It’s the day before Thanksgiving, 2011. After a post-work nap and take-out, it’s 7:30 pm, cold and dark. My 10 year high school reunion started half an hour ago, and while I purchased tickets for myself and the husband (20 bones each for one drink ticket and an “appetizer buffet”), showering, drying my hair, putting on makeup and driving 15 minutes seems like way too much effort to undergo. Especially too much effort when I don’t have any driving reason to reunite with people I got along fine with 10 years ago and have hardly thought of since. Maybe if I had a mortal enemy to face or best friend to meet up with or something to prove to a mean girl, that would be motivation. Alas, I am more well-adjusted than most rom-com leading ladies, so I stayed in. Here’s what I imagine I missed.

The nice girls are still nice. These are the pretty-but-not-hot girls, the popular-but-not-powerful girls, the Daddy-got-me-a-safe-used-Honda girls. They were smart but not threatening, and now they are married to a 7/10 guy who exudes vanilla and works in insurance or managing plumbing sales or something else needed but not interesting. She graduated college with a degree in marketing, psychology or education and after the first “little one” (or some other cutesy idiom for offspring), found her life calling as a stay-at-home mom. She now spends most of her time with children or other mothers, and a fun night means two glasses of white wine or skinny margaritas and watching The Bachelor with the girls. She may be a bit bland, but she’s still sweet, harmless and genuine.

Late blossomers have bloomed almost past recognition. Not unlike the nice girls, these men and women didn’t stand out much from the crowd back in the hallways. It may have been shyness or unremarkable personal appearance or interests in “odd” but safe things like anime or horses. They were different, but not enough to warrant merciless torment or social pariah statuses. And now they emerge from the cocoon of a decade of non-memories as their metamorphized adult forms. There’s the not-to-hot transformation, the shy and quiet to life of the party, the overweight to fit. Occasionally, the more rare varieties are spotted. The shadow of a name familiar from the yearbook or class roster with no person to accompany it, that mysterious person you didn’t even know existed, now a prominent figure in business, society or the world beyond our hometown. The lost soul who spent all four years trying out ways to fight reality or hurt herself, now a really stable and happy parent. These people now flit around the room, colorfully landing and alighting from conversations at their own will, clearly more apt and comfortable in independence than many of the class of 2001 will ever be.

The high school cream of the crop prove they peaked 10 years ago. This group is easy to spot. They are the ones wearing their class ring or letter jacket without a shred of irony or humor. It’s hard to argue this isn’t the first time they’ve donned this tokens in the past decade. They look like they’ve aged more than 10 years without looking old. They talk about the good old days, and you can tell they really, deeply miss them. When they hear Glory Days, they personally relate with a story about a baseball game of their own. They seem to remember everything fun or funny or iconic about high school, and while you laugh along with them at tales of the past, you can’t help but feel a bit sad for them. Because while you saw them as having it all in high school, they’ll never have it all again.

The vast majority are just older, slightly different versions of who you knew then. Some people look more dramatically different, with a weight loss or more mature style. Some smoke less pot now, some drink more. But this 90 percent of attendees and the broader graduating class are pretty much the people you joked with in Chem or skipped out on PE with. The conversations slip easily into familiar, reminiscing about the past and catching up on the present. They’re okay, you’re okay, and everyone is good with that. The prevailing thread that we all grew up, that people are happy and lives are good, this is better than any satisfaction from showing up a mean girl or making your old crush drool.

And I think that’s the real reason I didn’t go. I knew that we were all okay, and that was the best I could have hoped for all of us.

This first one is one of my favorite celebrity photos of all time. It makes me sigh and swoon and feel all kinds of magic. The print of the top is classic but the deep collar paired with the draped necklaces bring it back to rock. I could see Russel Brand, Clinton Kelly or Swinton wearing this now without anyone batting an eye. And the hair! So effortless but glamorous and still fucking manly.

How fitting for the frontman of Queen to be robed and crowned, and while topless and sporting track pants and Adidas shell toes. The rich pile of the scarlet robe and the scale of the crown would make Gaga drool. The coif may have been cropped, but the moustache is not classic Freddie, classic 70s/80s and classic cool.

It’s all about leather and detail now. Look at the piping on the pants, making them subtly architectural without looking like an animal hide quilt. The shoulders of the jacket aren’t just exaggerated but have arrows on them. Arrows, like they’re saying “I know you want to look here but I’ll tell you where to look.” And I am dying to know if the shirt underneath is all zigzags like I’m hoping it is.

This jacket. You guys, this jacket! It’s like a rainbow leather streamer party on his upper body. AND I LOVE ALL OF IT.

I am slightly obsessed with this harlequin-ish jumpsuit. The combo of skintight with full sleeves and covered legs keeps it from getting too leotard gone wild, and the black patent belt is accessorizing done right. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised to see this hanging on the racks in American Apparel right now.

It takes quite a person to carry this much style and not get lost in the look, but he did it and did it well. And now when I face the closet in the morning, I think to myself “What would Freddie wear?”

I’ve heard so many “I’m gonna quit smoking” and “I’m getting in shape this year” and “I’m going to take time for myself” and “I’ll eat out less” in the past week  – proof that people are hoping to do the same things in 2012 that the general population has been aiming to do for a century. Boooooring. There’s no joy or excitement to be gained from looking at a new year as the opportunity to do stuff you should do just because it’s responsible/wise/necessary. Hence my choice to have goals instead: things that are new, challenging and are either achieved or not (although progress is progress AMIRITE?). A late afternoon tweet about one of these goals led to participating in an article on not-so-normal “resolutions.” Allow me to elaborate.

1. Learn to throw knives.

Seriously, who throws knives? No really, do you know anyone? I don’t. And I figure if there’s a zombie outbreak or collapse of national government or attack by sentient machines or mega world war, I’d be more likely to survive (and pretty popular, to boot). So that’s cool. Also, I’m thinking throwing knives are cheaper than guns and ammo, if one is selecting a weapons-oriented hobby. Note that I did no research on the cost, process and time it takes to become a skilled knife thrower, but I can assume it takes a look of patience and discipline, which, um, I would probably benefit from improving. Another plus: telling people I can throw knives without totally lying would be pretty badass. I’d be like a little blonde whirling dervish of badassery. Every modern woman’s dream.

2. Add 500 books to my home library.

I love books like most chicks love Vampire Diaries and cupcakes. There could never be enough books to satiate my adoration, and I thought I had quite a few at home. Yet when I took to logging them all digitally, I found I had only 207. (I know, the link says less but that’s because I got lazy and didn’t enter the last batch of ISBNs. Sue me.) Only 207! I was simultaneously embarrassed, aggravated and motivated. More, more, more was my mental war cry, which naturally led to picking this insanely high and arbitrary number. But I said it, then repeated it, then saw it in print, so game on. (If you want to send me books, I will most definitely accept them. Preference is for good ones.)

3. Up the roller skating skills to avoid mockery by tweens.

I’m the proud owner of a new pair of roller skates, in all their white leather and hot pink wheeled glory. It’s what most 29-year-olds get for Christmas, right? On my first test ride (in my driveway where I could limp or crawl inside out of public view if injured), something was illuminated: I’m not that good at roller skating. Sure, the last time I skated was when the Dangerous Minds soundtrack was a hit CD, but I figured it’d be akin to riding a bike. It kind of is, except you have the bike parts strapped to your feet and your center of balance has shifted a bit since adolescence. I didn’t get all greedy or showy with this goal, I just want to be able to skate forward, turn and stop better than the typical 11-year-old. If I fail, I open myself up to whatever insults the kids are throwing around these days and knocking out my annual deductible pretty early in the year. Sadly, this grown-up would prefer the latter.

4. Start a band and actually practice/play.

I’ve started at least half a dozen bands. All of them were awesome, with names like TrapperKeeper and Fanciful Cheetahs. There were different people and totally different musical styles and genres  in each. But they all missed the same thing: actually playing music together. This time, I’m going to get it right. I already have the front-end down pat, so really I just need to work on the follow-through. And everyone knows that should be as simple as making an authentic mole without a recipe.

Being a celebrity must be great. Not only do you get big paychecks and people to cook/clean/dress/schedule you, you get paid to say you like things. You just show up to a photo or video shoot (or maybe even just send in a headshot, I’m not sure how this showbiz stuff all works), smile and act like you like a product, and ca-ching! Another five or six or even seven figures goes into your account (here I go again, assuming stars have bank accounts like us normal people). And unless the product causes some disease in children or is related to something NSF-network TV jokes, there’s no wrong thing to endorse. Pretty envy-inspiring racket, right?

But since it’s a business transaction (sorry if you’re a bit “green” to this, but it’s all about sales, not the celebrity’s deep emotional similarity to you based on the fact you use the same toothpaste), the laws of supply and demand exist. If a celebrity endorses everything, they are making themselves in tremendous supply…and cheaper. Therefore, I’ve concluded there must be some sort of endorsement rationale, a tipping point of saying yay or nay to pinning your approval to a product. Further conclusion: it seems like most celebs make seemingly common sense decisions. And then there some outliers. These are the commercials you watch for all the (hilariously) wrong reasons. It’s like having a peanut butter and shoe sandwich. Like, what?!

That’s pretty much what my reaction was to this Shannon Doherty Education Connection spot. I was expecting something like Proactiv (is there a celebrity they haven’t had?) or an animal charity, not the site known more for disturbingly catchy jingles more than what they actually do (which has something to do with college and matching and bad choreography, I think). What would Dylan think? I’m sure he’d be supportive of your decision to get a college degree, but shilling it online for the one of the leaders in infomercial cheese? Even Brandon would raise an eyebrow to that. (Andrea would totally love it and probably ask if you could get her screen time.)

I don’t get it. It just doesn’t fit. And while Ms. Doherty hasn’t graced many silver or small screens lately, it’s not like her career is washed up or that she’s lost cultural relevance yet. Sadly, she isn’t the only one. This Megan Mullally I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter song and dance (literally) has bothered me since it debuted years ago. The woman has four SAG awards and two Emmys and can really sing. Oh, and she’s freaking hilarious. Why oh why did she chose to endorse imitation butter?! Maybe the offer came over while she and Nick Offerman were reliving some Ron & Tammy-style drunken shenanigans. That or demon possession. Those are the only possible explanations.

Perhaps it’s all a joke on us, then, a public so accustomed to celebrity testimonials and personalized pitches. Maybe the only way to break through the clutter is to appeal to our natural discomfort when faced with oddities. If so, who’s the mastermind behind it? I’m doubting it’s an ad exec, CMO or talent agent. I’m hoping it’s the celebrities themselves. Put yourself in their shoes. You’ve done the red carpets. You’ve tackled your share of media junkets and late night appearances. You walk out the door expecting to get recognized. Tons of companies would love to have you. Maybe you select imitation butter or online college search sites or cash advance shops just to shake it up. You know, keep it fresh. Entertain yourself. Put the joke on them.

Or maybe it is just all about the paycheck.

It’s 12:36 pm on a Tuesday. This is what is on my desk, in my office, in the ad agency headquarters, in a five-story office building.

1. Receipt from Amazon for six books.
2. New-ish yellow notebook.
3. Red crab soapdish with my business cards in its open mouth.
4. A silver desk bell.
5. A fuschia mini-shredder with whiteboard eraser on top.
6. Pile of crumpled Sephora and Starbucks receipts.
7. Square glass cup full of whiteboard markers
8. One black Polycom phone, landline.
9. Empty 1.25 cup Rubbermaid container with a Braeburn apple on top of the closed lid.
10. MacBook Pro, Apple keyboard, Magic Mouse, secondary Apple monitor.
11. Stray business card with flower motif that irks me.
12. Strawberry hued Post-It pad.
13. Half-full can of Diet Coke.
14. Orange plastic cup.
15. Five-inch tall inflatable Whack a Zombie.
16. Stack of research next to stack of notes next to another stack of notes.
17. Green box of Kleenex.

This is my work life on display.

Dear Cheeseburgers,

My feelings for you are so strong that grammatically treating you as a common noun is unthinkable. You are, in this heart, more than deserving of that leading capital. While many people unwisely overlook your delicious simplicity or — God forbid — consider a McMassProduced in your delicious class, I praise you and all your glory. Whenever I get asked my favorite food, you are my answer. When I need comfort food, nothing beats your juicy, flavorful embrace. You give me sustenance too, which is cool. You aren’t a one-trick pony, oh no.

You’re my little black dress of foods. Change your accessories and it’s a whole new ball game. Feeling classy? Brioche bun, artisan cheese and some fancy veggie slaw are your pearls and chignon. Throwing down on a tailgate? Your Kraft single, pickles and ketchup are your Chucks, thrifted sweater and ponytail. No combination is the same, and the possibilities are endless. I want them all. Peanut butter on a burger? Tried it. Egg? Loved it. Apples and Napa cabbage? Of course. Whiskey-basted bacon? Been there. And those are just the icing on your delicious meat cake.

Ah, the main event. Your core, the incomparable edible essence that is the patty. This is where your heart is — and where my heart melts. While I lovingly accept alternative proteins like turkey, lamb or shrimp (seriously good), I love you just being you: savory, juicy, glorious ground beef. I know you sometimes want to play it on the light side, but baby, I like you with some fat in you. You don’t need to be lean; leave that to skinless chicken breasts and tofu. You’re a cheeseburger, darling. And I love you.

The only thing that that can draw out even more of your meaty goodness is cheese. The cheese is your crown, your tiara, your hate of Pope-ish proportions. It isn’t a mere accessory or topping. It’s an announcement, like a dairy way of saying “Oh yeah. I really am this good.” And the cheese of the moment serves a practical purpose too, keeping all those toppings married to the patty. Because baby, you are smart like that. And I really dig that about you.

I haven’t forgotten your carbs. Your fluffy, glutenous envelope for all your beauty. Your bun is like the Benz bringing Beyonce to the red carpet. And this red carpet event is my mouth,  complete with little paparazzi taste buds. That baked good means the promise of all the is Cheeseburger is almost mine. But I’m not getting possessive, babe. I wanna share you with the world. My love for you is bigger than me; I would never let our relationship get in the way of you bringing someone else the succulent satisfaction you give to me.

So there it is, Cheeseburgers. Thank you for all you’ve given me (even the extra five pounds). Here’s to a lifelong relationship that can only get more delectable over time.

The headlines and soundbites said a mouthful: Congress declared pizza a vegetable last week. And people freaked out electronically, as we middle-class Americans are wont to do. Blogs popped up faster than rooftop gardens, Twitter was more abuzz than the home beekeeping movement and Facebook hosted a buffet of status updates, comments and notes on the matter. People were pissed. How could our government make a greasy fast food staple a legitimate vegetable? Don’t they care about the obesity epidemic? What kind of example are they setting for the nation’s youth? What about diabetes? And that was just the online response. Imagine the heated conversations happening at Whole Foods and Starbucks locations throughout the land. People were pissed, but I’m not one of them. I’m not happy about it either. I just really don’t care.

Note that my indifference is not the same as ignorance. I know how important nutrition is for individuals and for the overall well-being of our country. The numbers on obesity blow my mind, and the indirect impact it has on all of us can get me riled up. But in my mind, that’s separate from this whole pizza-vegetable news. Consider them like oil and vinegar: they aren’t combining in my mind without me forcing them to. So why the indifference to this news?

Make the headline bigger. A good headline sells more ads, pushes a reporter into the mid-management view, makes a media outlet stand above others. Journalism, for all its altruistic motivations, is still a business. And sexier, punchier headlines sell more. Then consider that every bill is for sale. Ok, now I’m writing the dramatic headlines. But it’s a fact that PACs, lobbyists and corporate interests play a large role in the legislation of our country. I’m not saying it’s good or bad; all I’m saying is that I’m not naiave enough to think this bill was any different from any other. And really, it wasn’t about pizza. Actually, the bill considers the two tablespoons of tomato sauce on pizza as a vegetable (as apparently it already does). And there were several other items in the bill, including a call to define whole grains. Pizza was just the sexy part to focus on.

The biggest reason I’m not protesting in the organic produce section against this bill is because it won’t change anything I do anyway. Did I count a slice of thin-crust extra cheese as a serving of vegetables before? No, and I won’t now. Did I think Congress wasn’t being influenced by corporate interests before? No, and my awareness doesn’t mean I like it. It just means I know it happens. And if the concern is school lunches being shitty for kids, I’ll do what my parents did, and teach my child to enjoy healthy foods and pack them a damn lunch if the school wants to feed them slop. What I put in my body has always been my choice –  since I was able to feed myself, I mean; I’m not a superhuman — and it still will be. I don’t expect an average third-grader to know the importance of this or what the smart choices are, but I entrust that their parents will teach and guide them. I’m glad people are so passionate about the government teaching these lessons, but I’m more focused on my personal responsibility. I might it more alarming that there may be parents out there teaching their kids that if Joe Senator votes that pizza’s a veggie, better have four slices. I want to hear people debating that messed up leadership. I want to see those social media stances.

Now excuse me while I go order some Papa Johns.

Part of it has to do with looking into the facts: pizza is not considered a vegetable, but the tomato sauce on it the pizza.

Life’s been fairly kind to me, especially the past five or so years. I’ve had some bad days, good days and many of the in-between variety, and none of the bad have been horrible tragic or world-shattering. So that’s pretty cool. And there are some straight up awesome days in the good grouping, like my laser tag and piñata filled 28^th birthday party, being promoted and the day I got married. And then there was the day I snagged kickass tickets to see Boyz II Men in concert. In 2012.

Flash backward (is that a thing or does it only work when going forward?). It’s 1994 in an indoor skating rink. Rollerblades outnumber the dorky two-by-two skates, at least among the popular sixth graders. The skating DJ dims the already spotty lighting and figure-eights backward into the center of the rink to announce a couples skate. The strums of Sheryl Crow are faded out into the opening strings of On Bended Knee. The legit middle school couples are the first on the rink, most not even leaving but just joining hands as their single misfit classmates flee the rink. From the sidelines, a few bold 12-year-olds make their move, and with blushing or apathetic girls in hand, join the social ritual of couples-only activities.

And what a perfect song to experience the innocent toe-tipping into romance, be it on the rink with a sweaty palm pressed to yours or looking in longing (and a bit of judgment) from the siderails. A man proclaiming his love and vowing to win his woman back, whatever it takes, in perfect (cooleyhigh)harmony. He’s begging, and it’s beautiful. It’s what every person wants, even in adulthood, that person who will beg, steal, cry to get your back. It’s what our adolescent minds assume grown-up relationships are like. That passionate, that definitive, that extreme. And some of them are. (Note that grown-up relationships are much, much different than mature relationships). Love is that powerful, and this is what we all have been waiting for. It’s the expression of adolescent romantic hope and of adult relationships and their consequences.

It’s this expression, the audible sound of hope and heartbreak and undying love, that tied me to Boyz II Men. There were others, like Bel Biv Devoe before them and All 4 One and N’Sync after, but Boyz II Men did it best. That’s why my generation hears a power string section and sick vocal harmonies and melts. Boyz II Men still holds the power of that promise they made to us, unknowingly, during a formative time for us, pop culture and Western life. If you’ve been near me – and I mean within 30 yards – when End of The Road or It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday comes on, you know I cannot control my reaction. It’s as powerful as the music I’m responding to, it has to be. It gets me every time.

This power is something I occasionally seek out, for both nostalgia and the sweet high it brings. That brings us to me, October 2011, deciding to play some Boyz II Men on Spotify. Listed on the available albums is something new, something I figured was a new compilation of the hits I adore. Wrong. It’s new. Like, new new. New songs plus a handful of those I craved. When did this happen? Boyz II Men are still together and recording? Insanity breaks out (meaning I scream and make a yelling announcement of this breaking news). Have they been recording this whole time, I wonder, the deluge of questions hitting my brain like the rapid notes of an R&B bridge. Google, then to the Boyz II Men official site. There’s an events link. Events, that could mean appearances on award shows or maybe some state fair performances, I hoped. Wrong again. Live concert dates. I scanned the list of locations, mentally crossing fingers for a Denver or Chicago date or if today was going to be a good day, Kansas City. And I see my state on the list, not just ones nearby. There’s a show in the college town/capital city 40 minutes away from me.

And this leads to new, bigger insanity. I actually run to each individual in the office and announce that we all have the chance to see and hear in person. (This included interrupting a meeting or two, sorry about that.) Most people chuckle or roll their eyes and are happy for me, since this is clearly a big deal for me. A couple have the audacity to ask “So what?” And there’s one person who is as thrilled as I am. We buy tickets on the spot and block the day out in our calendars. It’s six months away, but we are as excited as if it was the day before. I don’t know how it’s possible for us to be the only two beside ourselves. Haven’t the rest of these people heard the songs? Don’t they have hearts or is it just cold barren chambers inside their chests?

And they do. It’s just that they didn’t have couples skates like we had. They’d been hit with the romantic anticipation hammer, just a different model at a different time. They have Justin Timberlake or The Cranberries. They had coffee shops and prom and part-time jobs where they were promised the passion, extremes and power of grown-up love. Given the chance to experience it again and in person, they’d be as crazy as I was today. And I’d be happy for them. Because that day, I knew I had Boyz II Men.

Animals are great. Even the ones most people despise, like spiders and snakes and housecats, I think they’re alright. I’d take a ridiculous, smart or cute videos of an animal over those of a human child any day. Maybe that’s a result of having pets my whole life or maybe it’s the cause. But all that said, there are some animals not fit for pet-dom in my book. It’s not about cuteness or intelligence or even just being awesome at being an animal…they’ve got that going for them. It’s like how you’ll never, not even in a post-apocalyptic-recreate-the-human-species way, date that one decently attractive, gainfully employed, moderately funny friend your drunken best friend tells you is your soulmate. It’s just fundamentally not a good idea.

Pterodactyl
First off, I’m not even sure they’re called pterodactyls anymore. The official nomenclature may be pterodon or something. That starts this prehistoric beast off on the wrong foot with me from the get-go. Another nail in their coffin: they just seem super noisy. Having never personally heard a live pterodactyl(don), I’m basing this solely off of TV and movies. Still, have you ever seen a quiet pterodactyl(don)? Didn’t think so. Also, I don’t know what I would feed a pterodactyl. I assume they want to hunt to some degree, but that’s not very conducive to being a pet. I guess I could set up some type of hunting area or a free range sort of deal, but that’s just, like, a lot of work.

Chimpanzee
These guys may appear to be shorter and fuzzier versions of us, but that’s such an over-simplification.  Chimps are smart and, as we all should know, the smart leads to mean. And while chimps aren’t creating atom bombs or performing genocide, they will rip you to shreds in an instant. I’m still shocked that not a one of Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeries were to reconstruct some Bubbles-inflicted damage. Face or appendage tearing aside, chimps don’t wear pants. That just inflicts a different yet still visceral fear inside of me.

Elk
Ok, elk are on here for size but mostly because I’m not sure what really sets them apart from moose.

Leech
What do you feed a pet leech? Can you have just one or do they need to leave in some kind of leech group – and what would that be called? A leech school? Gaggle? There’s way too many unknowns and way too few adorable or interactive benefits for a pet leech to have a chance.

Penguin
Penguins are damn cute. They waddle around all adorable, mate for life and look like little matre-des. But those birds smell like fish. Like more that fish smell like fish. Plus after being courted by one for a couple weeks when I worked at a zoo, there’s no way I could have an animal that clingy. Penguins are like the literature majors of the ornithological world: cute, innocent and willing to follow a suitable female around forever.

Living alone is great. You make the rules, then you change or ignore them without any recourse. You look in the fridge for a snack, and it’s all yours. Feel like being more comfortable while watching Top Chef? Take that bra off right in the living room, sweetie, ain’t no one here to judge. Living alone is total freedom and control over your leased kingdom. It’s perfect for neat freaks and slobs alike, morning people and night owls, vegans and carnivores. When you live all by yourself, any apartment or house becomes a world all about you. (And as we all know, our generation loves things about us.)

And I adored it. I thought moving in with my dude would be the undoing of us; I worried I didn’t even know how to share a home with another human being anymore. What if he hangs toilet paper rolls wrong? (The only correct way is with the paper over the roll, FYI.) How’s he going to take my eating crackers in bed? What if I hate how he stores clean dishes? There were domestic landmines everywhere, and it was going to be a relationship bloodbath. But I loved him as much as I love putting myself in bad situations, so I did it anyway. Then, nothing happened. There were no fights about toilet paper, taking out the trash or whether glasses are stored upside down or not. We just kept living like we had separately, just together. I mean, we had to figure some stuff out, like where to put our increased amount of dishes or what to do with the spare bedroom, but there were no explosions. There was no extra pressure, no hidden secrets revealed. (Thankfully, he was not a closet toenail biter.) It was just, us. I liked it. So did he.

Looking back on what my days were like living solo, there are some things I miss. I miss never having the “What do you want to eat? I don’t know, what do you want?” conversation. I miss not knowing when he’s dropping a deuce. I miss boldly drinking the last of the milk without thinking, maybe he was planning on having that for his breakfast? (More realistically, it’s beer and for after work, but saying it happens with milk makes me sounds much more wholesome, right?) Those things are nice. Really nice. But there are so many new nice things about living with him. We have a bigger place than if we lived on our own, that’s for sure. There’s someone to eat diner with besides the TV. When I feel sick, I have someone right there to run his fingers through my hair. Jumping on the bed is better with two people. The fun things are more fun, and there’s someone to share the burden of the not fun things. Somehow, I’ve converted without even knowing it, shunning my sermons on the joys of living alone. I’ve seen the light, that it’s possible to put the dishes away how I like them, eat some cereal in the buff and share my home without another person without wanting to stab them. It’s just a case of being really, ridiculously, neurotically picky.