Moving is one of those things folks generally tend to agree is a pain in the ass, but having relocated every few years since I was born, I tend to begin my whining well before the first box has even been packed. Mid-move, I'll cry, rage, pout and generally act like a napless 2 year old on crack whether I've dropped a wardrobe on my foot, or have run out of packing tape. It's not good, I am not proud of it, and I sure as hell don't want anyone to see it.

So when I decided to move in with my special man-friend a week ago, it seemed wise to stack the deck in the hopes his first impression of living with me was as positive as possible. I hired movers, so there were no fights about how to get the couch down three flights of stairs, I ran around shifting boxes and furniture into their corresponding rooms, so things could be located efficiently, and the first thing I put in the fridge was beer. What I didn't plan for was one of the worst bouts of PMS I've had in a long time, rendering all that preparation useless.

jeanine fritz

The first morning in the new place, as I scampered around the house late for work wearing a sweater and a pair of shoes, haplessly trying to find both pants and coffee, he suddenly appeared, in his pajamas, and wordlessly stared at me.

Now, what I wanted to say was an easy-breezy, "Hiya! You need something?" Instead, it was more of a growl, followed with a "WHAT?" Obviously if your girlfriend is surrounded by shredded boxes in her underwear, looking like the chick from "The Exorcist," there's nothing to stare at.

He sauntered away, I found a pair of turquoise pants wrapped around a blender in one of the boxes marked "Books and Random Stuff" — because I must have packed that box drunk — and stomped out of the house.


The next morning, I went downstairs in my skivvies again and began ripping up tape and flinging it everywhere, this time looking for a skirt I'd wrapped a framed Clint Eastwood picture in, when he appeared. Sadly, instead of simply wandering in to assess the damage, he made the fatal error of trying to tell me something about the garage. I did not care about the garage; I cared about not showing up to work 45 minutes late wearing a blouse and a pair of sweats. The angel on my shoulder urged patience and kind words, but the devil in my uterus gave us both a kick in the crotch. I don't know what I said, probably, "Danny's not here Mrs. Torrance." I might've scrawled "REDRUM" on his forehead in lipstick if I'd known to look in the box marked "Shoes."

"I'M A MONSTER!" I shrieked in the car 15 minutes later.

Filled with shame at my abysmal behavior, I wept all the way to work and then had a donut and some Girl Scout cookies. Thankfully, although I am horrible at packing boxes, and worse at keeping my mouth shut when cranky, I'm good at picking boyfriends. And each night, when we sit on the couch and clink our wine glasses together, we drink to another day without a 187 on the block.