Thanksgiving is only the beginning. A practice round, if you will, that leads to that dreaded week comprised of Christmas and New Years. Whatever your religion, those days matter because unless you are a cop, a bodega worker or someone who “works from home” you are likely to have those days off—you, your boyfriend and his entire extended family.

A huge problem with these inevitable and often dreaded days is the fact that the only thing on TV is some kind of football game. For some of you this might be a blessing. But if you are anything like me, the best thing about football is the potential for alcohol consumption. So, instead of getting to sit in front of the TV for a little mind-suckage, you are more likely to find yourself in your guy’s mom’s kitchen helping to prepare something like a Yule log and hoping to your toes someone thought to spike the eggnog.

These are the holidays and in America they are all but unavoidable. Even if your tradition involves Chinese food and a movie, every family has one. And when you are only the girlfriend and not the “daughter-in-law” your place at the party is vague at best. Do you get to be in all the family pictures? More importantly do you want to be? Further, how do you each field those inevitable and pesky questions about your marital status? Are you planning vows or dodging them like some kind of Molotov cocktail of love?

If you and your man haven’t talked about this stuff in a while, maybe you should—and maybe you should before December 24th sneaks up on you like a rodent dressed as Santa. I say this because at the holidays you and your man had better find a way to be a team or else there will be a whole lot of glarin’ going on over the heads of the carolers. You need to sit down together and make a pact: He will not leave you alone with his mother for more than half a quarter to watch the Buckeyes and you will not tell the story about the office party where he took off his pants and sang “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” to the staff.

Even more than that, you will have a set bag of answers to the question of matrimony. Even if you guys aren’t sure what the plan is yet, keep your answers light and carefree. “We’re not going to get married. Instead we are going to start a cult,” is a good one. If you guys are in agreement about your future, a simple, “Whenever he’ll marry me,” or in his case, “…she’ll marry me” is an easy way to brush off the question with a laugh. Just expect them to ask and prepare any non-confrontational reply. An off the cuff “Fuck you, Aunt Mabel,” is just bitchy. But ultimately, make sure you guys are together on this.

Also, make sure you are able to find moments to decompress by grabbing him and sneaking him into the bathroom for a hug and a check in. If that feels too complicated, an across the room wink can reconnect you in a flash, and an in-passing hand squeeze is definitely a great way to remind each other you have each other’s back.

The holidays can be stressful. But one thing to remember is that before you were coupled, holidays were some of the saddest times of the year. This year, if you can’t do it for each other, do it for a sad single person. Have fun and appreciate each other. It’s the right thing to do. And way more fun than spiked eggnog. Or well, way more fun than a Buckeye game, anyway.

   

Aaron and I having a great time at Thanksgiving with his awesome family. He randomly squeezed my ass several times that day, which also helped.

What is the rule when it comes to Mother’s Day and our boyfriends' mothers? Are we supposed to ignore them just because we don’t share rings? Even more importantly can we ignore them just because we don’t share rings?

The question of what to get our Unlaws (the parents of our boyfriends) comes up at birthdays, holidays and inevitably Mother’s and Father’s Day. Whereas Gift-giving-specific days like Christmas, Hanukah and birthdays feel totally fine when it comes to sending cards and cool t-shirts or scarves we think his mom will love, Mother’s Day feels a little more like a potentially serious ass-kissing move. This one is for the girl trying really hard—perhaps trying too hard. This is for the girl who in high school moaned a little when she raised her hand. This is for the chick who accidentally burnt down his family cabin sneaking a late night cigarette in the dry field beside it.

It’s a mine field out there. This is your chosen partner. How do you play this one?  If you and your beau have been together less than a year, I say skip it all together. If you are around when your guy is talking to his mom on the phone, call out a “Happy Mother’s Day” and let him pass it on. If you answer when she calls him to remind him to call her, say it then. Or even better, get your man to tell her that you reminded him to call in the first place (which let's face it, she already knows if the call comes before 7PM). That one might get you your own stocking on the mantle next Christmas.

If you have been together for more than a year, get your name on the card. Even if it’s one of those, “Joselin and I wish you a happy Mother’s Day” that you instruct him to scribe, that will be a great, non-brown nosey way to get your message out there. Offer your guy half the money for the gift or card if you need to buy your way in.

For the girl who may as well be married to the guy for all the time they’ve been together (especially if you have kids together!) make sure you are a part of the card, make sure your kids send one of their own and also make yourself a part of the Mother’s Day phone call. It’s just good etiquette. She may only be your Unlaw, but she’s the mother of your honey and it will make you look awesome. But make sure you don’t volunteer to clap the erasers. That’s just lame.

I was out at a bar last night chatting with an old friend. She mentioned that she's been with the same guy for a few years now and they finally moved in together. But now her family thinks it's hilarious to call her guy their "sin in law." Her guy, on the other hand, doesn't think it's so funny. I don’t know what it is about cohabitation these days that feels so normal, contrary to the family of my friend. Whenever Aaron and I start talking about getting married I can tell neither one of us is opposed to it. I mean, it’s what folks do— But there is something so completely right about living together and being together as we are now that makes it feel like it’s going to require a shot gun to make it “legal.” Or a lease.

Aaron and I have decided to begin making steps toward becoming Domestic Partners. I really love that this option is out there. It feels like the same level of commitment as marriage without a lot of the modern social pressures of a marriage. Now let me just say, with complete earnestness, we are not doing this in opposition to marriage nor are we making a political statement, like: Not until same-sex unions are allowed to marry! (although, if that’s a bi-product of Domestic Partnership than that is awesome too.) However, Aaron and I are looking for joint health care, tax breaks and the ability to hold each other’s hand in the event that one of us falls on the subway tracks and onto the third rail, (a real fear of mine) as much as the next guy.

To begin, Aaron is going to get his name on the lease. Beyond that we have to wait several months. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted. (If you and your partner are interested in your state’s domestic partnership laws, check them out, as they vary. In New York: go to http://www.cityclerk.nyc.gov/html/marriage/domestic_partnership_reg.shtml#requirements)

In the meantime, we will continue to sin. Which coincidentally brings me to another exciting bit of news: My new book, The Purity Test: Your Filth and Depravity Cheerfully Exposed in 2,000 Nosy Questions, published by St. Martin’s press was released last month. I am pleased to say it is laying on a table in the Union Square Barnes and Noble, in the DOWNSTAIRS! on a table that says, Odd, Curious, Cool. I am hoping this book is cool and not odd. But the top one looked well thumbed through. And that makes me happy. I stalked the table for 10 minutes until someone picked it up, ran over and yelled shrilly, “I wrote that!’ We stood there for a moment as my new fan, terrified, looked from side to side. Slowly he replaced the copy to the table and backed away. No other words were exchanged.

Party for the release is on March 19, 2009 at Dempsey’s in the East Village from 7-9. Please come if you are in NYC! That is not desperation. That is sincere hope, and a little desperation.

Right, so, my new book testing purity which includes the question, “Have you ever fucked the foamy head of a Guiness pint or wanted to?” is out. I am continuing to live (happily) in sin. I will also mention that Elena and I have turned in our newest book, The Good Girl’s Guide to Getting it On, to be released in 2010, that is if the world doesn’t end before that, as my lovely boyfriend continues to tell me with each and every (sinful) literary step I take: “The end is nigh.” But whatever, he has spent a lot of his life egging things so he can’t talk. Sin in laws. What can you do?

 

  Domesticating Partners

Book on a table in Barnes and Noble.

I think these blog entries are starting to have something of a theme. However, while I don’t fancy a Pope picture on my wall (see the last entry and the one before last), I also don’t consider myself religious. The truth is, when people say things like, “Oh, I think of myself as spiritual rather than religious,” I have this urge to punch them, so I’m probably not even really so, ugh, spiritual. I am however, vaguely freaked out that right now there is a big, if festive Christmas tree in my living room.
    
In trying to explain this to Aaron I said that not having a Christmas tree to some Jewish families is what having them is to Christmas-celebrating households: special. I know, I know, a lot of Jews (especially ones from Cincinnati) have Christmas trees and Hanukah bushes as readily as any other red-blooded American. Some even decorate with lights on the outside of their homes. But while my family enjoyed a good Christmas Eve light-seeing trip, we never had lights of our own except for those specific to the festival thereof.

So my anxiety about this tree is not at all a bah humbug whine-fest, but more like, something that doesn’t fit quite right. Of course, Aaron got it all up in his craw that not wanting a Christmas tree could be likened to, say, steeling a Baby Jesus from a Nativity scene. Therefore, I gave in, as long as I could pick it. So I did. And it’s awesome and bushy and the kind with the long pretty needles instead of the short ones. This is a very huggable tree.

I know what you’re thinking, a girl who speaks of her tree so effusively must secretly in her heart have always wanted a Christmas tree of her very own. And I’m not going to lie—I was really excited by the mini-Elvis painting and orange glitter pistol ornaments I scored at Urban Outfitters (my new favorite store since discovering their non-Christian-y and even non-Christmas-sy ornament collection as well as learning last week that they will carry my new book The Purity Test come February!!). But the truth of the matter is that Aaron and I are trying to share a home, and I have as much of a responsibility as he does to find a way to create holidays that belong to us both.

I think if I’d really put my foot down, Aaron would have accepted a tree-less holiday. But I also think it would have put a damper on our first holiday season as a cohabitating couple. I remember hearing once about an interfaith family whose philosophy is to take all the good things about all the holidays and make them into something new and special that belonged to all of them. I have also heard a very sound piece of advice from another couple merging two religions into one household: It is all about respect. I don’t have to believe in any religious aspect of Christmas to respect it. In fact, I don’t even need to get a Christmas tree. But for the record, the menorah, a bag of Hanukah gelt and a picture of my great-grandfather, Rabbi Morris Furman are right beside it. And believe me, Aaron is respecting the hell out of them all.

(I’d also like to say for the record that I have never stolen a Baby Jesus, tackled a blow up Santa nor have I tried to drunkenly ride an animatronic reindeer. I know the words to almost all the Christmas standards and am willing to sing them in and around school choirs. But despite not hating and even pretty much enjoying Christmas and the time of year in general, I am still raising the dog Jewish. But I have to admit, our home this holiday season is lovely.)

We were doing really well. We had set up an IKEA shelving unit that had been in my old bedroom and put it in the living room. It became a pretty awesome way for each of us to display our tchotchkes, nick nacks and crappity crap. This is, in fact a really great way to begin merging your styles when you are moving in together. Aaron and I have remarkably different tastes. But somehow this shelf displays it all together in such a way that one might ALMOST think they were meant to live together. There are Aaron’s glass buoys and bobbers, my books (color coordinated), some flowers I dried and a bunch of Aaron’s toys and, um “collectibles.” I even put all of our collected seashells in a glass vase and stuck Aaron’s sailboat on top. We have also been able to add a few things we found or bought together. I was so into perfecting this shelf that I didn’t notice the pounding coming from the bedroom. Later that day, when I walked in I saw that my hilarious boyfriend (totally not being funny) had hung a picture of JFK with a crucifix wedged into the frame and beneath it, a plate bearing the likeness of John Paul II.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I think Kennedy is swell. I think JPII was seriously like the best Pope ever. And nothing wrong with Jesus hanging on the cross. However hanging on my bedroom wall? What was next? A sex fantasy with me in a habit? Now the thing is—and let me begin by saying there are many more things wrong here than one—but one main thing is that I was raised in a Jewish household, and somehow, a picture of the pope on my wall just felt really, well, wrong. (I have to say though that if I was not Jewish, I think this would still freak me out.)

Aaron, having once been an alter boy (although I can’t picture it) defended the pictures. He even went so far as to call me anti-American. When that didn’t work he launched into the artistry of the display and then quickly moved into the nostalgia factor and how these two pieces had always hung on his walls. As he was reminding me that it was my idea that we move in together, I finally put my foot down, and by put my foot down I mean, found a compromise. 1. Kennedy could stay. No one calls me Anti-American without fully succeeding in their manipulation. And 2. The Pope and the dying Jesus could not. Aaron’s reply: Kennedy and the crucifix will not be parted!

Now this is where the genius of our shelving unit came into play. Aaron decided he could make a home for his Pope plate and his Kennedy with Crucifix somewhere in our display, and I could filler up until it would take some heavy looking to find them. So, somewhere between my mother’s high school picture and her grandmother’s Hanukah Menorah, Jesus, the Pope and JFK are smiling.

So, there we were staring at this apartment full of, for lack of a better word, shit. It was just a giant maze of his and her crappety crap. From pictures of the pope to boxes of books, our faces turned whiter than the Osmond’s mid-winter just looking at it all. And then, here’s something else we learned about each other. In times of stress and strife, Aaron rolls up his sleeves and digs in. I go to sleep or play computer solitaire. The thing is, I really like my way better.

It was eight PM and Aaron’s stuff had been successfully moved. I figured it was time to crack open a can of Bud and pop in a Netflicks. I was just picking up the phone to order a pie when I heard the distinctive sound of a Leatherman cutting open a duct taped box. When I turned around to look, Aaron was knee deep in redundant kitchen supplies.

“Dig in!” was what he said, or something to that effect.

I hung up the phone.

“Really? Now?” I asked.

“Sure! Why not?” He said, all smiles as he tore into a box of records with no available shelf space for miles.

“Why not? Why not!” I began, certainly waving my hands around for effect (which I have been told is in the same family as flailing,) “Because it took everything out of us just getting the stuff here, is why not!” I said indignantly.
    
“What do you mean, out of us,” he asked pointing sharply at the fact that I had been home all day, well, playing computer solitaire, while he alone waited for the movers.

My eyes darted from side to side. I swallowed. My eyes, again darted or closed all together.

In the book we suggest making room for the partner who is transitioning into your space. I hadn’t moved a single thing. I started in the kitchen, taking his kitchen items out of one box and replacing them with some of mine. In the end, we managed to take the best of everything and put into storage the, um, picture of the pope and stuff. I still think, however, it could have waited until after the pizza.

7/26/2008

Today Aaron told his landlords that he is moving out. We had a fight last week. My argument was that if he wouldn't move in, he couldn't possibly be as invested in the relationship as I was. It didn’t help that I’d had about 5 glasses of wine. That accounts for most of the crying. The packing my stuff and threatening to sleep in the car, well, let’s call that the Chardonnay Attack.

The good news is, I didn’t have to sleep in the car because after he told me he’d like me to step away from the alcohol, he explained that this move was a scary thing for him. What if it didn’t work out? It was going to be expensive and really complicated to change the direction of things. But then he admitted he wanted to try.

Eventually it became clear that I was feeling more confident aboutliving together because 1) I have lived with boyfriends before who I didn’t feel as committed to as I do about Aaron and 2) I wrote the book;) so I am feeling pretty certain that not only can we live together, but we can live well together.

I know we both aren’t really considering marriage yet. We are in this thing. That’s what I know. I am finally in a relationship in which I feel respected and heard. I am in love and feel ready to make a home for the family we are becoming. English doesn’t have enough words for the strengthening of a relationship, but this feels so right to me. 

I promised I would be willing to talk more about the logistics of this move and help in every way that I can. Right now, I am just sohappy this is really going to happen. In one month he's moving in! When I say it to him outloud, he turns a little green.

 

I think this is a little like how the kid is feeling about the whole business... 

6/25/2008

We have been staying over here at my place a lot. I refer to it when speaking to people as our Brooklyn home. The Queens place is where we summer. I make sure to reference our domestic state in front of Aaron as often and as glowingly as possible. I am hoping that now that Lisa and Elijah are no longer regulars on the sofa that he will start to feel like this is his home too. I let him take over some of the drawers and shelves. I constantly complain about paying bills alone and am sure to use phrases like, “In my house we put down the toilet seat. In your house we can leave it up…” hoping it will ignite a spark of longing.

Unfortunately, in turn he is making observations like, “I sure do love those 30th Avenue markets in Astoria. You can run right outside if you need anything.”

I counter on those nights we crash at his place, with a four AM elbow in his side followed by, “Bars are closing,” as the alley below fills with the noisy swell of dispersion.

He comes back with, “Queens sure knows how to keep it real.”   

I pout.

5/25/2008

We are hanging out at my boyfriend, Aaron’s place in Queens, when he asks me what I’m going to do after my roommate, Lisa moves to Rome.

I am all sorted out for the next few weeks. A couple is subletting from me for 6 weeks while they get themselves settled in the city. I am going to be traveling for most of that time so it works out. Aaron has already agreed to let me stay with him for the days I’m in town. The subletters will pay for my rent for a month and a half, which means I don’t need to really worry about a roommate until September. This gives Aaron plenty of time to gleefully shout “yes!” when I ask him to move in and then start packing. Right? I mean, he lives in Queens…   

“So,” I begin, “want to try our one week of living together and then make it official in September?” I ask with a confident wink.

Crickets. There is no parade. He does not get up and start a conga line or pop the cork on a bottle of bubbly. He blinks. At least he is still alive.

The subsequent “talk” is the kind that usually involves tears, someone being called a jackass and then, if you’re lucky ends in make-up sex. In this case, we fight and then I go call a psychic. I’m not kidding. That’s what I do. It’s okay because I have a few career questions too and since I’m a first time caller I get my first half hour for $20.

The lady tells me that he isn’t going to move in for a few months but he will definitely move in. She tells me I shouldn’t worry because he’s a good guy. She says that him not wanting to move in right now isn’t about me and that I have to let him grow into the idea. Then she gives me this interesting nugget: “But if you force him too, he’ll move in before he’ll let you end the relationship.”

He had said as much during our fight. She promised me I’d be able to hold out until the decision is his. She advises me to use some of my savings and keep the apartment by myself. I hang up with her before my half hour is over. But not before she offers this wallop, “Look for work in Horticulture, you know, Botany or something. No wait, Bus Driving. Yes. I see your future driving a bus.”

Fabulous. Grayhound or school?

3/1/2008

I don’t want another roommate.

It might be that I am 33. It might be the wheat germ incident of 2001 when I lived with 5 hippies in a Berkeley co-op who found the smell of cooking chicken stock offensive. These people made me chip in to a monthly wheat germ fund even after I insisted that I didn’t know what it was or how to use it. After three months, I moved out and into a place with a vegan tri-athlete in Oakland. A step up, if you can believe it. Or maybe it has to do with how things have gone this whole spring.

Things in roommate heaven took a nose-dive when four large-ish people began, for all intents and purposes, sharing an apartment barely built for two. First, I met Elijah and then through Elijah I met Aaron. Lisa met Elijah through me and pretty soon we were all staying up nights drinking bottles of wine and playing endless rounds of Celebrity. But there was a whole lot of people happening around here. None of us is under 5’8” and the tallest among us is 6’3”. Lisa and I both have those Eastern European child-bearing bodies, so while I'm not calling anyone fat, none of us is what others might call “petit.” The point is, it became really crowded in this Brooklyn brownstone.

When Lisa and Elijah started spending all of their time together in this apartment, Aaron and I started to spend a lot of time at his. 

But I love my Brooklyn brownstone. This place has a backyard, two bedrooms, hardwood floors and a dishwasher. The dryer in the hall is broken, the toilet runs and there is very little counter space, but it is, otherwise, an awesome apartment in an awesome neighborhood at an affordable price unheard of in the city with the most expensive real-estate market in the country. Affordable for two. But if I post for a roommate on craigslist I am liable to end up with a vegan tri-athlete who won't let me eat a turkey sandwhich. Or worse, a person with a boyfriend who prefers our place to his. Then what?

I take a serious look at the guy sitting next to me. Aaron. We’ve only had this relationship up and running since September. He’s got big blue eyes. He snores. He makes a really good hollandaise sauce. He has road rage. I am a writer. I live in Brooklyn, NY. I know. I know. This isn’t going to be easy.