172. Chicken Breasts, French Style

Hello!

My friends, how I’ve missed you!  I’ve never neglected the blog for so many weeks at a time (I’m not going to count the last post).

Right now I’ll just blame my neglect on the fact that I have been busy moving Mr. Sauce into my apartment.

And I don’t remember much about 172, Chicken Breasts, French Style, so I’m going to tell you about the moving in and post a shit ton of gifs from The Real Housewives of NYC. 

Anyway! Yes, I am living with a boy.

Yeah, I’m shocked, too.

I never intended to have him move in. It started late summer when he basically stayed over one night and never left. Bit by bit, a suit here, a guitar there, Mr. Sauce’s things started to accumulate in my apartment.

He officially moved in last month.

I admit that it was difficult for me;

I never intended to ever have a man move in with me. It was hard (and at moments still is) to wrap my head around sharing my space, my closets, my drawers, my television viewing time.

I have internal mini rages whenever there are boxers and towels on the bathroom floor and paperwork strewn about my dining room table.

When there are little beard hairs all over the bathroom sink.

When the dishes are loaded in the washer without rinsing them first.

When the trash bag is just put in the trash can and not wrapped around the outside of the trash can. So when you put something in said bag, it just collapses in on itself and falls to the bottom of the can.

When I find Sheba cat food containers in the sink that have not been rinsed out and put in the recycling bin.

And a half-eaten pepperoni stick on the kitchen counter.****

Basically, whenever I feel like things are not being done the right way. Which, of course, is my way.

All kidding aside, Mr. Sauce and I are finding our groove. And it’s been fun. It really has.

I just sometimes have breathe deeply and remember:

Seriously, it’s really wonderful coming home to someone who doesn’t automatically start begging for food and cuddles as soon as I walk through the door; and who isn’t napping all of the time.

Oh shit.

I adopted another cat. A 6’4″ cat.

A cat with a law degree and who pays rent.

But lemme tell you–those times when I come home from work and the dishwasher has been emptied and the bed has been made:

Oh, by the way, here is my completed card 172:

It makes sense that I don’t remember much; those little pine cone candles means that I cooked this one back in December.

Oh well.

****I have to admit that I am now amused by the pepperoni. It was so fucking random. I mean, who the hell does that?

 

 

 

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One Response to 172. Chicken Breasts, French Style

  1. This made me laugh out loud and is EXACTLY why Mr R and I do not co-habit.

    Although he is better than me at putting a bin liner in x

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