I committed a mortal (relationship) sin.

I know. My title is shocking. Right now, you must be wondering, "What on earth could have Fabulously Awkward done? What SIN? I thought she was so happy."

Well, I AM happy. However, P.I.C. is not so happy with me. Last night, I had just gotten home from an errand to find P.I.C. in the shower. I was hungry, so I grabbed a piece of chocolate and ate it. Then, apparently, I ate another piece. This, in and of itself, is not sinful, right? Turns out, I ate the LAST. TWO. PIECES. of the delectable chocolates with the hazelnut hidden inside. I thought nothing of it. What I suspected happened was I ate the first one, saw another one, and crammed it in my mouth before I realized, "Hey, it might have been nice to save the last one for P.I.C."

Fast forward to a few hours later. After having a pizza and beer filled evening spent with Season Four of The Wire (an excellent show, I highly recommend it), he goes into the kitchen. He comes back slowly with a look on his face that could only mean one thing: I had stepped on his kitten. The only issue? HE DOESN'T HAVE A KITTEN. So what on earth caused this profound expression of sadness on his face? Apparently, since there were two chocolates left, he had it in his mind that later on in the evening, we would EACH HAVE ONE.

Ooops. He was seriously upset. I didn't know what to do. I apologized. I told him I'd buy NEW chocolate, BETTER chocolate. To no avail. That look was persistent for the remainder of the evening. Clearly, eating the last of the chocolate is akin to stepping on a kitten. It equals supreme sadness of the heart. Sigh.

He has chosen to retaliate by stealing my snuggie. (Well, technically, it's a "couch blanket" because it's not a genuine snuggie.) Well played, sir.

The house is warm.

The other day, P.I.C. says to me, "You need to have a reason to make those Swedish meatballs. Those are delicious. I crave them."

So I figure, LET'S HAVE A HOUSE-WARMING PARTY! We threw together a small gathering with some of our favorite friends (well, those that can hustle together on short notice) and had a wicked* good par-tay.

Turns out, "occasion for meatballs" just meant I should make them while we watch football on a Sunday. However, it is my personal belief that house-warming parties are way more fun.

Welcome to my life. One big fiesta.

The truth is, I look for nearly any reason to have a party. I love to make fun party foods. I love to have people over. This party was no exception. I got to make people martinis. While I do not LIKE dirty martinis, I love to make them. Shaking the cocktail shaker is one of my life's simplest pleasures. If you're my friend, odds are good, I will shake something up for you and serve it in a triangle-shaped glass. Dirty martini? You got it. How about my newest special sensation of a drink: Vodka plus cranberry juice plus pineapple juice. I call it "sunshine in glass." I also call it "Five-Oh." You know, like Hawaii Five-0? (I'm SO SMART.)

I am eating chips and salsa for "breakfast" at 1:00 p.m. P.I.C. brought me Coke in bed. WITH a bendy straw. I got up and had coffee with my Coke. And we watched The Hangover. Appropriate, yes? There is ONE clean glass in our entire apartment. I think the party was a success.

* For any folks from Boston reading this, do not be shaking your head thinking..."Oh no, she did NOT just say wicked! Midwestern girls cannot say that." Yes I can. And I will. Suck it, potential judgmental Boston readers. I am wicked awesome. It's a fact. WICKED.

Busted by the shoe police.

Cohabitation has been going pretty well. Our schedules are just different enough that we don't get into each other's way during morning rituals. Sharing one bathroom is not as tragic as I had imagined, aside from the rare occasion when P.I.C. forgets to put the toilet seat down and I yell, "P.I.C.!" He always knows why.

Truthfully, he is an excellent roommate. We have adjusted to claim our own chores. For example, he makes the coffee in the morning and I clean out the filter and wash the pot before I leave. He takes out the trash. Well, that's because I almost refuse to do it. (WHAT? I'm lazy! And it's heavy. He should feel all sorts of MANLY that I let him do that.) Oh, and I clean the cat's box. Cuz technically Oxford is my cat. Although he seems to like P.I.C. better. Traitor.

He even puts up with my slightly messy disposition. But about once a week, we do a thorough house clean (picking up the respective rooms, dusting, sweeping, etc.) It's good because I get to leave my business strewn about for several days, then it doesn't seem as though he is nagging me. However. He has figured out the reason why I have never owned a coffee table.

I have always had an issue of taking off my shoes and just leaving them in the living room area. I remember my dad complaining about how I always left my shoes around. There were times when I lived alone and I counted EIGHT pairs of shoes in my living room. Well, now we have a coffee table. I have discovered that it's quite convenient for me to slip my shoes off when I want to put my feet off. Inadvertently, I end up kicking the shoes under the coffee table.

Well, this weekend, it was time for our weekly "pick up the house" routine. I was out and about on Saturday, so he did a bit on his own. I walked into our bedroom and noticed this massive pile of shoes. I was confused, because I knew that I hadn't left those shoes in the middle of our bedroom floor. We were chatting and he mentioned that he'd begun picking up. We then had the following conversation:

P.I.C.: I see why you never owned a coffee table. (Imagine this in a rather snide tone.)
F.A.: Um, cuz I always had small apartments? (Still clueless.)
P.I.C.: No. Because you HIDE YOUR SHOES under there.
F.A.: What? I DO NOT.
P.I.C.: Oh, you mean to tell me you completely missed that pile of shoes in your bedroom.

:::silence:::

F.A.: Aha! You admit that it's MY bedroom.
P.I.C.: Stop changing the subject. You hide your shoes under the coffee table, ADMIT IT.

:::silence:::

F.A.: COME ON. You knew I had a problem with putting my shoes away LONG before we moved in together. KNOCK IT OFF. What are you, the SHOE POLICE???

At this point, we both start laughing.

The moral of this story? While I might have a problem putting away my shoes, the bedroom with the actual bed in it is mine. He'd better toe the line or else I will make him go sleep in his (bedless) room.