask them why they stole money out of the cash register and then smashed it with a sledge hammer? Did you ask them why it took them two years to discover that the Stonewall didn’t have a liquor license.”

Bruce nodded in agreement and reached over for Nan’s trembling hands.

“Calm down, doll,” he said. “Your face is getting all flushed.”

Nan wiped her face with a tissue.

“This would have to happen right before the wedding. The reception was going to be held at the Stonewall, too,” Nan said, tossing her ashen-tinted hair over her shoulder.

“What wedding?,” the bystander asked.

Nan frowned with a how-could-anybody-be-so-stupid look. “Eric and Jack’s wedding, of course. They’re finally tying the knot. I thought they’d never get together.”

Meet Shirley

“We’ll have to find another place, that’s all there is to it,” Bruce sighed. “But every time we start a place, the cops break it up sooner or later.”

“They let us operate just as long as the payoff is regular,” Nan said bitterly. “I believe they closed up the Stonewall because there was some trouble with the payoff to the cops. I think that’s the real reason. It’s a shame. It was such a lovely place. We never bothered anybody. Why couldn’t they leave us alone?”

Shirley Evans, a neighbor with two children, agrees that the Stonewall was not a rowdy place and the persons who frequented the club were never troublesome. She lives at 45 Christopher St.

“Up until the night of the police raid there was never any trouble there,” she said. “The homosexuals minded their own business and never bothered a soul. There were never any fights or hollering, or anything like that. They just wanted to be left alone. I don’t know what they did inside, but that’s their business. I was never in there myself. It was just awful when the police came. It was like a swarm of hornets attacking a bunch of butterflies.”

A reporter visited the now closed Stonewall and it indeed looked like a cyclone had struck the premises.

Police said there were over 200 people in the Stonewall when they entered with a warrant. The crowd outside was estimated at 500 to 1,000. According to police, the Stonewall had been under observation for some time. Being a private club, plain clothesmen were refused entrance to the inside when they periodically tried to check the place. “They had the tightest security in the Village,” a First Division officer said, “We could never get near the place without a warrant.”

Police Talk

The men of the First Division were unable to find any humor in the situation, despite the comical overtones of the raid.

“They were throwing more than lace hankies,” one inspector said. “I was almost decapitated by a slab of thick glass. It was thrown like a discus and just missed my throat by inches. The beer can didn’t miss, though, “it hit me right above the temple.”

Police also believe the club was operated by Mafia connected owners. The police did confiscate the Stonewall’s cash register as proceeds from an illegal operation. The receipts were counted and are on file at the division headquarters. The warrant was served and the establishment closed on the grounds it was an illegal membership club with no license, and no license to serve liquor.

The police are sure of one thing. They haven’t heard the last from the Girls of Christopher Street.

Tipping Tip 2,584

I’ve been meaning to discuss this for a while now.

Many years ago.  Back when the best beer in the place was Pabst Blue Ribbon and Stoli was top shelf vodka someone came up with the idea that when you purchased a drink a dollar per drink tip was appropriate.  You get two vodka cranberries you leave two dollars on the bar.  And for decades and decades everyone followed this rule.

Unfortunately today, many people still follow this rule.  I don’t know how to break it to you but when you are buying 12 dollar drinks, two dollars is not enough.  At least three or four times a night I wait on people that tip me on the dollar per drink system.  So their check is 42 dollars and they had four drinks so they leave four dollars.  Which isn’t even ten percent.  If I tip out what I’m supposed to tip out I make about 1.75 on the table.

Today the equation should really be:  take a look at  the check.  Tip accordingly.  If you are in a bar where the beers are two for one and they cost 4.50 each.  Then leave two dollars.  If you are in a bar where a martini cost 12.50 and you have four.  Then 10 dollars is an appropriate tip.  Besides if you can afford four $12.50 martinis, it’s my guess that you can afford the tip.

This tip was brought to you by your friendly waiter, Maddog.

Michael Jackson

Say what you want about Michael Jackson, the effect his talent will continue to have on the music world will be felt for a long time to come.  I know he was strange but he was immensely talented and a true star.  

It was interesting being at work with so many other people around as the news spread of his heart attack and then death.  We don’t usually show news on TV at work, but the manager changed the TV to CNN.  We had no sound but the headlines were enough.  What was really strange to me was how people were reacting.  One woman said, “Well what can you do?  We all gotta go sometime.”  There was no compassion at all.  Others were deeply moved.  Their faces focused on the TV barely able to distract themselves to order another beer.  I think that was most strange to me was the inability to take it all in myself.  I remember other bad news days and I remember where I was.  I remember being tuned to the TV even before cable to watch all the updates and to try and find out what happened.  Tonight I was told he died.  And then I went up to a table and asked them if they were ready to order their dinners.  I hate that I will always remember this day as a day I was working.

I don’t even know what else to say.  I do know that his death today was a tragedy.  His funeral in a few days will be a circus.

And it’s one, two, three strikes your out!

There seems to be no fallout from the conversation.  Of course I didn’t get to talk to my mom today so I’ll get her side of the story tomorrow.

Adam and I and five of his c0-workers and their spouses, families etc. went to a Mets game tonight.  It’s the first baseball game I’ve been to in about five years.  I actually like baseball.  I grew up in the 70’s watching the Cincinnati Reds.  I was a huge Pete Rose fan, as well as Johnny Bench and Joe Morgan fan.  I would love it when my mother came home and told us we were going to a game.  I collected baseball cards and little hats that sundaes came in at Dairy Queen.  For about a second you might have thought I was straight.  But for no more than a second.

The Mets have a new stadium.  It’s beautiful.  There are a million places to eat and drink and a place to buy a souvenir on every corner.  The prices are as high as ever, but at least everything is new.  The one thing missing in the new stadium is piss troughs.

Uridan-GR1200-3-G-waterless-1200mm-long-trough-urinal-from-Watersave-Australia

Riverfront Stadium’s public restroom was pretty much one big piss trough.

To a gay 12 year old boy this was amazing.  I had to go pee at least once during every inning.  And the ones in Riverfront Stadium were a circle so you actually faced other men who were pissing.  It brings back fond memories.  Alas piss troughs are pretty much a thing of the past.  With our sexual revolution and freedom came uptight men who were suddenly afraid to piss in front of another man.  I guess the 12 year olds of today will have to find some other way to look at men’s penises. 

I’m now going to sleep and dream of times gone by.

My life as I know it…is ending!

When I greeted my third table of the evening, I knew what my post for tonight was going to be.  Before I even put their order into the computer I was writing it in my head.  At the end of the night it was clearly what I needed to say.  On the train home I was thinking of more stupid things that this fucked up redneck table did while they were in the restaurant tonight.

So I get home.  I kiss my boyfriend and let him know that I’m home.  I turn on my computer.

I open up the mail program on my Mac and I see about 20 or so emails.  Most are junk or notifications from Facebook.  And an email from Adam.  He emails me before he goes to bed.  I email him when I get home.  It’s a nice way to share our day with each other since he’ll be asleep when I get home and I’ll be asleep when he leaves for work.  I save his email till last.  It’s like saving the best part till the end.

This is part of the email he sent me tonight:

hello.

you’ll be happy to know that im typing this on your computer for a change.

it took me a minute to find the ‘on’ button, though.

i got my cake baked, watered plants, potted the violet, didn’t play with harper as i should have (his cat), cleaned the kitchen, ate 2 gilled cheese, emailed my aunt, texted my dad, ironed a shirt, talked with the new roommate, mailed my rent check…what else did i do tonight?

oh yeah…i talked with mamma cat for 30 minutes!

WHAT THE FUCK???????????????

WHAT THE FUCK?

WHAT THE FUCK?

WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My mother’s name is Catherine.  Everyone calls her Cat.  Adam has joked that he’ll call her mamma cat when he gets to know her better.

Which he clearly worked on tonight.

My boyfriend.

My mother.

On the phone for 30 minutes tonight while I was at work.

I can feel the walls closing in around me.  My life as I know it is ending.  Clearly the Kentucky trip went well.  I just didn’t know that it went that well.

OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!

When I responded to his email, I didn’t even know what to say.  My jaw is still on the ground and I read his email almost an hour ago.

WOW.

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t mind.  I think it’s very sweet.  And I love that they both felt comfortable enough with each other to talk.   But for thirty minutes?

WOW.

I suppose I can give the back story here.

My mother has really bad arthritis.  And really bad back pain.  Through many experiments she has discovered that Active On back medicine helps tremendously with the pain.  Seems that all the products this company makes are not the same, and only the back medicine works for her.  When I was home, she had just run out and although we looked in every drug store we passed no one seemed to have any.

Fast forward to last week.  Adam and I were out and he found some in a Duane Reade pharmacy here.  I bought three packages for her, and then asked him if he could ship them to her from work.  He wanted to add a thank you card for letting him stay there and so he sent the box and the card.  I didn’t know this at the time, but seems he asked her how to make her famous chicken salad on the card because we talked about it when I was home.  He gave her his email address and asked her to send it to him.  She couldn’t get the email to go through and so she called.

And they talked for thirty minutes.

Oh.  My.  God.

They talked about the weather.  My family.  Recipes.  Whether he’s coming home with me when I go to Kentucky in September.  That he was welcome in her house anytime.

I guess this visit to Kentucky really did go well.

I do think however, that my head will explode if they begin texting each other.

Negotiating a Roommate.

Adam and I have kissed and made up.  It was kind of a silly fight, although I should think of another word just so he doesn’t think I’m calling him silly.  We had dinner tonight and I told him that it’s nice to fight sometimes.  I was in a relationship with David for two years and we never fought.  I truly believe it was because there was no passion.  It’s hard to muster up the energy to fight when you don’t really care.  Adam and I are both very passionate people.  In general.  In our relationship.  It’s one of the things that I think draws us together.

Sorry I didn’t blog last night.  In Adam’s apartment, all of our laptops sit on his dining room table.  Adam, me and the evil roommate more or less sit next to each other.  Last night when I sat down to blog she decided that was a good time to get some work done on her computer.  I was afraid she’d see my blog and then read the fun posts I’ve had about her.  That would not be nice.  So I shut down and went to bed.  That was more fun anyway.

It’s been funny to watch Adam negotiate someone else living in his apartment.  A someone that is not me.  He hasn’t had a roommate in about a zillion years.  His roommate/ex-partner passed away about four years ago  and he’s lived by himself ever since.  He doesn’t really know how it’s done.  I’ve lived with someone almost nonstop for the last nine years.  It’s really not that hard.

He wanted to know if he should tell her his way of doing things or should he wait and let it work itself out on it’s own.  I suggested being up front with her.  That way she knows what’s expected of her, and he doesn’t have to talk with her when he’s annoyed.  I don’t think he’s done that.  Pretty much the only rule that Chuck and I have in the apartment is that the dishes have to be done by the end of the day.  It’s pretty easy.  After that everything just seems to fall into place.

He wanted to know while we were at the grocery store if he had to offer her part of the dinner he was preparing for us last night.  I told him of course not.  She’s his roommate not his boyfriend.  If there is extra sure, offer away, but it’s not required.

I asked him if he’d thought about what was going to happen when he gets up one Saturday morning and a stranger is in the kitchen making coffee.  It’s impossible to express his reaction.  He got excited and said that he didn’t want strangers in his apartment using his things.  I explained to him that it was not 1927 and he couldn’t tell someone who was paying rent that she couldn’t have over night visitors.

The subletter is short.  Very short.  She can only reach two cabinets in the kitchen.  And one of them is NOT where he keeps his glassware.  She can only reach his “good” glasses.  He’s worried that she’ll break one.  I’ve suggested that he trade the good ones with the everyday ones so she can reach them.  He’s afraid if he does it now it will hurt her feelings.  They stay where they are.

She left her shoes right in front of the door last night.  I wanted to say something but he wouldn’t let me.

She drops her keys and purse on his butcher block counter that he uses to cook on.  He doesn’t want this stuff where he cooks.  (I didn’t know this till last night.  I guess he’s just been tolerating me doing the same thing).

I think he should use this as practice for when I move in.  We will both need to negotiate these things if we are to live together and not kill each other.  In the meantime, it would probably be nice if he told her how he felt.  Hanging on to this stuff is the reason you should never live with good friends.  By the end of it, neither of you is speaking to the other one.

Of course this doesn’t apply to me and Chuck.  Lidia has taken care of any disagreements we would have ever had.  More than three years later we love each other as much as we ever did.

Saturday in the City.

I’m trying to make a valiant effort to write every day again.

Tonight I’m drawing a blank.

Woke up.   Had breakfast and coffee with Adam.

Re-arranged his apartment mentally to see if my furniture would fit.

Had a fight with Adam.

Went downtown.

Had drinks at The Ritz.

Went to the theater:  Accent on Youth with David Hyde Pierce.

It was bad.  We were bored.  The lighting was really bad.

Dinner at Galaxy Diner.

More fighting.

We are home.

I think it’s time to kiss and make up.

Don’t worry.  We don’t fight very often.

We’ll both be in better moods tomorrow.

What to do? What to do?

Last night I wrote about Adam’s new roommate.   As I said, she’s perfectly nice.  

Sort of.  

After we went to bed last night Adam filled me in on some things that he doesn’t like about her that he’d forgotten.

First.  She’s a loud talker.  Very loud talker.  Is there some reason she can’t talk with an inside voice?  We’ve been sitting in the kitchen drinking margaritas and eating guacamole.  She’s been yelling for at least an hour now.  I want to shove her face into the guacamole.

She also has an opinion on everything.  EVERYTHING.  How can she have an opinion that’s different than mine.  Clearly everyone knows that my opinion is the only one that matters?  Is it too late to shove her face into the guacamole.

This brings to the forefront the question of:  How early is too early for Adam and I to move into together?  

Today JavaBear  made the statement/asked the question:

But the obvious thing, to me anyway, is that you could have been Adam’s new roommate. Or is it not quite time to move in together?

My question is: When is too soon for Adam and I to consider moving in together?  A week?  A month?  Six months?  A year?  Two years?  Never?

My living with boyfriend situation has been sort of fucked up to say the least.

Jim and I lived together, but it wasn’t very well thought out.  I needed a place to live.  He needed to move.  We said what the fuck and did it.

Sam lived with me for two years but didn’t pay rent till the last two years.  He basically lived out of a suitcase and his parent’s assumed he was living in the dorm.  When we finally moved in together it was great, except that I was cheating and was an awful boyfriend.  

Keith and I moved in together but it wasn’t very well thought out.  I was living in a house that didn’t have running water in the kitchen.  I needed to move.  We were spending all our time together.  We said what the fuck and did it.  I knew about five minutes after I moved in that I didn’t want to be there.  I loved him dearly but there was no passion in our relationship.  We hardly had sex with each other when we started dating and by the time we got to nine months we weren’t having sex at all.  Keith took me to my first bathhouse.  We both used to call in sick to go out of town to have sex with other people.

I stayed at Davids but I never got room in the closet.  I never got a drawer.  I never got anything.  He refused to stay at my house so for almost a year I paid rent on an apartment that I spent no time in.  I hated it but for the first time I was in a relationship that I was not  cheating in and I was determined that if it didn’t work it wasn’t going to be my fault.  It didn’t work.

Five years later, I’m dating Adam.  Our relationship couldn’t be better.  We love each other very much and we have a great time together.  We only spend a night apart every ten days or so.  We end up staying here more because he doesn’t have a roommate.  And it has nothing to do with Chuck.  We both feel very comfortable at my house and we both love Chuck.  It’s just at Adam’s we can run around naked and no one cares.  I suppose I could ask Chuck if he’d mind if we ran around naked.  I hadn’t thought about it till right now.  The relationship has an insane amount of passion.  Our sex life is amazing.  Better than with anyone else.  And we actually talk about the future.  We talk where we see ourselves as a couple in five years.  We’ve picked out furniture.  And china.  And we talk non-stop about our lives together.  I’ve never had that before.

So now I have a roommate.  Adam has a roommate.  And the question at hand is when should we really start thinking about living together.  I have to admit that we’ve done a lot of talking but nothing serious.  The current situation has brought the subject front and center.

So my questions to everyone out there:

When is too soon?  Are we being silly to even be talking about all this?  What do we do about our leases?  Any comments/comments would be greatly appreciated.  

Even from you people out there who never say anything.

GO AWAY!!!!

Kentucky Part 3 will have to wait.

Today Adam got a roommate.  

Ugh!!!

Adam lives in a two bedroom, 1.5 bathroom apartment in NYC.  He has lived alone for about four years.  In the past four years he’s gone through a lot personally and he has come to value his personal space.  He’s very protective of it and I feel honored that he’s opened his home up to me so willingly.  

It’s also expensive to have a boyfriend.  Both of us spend a lot more money now than we did five months ago.  The only extra spending I did before we met was money for the movies, and money for the movies.  Now we actually socialize.  We go out for drinks.  We go to the real movies.  We got out for dinner.  And all of this costs money.  So living by yourself in a huge two bedroom apartment doesn’t necessarily make the best financial sense.

About three months ago, a former co-worker approached Adam about subletting his second bedroom for the summer.  He mulled it over for a long time.  We talked it over for a long time.  At the end of this we both agreed that it probably made sense to say yes.  So he emailed her back and said sure.  

So, for the past two weeks Adam has been prepping for the new roomie.  He cleaned the spare bedroom, cleared out closets, scrubbed the floors and made space for her.  

Today she arrived.

She’s been here about four hours and I’m ready to help her put her things back into the car and send her back to Ohio.

She’s perfectly nice.  

She, however, has invaded our space.  I want to be able to lounge around on the sofa in my underwear making out with my boyfriend.  I want to be able to walk to the bathroom naked at 3:00 a.m.  I don’t want to have to share my boyfriend.  Right now they are bonding over The Food Network.  I’m sitting at my computer wanting to throw a shoe at the TV and tell her to go to bed already.

I’m sure after we get used to her it will be fine.  Right now, however, I want her to go away.  RIGHT NOW!!!

Anyone want to help me load her car up?