"Don't worry, love will prevail!"

Now that Ms. K and I are in love again, we can turn our attention towards The Apartment and the very large list of things to do. Does this mean we're nesting? Does nesting involve scraping the paint off the bathroom walls in preparation for painting it a color called Anjou Pear? DIY projects? Trips to home improvement stores? Hot cooked dinners? Copious amounts of sex?

Oh man, we're totally domesticated. I hope it doesn't come across as barf-worthy, dear readers. At least it beats two weeks ago when we seemed to hate each other.

"Welcome to JPMorgan Chase"

I don't like to comment on politics. Much. But the dueling shit storms of the presidential election and the biggest shakeup of the US economy since the Great Depression has me riveted to The Internets like I'm watching some sort of Hollywood disaster movie. Woah! How's it going to end?? Will McCain debate Obama tonight?? Will there be a bailout?? How far will the economy tank?? Who's on first???

At any rate I'm glad that I'm neither an investment banker nor working in advertising, the later of which was Ms. K's previous career before she decided to abandon it with some of her soul intact. We're pragmatically thinking towards the future and how we'll survive should things get worse than they already have. Her job ends on Sunday, which we knew would be seasonal, and I have faith that there will be ad hoc work with her employer in the interim. Plus I'm thinking being a bartender during a recession can't be that bad -- people still gotta drink!

Oh and if anyone banks at WaMu, like we do, looks like it's time to find a new bank!

"I'm glad we're in love again."

The pendulum has swung the either way or rather Ms. K and I have gotten our mojo back. Perhaps it was packed in one of the boxes I went through last weekend? Either way things are back to sunshine and smiles and no more couch sleeping (fingers crossed). We even had (a drunken) date night last night at Superfine in DUMBO and an at home date planned for this evening. And as we walked to the subway last night after dinner, she pulled close to me and said that she wanted a million more Best Day Evers™ with me.

Just like old times.

"naked chicks in a hot tub"

Thanks everyone who recently passed along their support. Moving is hard -- fucking, fucking hard. And combining households with a lover puts the stress in a whole new ballpark. Yes, this was definitely One Of The Three Most Stressful Things I've Ever Had To Endure. (This coming from the girl who up and packed her life for New York City.) I think I cried more in the last few weeks then I have in the last few years. One breakdown came when I couldn't find my wallet for all of three seconds. Another when Ms. K couldn't find her car key. There were fights and someone slept on the couch one night, but hopefully things are finally settling down.

Anyway things seem a little more peaceful at Casa Rouge. I put a big dent in bedroom organization and Ms. K fixed the screwy electrical outlets. Some of our larger projects (Bookshelves! Painting!) have been put on hold because we're fucking broke right now and the living room is a disaster. Baby steps, right?

"Watch your dog!"

In my family, we are not Dog People. We are Cat People. At least I think we are owing to my mother's early and frequent declaration that Dogs Are Yucky.

That said, I am now stepmother to a 100 lb golden retriever named Harley. This is quite a curious turn of events for a previously avowed Cat Person. I should also note that -- duh! -- dogs require a lot more maintenance than cats. What's with this whole walking multiple times a day? Have you ever tried walking a 100 lb dog? He walks you! And don't get me started on the whole poop-scooping-hand-in-bag maneuver.

So life is all about adjustments I guess. Harley is a good dog and I can generally keep him focused while walking, but sometimes he pulls with the strength of an ox towards some new smell or squirrel or other dog that he thinks will be his new friend because all he wants is love and attention. He's probably the gentlest, least aggressive dog you'll ever encounter, but you'd be surprised by the amount of people who lose their shit when they see Harley walking their way.

Grown men stop in their tracks.

Children cry with fear.

Women recoil and cross the street.

I don't know if it's indicative of the culture of people living in my neck of Brooklyn, but they act as if I am walking a harry Velociraptor who will EAT THEM. Seriously, people. This is a Golden Retriever we're talking about. Even I know this and I'm a Cat Person.



The blog title comes courtesy of a charming man who yelled at me because Harley loves kids and he made a motion towards a little girl who excitedly yelled "DOGGY!" while pointing at Harley. Looks like we're not in Park Slope territory anymore . . .

"How are we going to make this work?"

I have StatCounter loaded on my blog and since I don't have enough personal distraction while I'm at work, I like to spend time looking at who's coming to my blog. I also like to note the strange Google searches that bring random strangers to Post No Bills. (I think "feeldoe demonstration" is still number one.) Anyway, last year's post on the Best Day Ever™ came up in the statistics and I was reminded that for every bad day there is a good day and that for every low in a relationship there is a high.

May tomorrow be more of a Best Day Ever™ then another horrible, no good, very bad day?

"I am a lot more worried about us . . ."

Things are slowly -- emphasis on slowly -- starting to settle. Our various possessions are finding the appropriate cupboards, closets, and drawers to live in -- although I'm still stumped as to where to put our 15 baking sheets, 27 pots and pans, 12 Pyrex dishes, and 9 muffin tins etc. Seriously, with the amount of kitchen stuff between the both of us you'd think that we were opening a restaurant.

That said it's the intangible things that are taking longer to settle -- mainly the chemistry between Ms. K and I. Something shifted with the move and our energy is off. We've been distant with each other and we've more apt to argue. Now we're worried that something changed for the worst. Is our mojo still packed in a box somewhere?

"This building is full of miserable old people."

So we have finally moved to Kensington -- it only took a week. But hey, it takes a while for two women to move interstate households into one apartment, especially since the only help we had was someone that Ms. K knew in Pennsylvania. It was hard going through one of the most serious transitions of my life with very little support. There are scratches on my arms and fingers, bruises on my thighs, muscles that ache, emotions that are fragile. But we did it. Finally.

Like any good lesbians, Ms. K and I have been spending a lot of time at the local home improvement chain store. We're seriously worried about the state of the wiring in the apartment and Ms. K is confident that she can replace the outlets with something safer. I defer to her, especially since I don't want to die in an electrical fire. And our concerns were only deepened when one of the outlets started sparking and destroyed a table lamp. (Mental note to self -- check to see if the smoke detector works, update insurance policy, and call 311 to narc on the landlord.)

Apart from that, we're slowly getting settled and rooting through all the extra stuff we have. There's also a cultural adjustment since the building and the neighborhood is mostly Orthodox Jewish and Russian -- old Soviet types who have probably only smiled three times in their lives and shrunken widows with their heads covered with babushkas. I'm already making friends with the neighbors.

The other morning when I went to go move the car at 8 am, I tried to park in one space before abandoning it for something easier to pull into. As I got out of the car, still bleary eyed from a lack of sleep, a heard someone shouting at me. "Miss! Miss!" an old Russian man barked from his second floor terrace as he pointed to the space I had previously abandoned. "Your parking . . . is no good!" And then put his fist repeatedly into his palm. "BANG, BANG, BANG."

The man seemed to think that I had been banging my bumper into his. First of all, I didn't bang my bumper into his whilst parking. And second, if there was any bumping it was totally within the legal limits of fair urban driving. It was a love tap at best.

I put a hand to my ear and made the international sign of No comprende, Señor and started to walk off. He made a sharp hand gesture and I was afraid that he was going to come downstairs and confront me, but he didn't. Part of me wished he had because I needed to blow off some steam.

Ah, good times.

"Your mom is a piece of work."

Who am I? Two X chromosomes, DNA, molecules forming tissue and bone and organs? Dark hair and eyes that need corrective lenses? Am I twenty-nine-years worth of experiences? Layers of psychological conditioning? Am I words formed by finger strokes and neural impulses turning thought into action?

What I hope I'm not is my mother. She and my father stopped by briefly to see the apartment and take some furniture that I just didn't have room for. The idea was to stash it in their basement for time being so Ms. K and I would have some breathing room in the place. But the second she got in the door she was criticizing the new apartment and spent an hour forcefully trying to tell Ms. K and I how to arrange the furniture, especially the pieces I wished to be temporarily rid of. And again my mom asked Ms. K when she was going to get a real job.

Sigh.

I told Ms. K to warn me if I ever get like my mom.

"Don't worry," she said, "I'll smother you in your sleep with a pillow if you do."

"I don't know how this placed hasn't burned down yet."

I knew it was a risky move signing for an apartment that Ms. K hadn't had a chance to see, but I was bolstered by faith and optimism. Look! An apartment! For us! Yeah it's kind of a mess, but I have a vision! A vision of apartment awesomeness!

When Ms. K and I opened the door last Thursday, she didn't quite have the same level of optimism that I had. The place was a wreck -- a dirty wreck with many layers of paint on its forty-year-old walls. The previous tenant hadn't cleaned (ever) and the super hadn't painted or done repairs. The toilet was brown and so was the shower. The stove had a couple of years worth of caked on grease and food. When I saw the apartment previous to signing the lease, I had overlooked these glaring problems somehow. Probably because the previous tenant was still there and her shit was everywhere so I couldn't assess the full horror.

But, honey, I have a vision!

There were tears and things have swung back and forth between I hate this apartment and I hate you for making me live here to Let's make this work! The dog versus cats issue has exploded into a ginormous issue, the electrical wiring in the apartment is dangerously old, and we've also started fighting about how we just have too much stuff.

Fun!

Stay tuned for the next installment of Adventures in Cohabitation!

"How are we going to fucking do this?"

We in the process of moving to Kensington.

We have keys.

The place is a bit of a wreck.

I don't think the previous tenant ever cleaned.

Ever.

I spent three hours scrubbing the bathroom.

There will be photos.

We are sore.

We are silly ladies for thinking we could do this ourselves.

Time to start praying?

"It's not like I rely on them . . . for love and approval."

My week went something like this.

* Searched Craigslist for apartments.

* Emailed listings.

* Called brokers.

* Stalked brokers.

* Searched Craigslist some more.

* Saw one unsuitable apartment after another, including one in a building that had burnt out windows and the cops out front.

* Cried a little while watching Obama's speech.

* Found a suitable apartment in Kensington.

* Put an application in for said apartment.

Through this process I asked my parents to be a guarantor just in case our application looked a little weak. I knew I was opening up myself to scrutiny, but it's amazing that at 30 -- or damn near close -- my parents have a way of making me feel like a failure because I asked for their help. In the end, after some special alonetime crying, I rescinded my plea for help and submitted my application on Sunday without them. Despite if I got the apartment or not I knew that I did it on my own terms. I'm still waiting to hear if it was accepted.

It's kind of hard to articulate the wound I have in regards to my family. My mother isn't very warm and fuzzy and my father is not very emotionally present. When all I desperately need is a hug and a "it's going to be alright," instead I get a brusque lecture on how I should live my life and how I should protect myself for some sort of over-imagined doomsday scenario.

Anyway, enough whining from me. Sometimes a girl just needs a hug.