Plants First, Fish Next

The original intent of this journal was to chronicle the trials and tribulations of the struggling twenty-something, as I searched for love and happiness in the small city-burb of ManchVegas, NH. Now, I'm thirty-something, I've found love in many forms, happiness in even more, and now the struggle is just... well... life. And finding time to do the million and one things I want to do- including writing.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009


The epilogue of my relationship with The Boy hopefully finally ended this morning at 7:30am in the lobby of my apartment building.

Lemme 'splain. ::Breath:: No, there is too much, lemme sum up.

A few weeks ago The Boy demanded his Christmas stuff. I told him I would get to it when I pulled the stuff up from the basement and decorated. He gave me a deadline. I bristled and decided not to be so helpful. He made snide remarks. I blocked his emails at work and home. Much time passed (and the "deadline"), I hadn't gotten around to decorating and wasn't sure I would, and he finally texted me again.

This last text came while I was spending some quality time with Face in between other commitments. I looked at it, scoffed, rolled my eyes, and put my phone down, obviously prompting Face to ask me what the text was. "The Boy again. Tough titties, asshat, shoulda taken care of your shit when you moved out. I'm not his storage unit."

Normally this is Face's cue to join in. It's one of my favorite games - Who Do We Both Despise? To my surprise, she gave me stern face. "So, when are you gonna do it?" she says, a hint of mom voice in her tone.

"Wha? Um... maybe when I get my christmas decorations out next year?" I quip (yeah, I'm witty, I know it.) Maybe she still didn't get that this is when the mocking starts. Ready, set, MOCK!

"Why don't you just get it done?" she presses.

"Because it's not my problem! I'm busy and have better things to do than fix his mistakes. That's not my job anymore." I'm getting angry, Face sees it, we both drop the topic and move on.

But I couldn't shake what she said or how she said it. WTF? Why was this all of a sudden my responsibility? Why is it now so important that I make this douche bag happy? Hadn't I tried to do that for, oh, four years with little-to-no success and at the detriment of my own happiness?

But the thing is, *I* didn't get it. Face was trying to get me to FINISH it.

Face and Smarty came over last night for some Christmas cheer and quality girl time. We made dinner, had some wine, put on a Christmas movie, played games, drank 'nog. Then, when I was all toasty and happy, they exchanged a look, then both turned to me. Those of you that know these girls know this is a BAD SIGN. When this happens, run as fast and as far as you can.

"Why don't we go downstairs and get your Christmas stuff?"
"Yeah, we'll walk you through the scary basement, it'll be good." (My basement is super scary - hollowed out dirt basement of an old Catholic School. I swear that's where the ghost-nuns nest.)

I may have feebly argued, but I knew in the end they would win. That's the problem (and the delight) of being three friends - it's always two against one. I'm still feeling giddy from the rum-spiked 'nog as we head downstairs. Smarty takes the lead, turning on lights and bravely warding off the Catholic School Children of the Corn. Face sang Christmas carols to ward off/placate the Nun Ghosts.

As we get to the storage unit my mood goes from giddy to surly. The boxes are stuck between other boxes and the HUGE air conditioner is in the way with my bike on top. I'm already doing more work than I ever wanted to for The Boy (at this point in my brain he is called FUCK FACE), and now the stupid boxes are being uncooperative. As the girls offer to help I lash out at them (sorry, girls, love you!) and yank the box so hard it rips. Deeeeeep breath, pull out the other box, and head upstairs.

I'm still surly; I kick one box all the way down the hallway to the elevator. It's so loud and annoying that one of my neighbors pokes his head out of his door to see who's knocking. God I'm a dick. I apologize, see myself from the outside, and pickup the box planning on behaving myself.

The girls help me go through everything. All my childhood ornaments are easy to decipher, and his stuff that is religious or related to his daughter or completely tacky get tossed into his pile immediately. Then there's the "maybe's" - the stuff I bought for "us" when we were together, the stuff I'm not sure if it was given to me or if it was his. Ultimately, he left the task in my hands so I kept what I liked and thought was mine and put the rest in his pile, aka a garbage bag with "DOM" on it.

I let him know it would be in the lobby in the morning for him to pick up (he had wanted me to ship it or arrange for someone else to pick it up, both WAY too much bother at this point). He made another nasty comment, but I didn't engage in conversation. In the morning I made sure I left early, as he said he would be there around the time I usually leave for work. I had contemplated leaving it in the lobby all night, but the girls wisely pointed out that if anything happened to his stuff it would just leave a window open for him to harass me again.

At 7:30 on the dot I got a text from him. Then another at 7:33. Both condescending, but hopefully the very last communication I will ever need to have with him.

And with that, Goodbye, The Boy. It was.... nothing if not educational.


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