It'll take you YEARS to get over this...

In an email from my father on Thursday, after telling him that I was planning on seeing my college roommate this weekend: "IS LAUREN YOUR LAST ROOM-MATE AT COLLEGE? ISN'T SHE THE ONE THAT STIFF YOU OUT OF MONEY ?"

First, please note that my father always types all in caps. It's very annoying, but I have gotten used to it.

Secondly, no, the unpleasant ending to our four-year friendship had nothing to do with Lauren owing me money. She doesn't.

So the other night, for the first time in more than five years, I had dinner with my college roommate. The one I described on numerous occasions as having "ruined my life." We hugged. We shared a meal. We talked for almost five hours. I had an excellent time.

I had a fair bit of anxiety before we met. Would we have nothing to talk about? Would the previous animosity between us be apparent? I purposely told Rachel very little about our relationship throughout college, in hopes that I would not fall into the same old trap of simply complaining about the last semester of college.

We didn't. We caught up on one another's lives and reminisced a bit about good times in college. It was an amazing experience to see her again and to laugh like we used to.

Where the story ends

I suppose I should apologize to the scads of people who regularly read this blog for being so light on the content. Steve, please accept my apologies. There, done.

The truth is, my life is ridiculously boring to write about. I was a much more interesting person when I was grossly unhappy. Being content does not agree with my creativity. Also, some of the things I've thought about lately - things that would like cause some much subconsciously desired commotion - will never, ever see the light of my computer screen. Someday, I will learn to not seek out drama. I will grow and learn as an adult person. Someday.

Having said that, I have grown. I've grown in directions I could have never imagined. But I'm conflicted about where/how/if to utilize these experiences to write. This blog is partly responsible for that growth, and now it sort of seems obsolete. I was writing the story of a girl who was miserable in her life and playing the part she thought she should (and knew how to play). I knew how to be miserable at my job, I knew how to stretch the $4.86 in my checking account, I knew how to stay in a relationship where I wasn't wanted, I knew how to sit my fat ass on my couch and wallow in loneliness. Wow, good times. So since I'm not really that person anymore, so does that story end? If I was simply chronicling my life during a few difficult years, does this blog, along with that story, end? I'm inclined to think that it should. Close the book. Start a new one.

On the flip side, should this space that has helped me cope with x, y and z, evolve as I evolve? I certainly hope that I still have more to say as a writer, even if my life has changed dramatically and I am finding little muse in being happy. Happy is awesome. I wish I could do more with it.

I'm not sure what I will decide. Writing is extremely therapeutic for me and I don't plan to give it up now that I have far fewer "problems" than I once did.

I could write about how many people have died in my life over the past few months and how I'm constantly anxious about getting more bad news. But that would be depressing in a much different way than what I used to ramble about.

For now, I will marvel at how I just wrote an entire post about whether or not to discontinue this blog. I really am boring. But, ya know, good boring.

Soon I won't be able to walk around naked...

Starting one week from tomorrow, I will no longer be able to walk -- post-shower, sans towel -- from the bathroom to my living room to check the weather in the morning. Since I managed to neglect to put up any kind of window dressing for the past year and a half in my kitchen (the room between the bathroom and the living room), my sure my neighbors across the courtyard will not be sad to see me go.

Since the idea of this move came about two weeks ago, I've made mental pro/con lists about my experience living alone for two and a half years. And, honestly, I'm more than a little concerned that I have forgotten how to cohabitate. Like, it may annoy others when I wish to watch TV in my skivvies... And, what do you mean I can't just leave my socks on the floor where I took them off? Or, what does this "sharing the remote" concept mean exactly? Not to mention, people may want to converse with me when I get home from work. Whaaa?

Perhaps my memory is a bit fuzzy, and, um, biased, but I believe I was a pretty courteous roommate and live-in significant other in the past. I once threw out a pair of well-worn red track pants because my significant other couldn't stand to see me wearing them anymore. That's pretty respectful, I think. (I do, however, own a new pair of red lounge pants, and they're really comfortable so I'm hoping Rachel doesn't make me toss them. But if she does hate them, they can go. See, I got nothin' but love!)

On the flip side, I have some very fond memories of living with others. Lauren and I used to sit in our hallway and talk for hours following our girly TV marathons. Those evenings were some of my favorite in all of college. And then I managed not to walk around naked. I can totally do that again.

Cue Wilson Phillips' "Impulsive"

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and I am moving in with a beautiful girl! Impulsive, much? We're moving in next Friday. And this is the view from our balcony:



The story goes a little like this... Girl meets girl. Girls fall for one another. Girl's roommate suggests the three of them get a luxury apartment together. One week later they sign the lease and two weeks later they move in. They live happily ever after with their dishwasher, free gym and roof deck.

I'm feeling overjoyed. I'm feeling impulsive. I'm feeling like I'm going to love sharing more of my life with someone who makes me feel so special and loved. I'm feeling like I'm really going to love reading on our balcony.

Yesterday Rae and I chose our very first paint sample together. That, to me, was bigger than actually deciding to move in together. This is the very first paint sample - our very first compromise - of this new chapter, of a new book, in our lives. It was gloriously easy.

Being with her is easy. Being in my head is a little less so. She knows that I sometimes struggle with the fact that my life is not at all turning out how I planned. And I am a planner. I am THE planner. Now my plan is all up in the air. And I'm learning to live in the now. And truly being happy there.

I really am.

On Cohabitation

Too much stress to blog. Will leave you with this...


Nation's Girlfriends Unveil New Economic Plan: 'Let's Move In Together'

Zero to... that L word... in no time

Today my dad asked me if Rachel and I were moving in together. Wow, EVERYONE knows about about the crazy gays moving fast, huh? We're not. But the thought certainly has crossed my mind. Because, well, smitten. And who doesn't want to save $600 a month?

Today I also found out that my former babysitter/nanny-like person's daughter is living with her girlfriend. Rock on.

"My Heart You Won't Have It Again" / Postmortem

I was not unphased by the date of May 6th. The date that would have been Philip's and my six-year anniversary. Six. Years. And now we don't speak.

His presence in my life was profound and, in many ways, positive - give or take March through July of 2008 - and I have been changed. I've written ad nauseum about this. But, when this day will always remind me of the good, allow me just this one more post.

Its possible that no other person has been so influential in my life. But I like who I am much more now than I did last July, or, honestly, at any point last year. In fact, I may even LOVE who I am now. I am me without you. Many parts of me, though, stem from your influence. This Ashley still digs indie music and jazz. This Ashley dragged her girlfriend to see Wolverine opening weekend and is even pysched to see the new Star Trek movie. She's a Buffy fan, albeit a late bloomer.

Aside from a shift in media tastes, I am also a more guarded person - there I learned by example - and do not open my mouth to whine immediately when something is bothering me. I'm bitchier. Or, maybe more direct is the PC way to say it. In any case, its a good development in my personality.

I've learned that it takes a lot of time and effort to make a real relationship work. And even if you sometimes feel its time wasted, its worth it even in the smallest ways. I tried harder to be my best self in that relationship than I ever did at my fulltime job or trying to pass Calculus. And Calculus was seriously tough.

Sometimes I still can't believe that I spend an ounce of my energy analyzing a relationship that was officially over nine months ago (and even longer to one of us). I've mourned signifcantly - perhaps too significantly - the loss of the future I had tried to built, that I thought I wanted. But the process has grown tremendously easier and I've come out of it having learned better who I am, what I can accept and what I need to keep me going.

I Used to Complain, Now I Don't

I complain a lot about living and working in New York. Some may say more than I should. I know its often looked upon as a privilege to live here, and perhaps, it is. But there's not a lottery to live here or anything. You just go. Make it happen. But, since I never really imagined living anywhere else post-college, I see it as less of a choice, I suppose. It's just where I was always going. Now, of course, I imagine living somewhere else all the freaking time.

So, now that I'm here, I complain. You probably complain about where you live, too. Don't be hatin'.

But sometimes I still really love it. One of those times occurred on Friday evening. I was riding to my apartment on the subway with the lovely Rachel, and, unfortunately, I felt terrible. I was not feeling like myself all day because of some enchanted evening before, my dinner had not settled well, and I was PMSing. I was a disaster and contemplated getting off the train and sleeping in the subway station until I felt better. I felt that bad. Just, you know, BAD. Then, somewhere around 36th Street in Brooklyn -- almost to the promised land where I had a bed! and a bathroom! and Tylenol! -- the woman listening to her ipod across the aisle from me and Rachel offered me a brownie from her 100 calorie pack. She leaned over and said, "Would you like a brownie? Brownies always make me feel better." I nearly cried because, WHO DOES THAT?!? First of all, she's totally right -- brownies DO make everything better. And secondly, it was just the nicest thing, um, ever. Unfortunately I did not take her up on her offer for fear that I would vomit the brownie on her. Not a very polite way to say thank you. But, wow, such a generous thing to do. I mean, she WAS eating a 100 calorie Entemann's so, really, it probably only had two brownies in it. And she offered me one! Because I felt obviously terrible! And that would make me better!

And it was a magical New York subway moment and I loved it. Exclamation points!

* My post title is a very fun song by The White Rabbits, by the way. You should know them. They are from Brooklyn like other cool people.