The Next LOL

Ok let’s just put it out there: It’s been, um, eight months since I wrote a blog post. About seven months ago, I could have quietly sneaked my way back into blog world without anyone being the wiser. Five months ago, I could have told a funny story and all would have been forgiven. Three months ago, sharing a dramatic life event would have sufficed and you would have shown me some comment love. Now, it’s been eight months, and half of you think I’m hiding a bun in the oven.

Never mind that I’m very much out of practice. For example, I probably spent the last 15 minutes deciding if “sneaked” or “snuck” was the correct usage in the second sentence. This conundrum damn near made me wait another eight months to write again.

It seems I’ve got some explaining to do. Will you believe I’ve been busy?

1. I’ve been busy scaring my neighbors

You may remember, I put an offer in on a house. I was super excited. Couldn’t have been happier. But shortly after they accepted my offer, all the horrendous things that could go wrong started to race through my mind. What if there is an annoying dog next door that yaps all night? What if the hot water heater doesn’t get water hot at all and “taking a cold shower” no longer has a frisky meaning but is literally the only kind of shower I can take? What if the toilet seats aren’t comfortable? I checked everything, paid for an inspection, even had my parents come see the house, but I didn’t check out the toilet seats! I was foolish not to try the goods first, considering the average person spends three years of their life on the toilet. In reality, that’s probably the first thing I should have checked.

“I think you are really going to like the size of the master bedroom,” my realtor would say.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down there. First things first: I’m going to have to pee in each bathroom. Got any TP on hand?”

The what ifs continued: What if there isn’t an adequate Mexican restaurant nearby? What if my house is actually right beside a bus stop for some private school that opens at the crack of dawn? What if the Baskin Robbins down the street (the nearest scoop ice cream) closes? What if my neighbors are weird or mean? What if there are bugs? Dear GOD, what if there are centipedes?

Chef was kind enough to add a what if to my list: What if it’s actually wonderful and a great decision? Damn him and his unbridled optimism.

Last October, I finally closed on the house and moved in. Things were going pretty well. I hired movers, because I firmly believe that after the age of 26, one should never ask their friends to help them move. I see some of you shaking your heads, protesting, “What if I make it fun and buy beer and pizza?” I’m here to tell you that no amount of beer or pizza (or even ice cream) justifies a moving party after 26. I don’t make the rules, I just report them.

Notice my cutoff is 26. Considering I had my last “moving party” at 25. Ahem.

Ok, so last October, I moved into the new house. You know the enormous amount of time you spend searching for boxes before a move? It becomes an obsession; an endless quest to get the perfect boxes to move all your crap. This Seinfeld stand-up routine explains it perfectly.

But then once you are all unpacked, you have to do something to get rid of all those boxes. Score! I forgot that now that I bought a house, I have my own trash can I can conveniently roll to the bottom of the driveway on trash day.

But wait. No one told me when trash day was in my new neighborhood. This posed a problem. The first night in the new house, Chef and I were outside, and noticed everyone had their trash cans at the bottom of their driveways.

“Sweet! Trash day is tomorrow,” Chef said.

“UNLESS trash day was today, and they just haven’t brought the trash cans back up yet,” I countered.

Champagne to celebrate the new house

We were in a pickle. So I did what any normal, new homebuyer who had been celebrating with a few glasses of champagne and wanted to make her boyfriend laugh would do. I jokingly pulled my black hoodie over my head and sprinted toward my next door neighbor’s trash can. To check if it was full, of course.

Like clockwork, my neighbors walked out of their house. I couldn’t quite tell if they saw me mid-sprint or if they just caught a hooded figure lifting the lid of their trash can.

I had some explaining to do. “Um, sorry. I just moved in and I was trying to figure out when trash day was,” I stammered.

“It’s tomorrow,” they said coldly. Nothing like making a first impression. Now I’m the crazy neighbor.

In other news: I also have centipedes. That’s all I want to say about that.

 2. I live with a boy.

In a world of high stakes dating, I upped the ante. Chef and I moved in together. Yes, I’m proud to announce that I am officially living in sin. The last time I moved in with a boy, there was this whole pretense that we must be engaged first (so much so that he proposed the day I moved in). No need for that here.

I was really nervous about moving in with Chef. I maybe had one or two Monica moments where she laments, “I have to live with a boy!!”

 

I worried we wouldn’t like living together. We’ve both been living on our own for years, so we really like our space. And, because of his work schedule, we’ve never spent a ton of extended time with each other. Cue the questions. What if we move in together and fight all the time? What if he’s messy? What if he deletes my shows off of the DVR? What if he finishes the ice cream without replacing it? What if HE brought the centipedes? I digress.

The wide selection of ice cream I bought on a recent shopping trip

Well here’s what happened: He makes the bed; I constantly move his shoes out of the thoroughfares and pick up his socks. He cooks me delicious dinners and I … well … I take pictures of the food and post them on Facebook. He tells me I’m pretty every day (even when I’m not looking so pretty) and I keep the freezer well stocked with ice cream to avoid World War III.

He makes me happy almost every single day. It’s not so bad living with a boy.

3. Creating the next LOL takes time.

Ever wonder where LOL, SMH, TTYL and JK started? Yeah, me too. Sorry, I don’t have any answers for you. But you are witnessing the creation of the next LOL. And I need your help spreading the word.

TYS

What the heck is TYS, you ask? Well, don’t Google it too thoroughly, because a few wrong souls have identified it as Thank You Sir. That’s a fail if I’ve ever seen one.

TYS = Told You So

If you’ve ever needed a really easy way to tell someone, “I was right and you were wrong!” TYS is your answer.

If you simply don’t have enough time for the “told you so” song….

 

…TYS is your play. Text it. Call someone up on the phone, announce it and hang up. Consider writing it next to a smiley face on a small slip of paper, like when you ask your boyfriend to take out the trash because trash day is tomorrow, and he says he will do it later, and you say he’ll forget and should do it now, and then the following night the trash is stinking up the kitchen and he clearly forgot.

Stick a post it note to that trash, ladies: TYS.

Learn it. Love it. Spread it. And you can be part of a movement.

 

This picture makes me want to be on vacation again, ASAP

So those are my excuses. Besides all of this, I also started an awesome new job, went on a fun beach vacation, visited San Francisco, played with my sister’s baby (who is somehow already crawling), became obsessed with Princesses: Long Island, bought a floppy hat and listened to the Great Gatsby soundtrack at least 5 times through.

What’s new with you? Since I’ve introduced you to the next LOL, will you forgive my absence? Have a TYS you want to brag about?

 

 

Copyright 2013 Simply Solo blog by Catherine Gryp. All Rights Reserved.