Although I am not normally in the habit of paraphrasing Rita Rudner, I recently did so in an office card for a colleague’s wedding, noting that I was delighted he’d found that special person he wants to annoy for the rest of his life.  The present Boy Person and I are not nearly that far gone, but have taken great pleasure in irritating each other for the last couple of years; it’s all part of the loving foundation on which long-term relationships are based.  Whether we’re goosing each other in the stairwell, making hideous faces behind each others’ backs, or imploring one another to, please, really, just shut up, we’re never short of love or totally obnoxious behavior.

I don’t know why we find such mutual amusement in annoying each other – I don’t mean to the point of actual anger, but certainly irritation of the junior high variety.  My latest and greatest achievement is the bottle of nail biting solution I’ve brought home in an effort to curb his nasty habit.  He’s agreed to this treatment after two years of my pleas for hygiene and observations that the stubs on his fingertips look like ten little bald men, and so every other night, I get to coat his nails in highly flammable polish that tastes like a pure Everclear hangover.

And, oh, it is delightful to witness him absentmindedly snag a cuticle between his teeth, and hack like he’s coughing up a hairball.  The faces, the sputtering, the whingeing…  My enjoyment of the spectacle even surpasses the nearly-maternal pride I feel when he displays his half millimeter of nail growth (“Look!  White bits!  There are white bits on the ends!”).  Good job, baby.

You see, I also consider this just revenge, of a sort, due to an incident from early on in our relationship.  Allow me to set the scene of the crime.  (more…)

work_stressA few weeks ago, I did a post about my Boy Person’s impending move-in date, and how, while I was excited, I was also weighing in my mind the ways in which I view this new definition of commitment as a limitation of opportunity.  How very funny, in retrospect.  This week is my first week as a cohabitant, and the challenges thus far are a little different that the ones I was expecting.

I planned to do my second post on the division of housework and personal time – you know, the standard day-to-day things that keep us all ticking along, and seek input on how you divvy up your own allotments of chores and space as cohabitants.  While space is something the Boy and I are still working on, all of that has come secondary to The Most Important Thing in My Life:  My Job.

As seems to be the nature of my job, things lurch along without much of a problem until, all of a sudden!, we enter a solid week or two of panic mode, wherein I am at the office 11 hours a day, perpetually stressed and wiped out and completely incapable of carrying on functional relationships with the people in my Real-Life, to the point where I am too exhausted and irritable to even make a phone call when I drag my ass home.  I get so physically and emotionally tired that I am a fount of irritability.  I am crabby.  I am short-tempered.  I am brittle.  I am the worst version of myself and I have no time for anyone else.  I never meet friends during the week and I don’t even like to call my mom, because when I get home I just want to inhale the little bubble of solitude I have for three hours until I collapse into bed to have anxiety-dreams and wake up dehydrated and achey at 4:00 am.  It is melodramatic, completely self-centered, and I feel helpless to do anything about it.  (more…)

Big news, BCP Friends, so gather round.  I have an announcement.  I, Tailfeather the Neurotic, am taking the plunge.  I am throwing caution to the wind, I am running with the metaphorical bulls, I am skydiving into a kiddie pool filled with Kool-Aid.  I am allowing the Boy Person to move in with me.  I am nervous.

Never a big fan of commitment, this is a big deal for me.  It took eight months of dating before I could use the word “boyfriend” – I actually just prefer to call him my “person” or even “partner,” the latter of which is acceptable in the UK and I kind of like because it makes me think of cowboys in tight Wranglers and weathered hats.    


Howdy indeed.  Anyway, I am nervous for a number of reasons, the principal of which is commitment-phobia and loss of freedom.  Smart or not, I think a lot of my adventures (both real and imaginary) have been tied to romantic relationships and travel.  I went to France, met a Swedish boy, and fell in love.  We were together for over two years, trans-Atlantic.  I have dated men from Scotland, Venezuela, Ireland, Honduras; I have dallied with boys from Israel, South Africa, Italy, Colombia, Croatia, Mexico, Germany, Australia, Palestine, Canada, and Queens, New York.  I met a Spaniard in Prague and traveled with him.  I have a taste for the exotic and the promises of the unfamiliar, and living in such an international city as London makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle with excitment.  My life isn’t on a set course yet, and I savor the buzz of possibility I feel here, surrounded by foreigners and the potential for new places, new experiences. (more…)