Adventures in Temporary Cohabitation: The First

The fella and I are one of that rare breed of betrotheds who will not have cohabitated prior to our wedding this April. Naturally, many feel concerned that such an important relationship milestone (21st Century Style) spells spats and squabbles. It certainly will be... an adjustment. As all things are. But we've learned an awful lot about each other and our little quirks and preferences over the years of weekend cohabs. First, obviously someday we really will own a duplex, because each having our private space is ideal. Also, Andrew puts the cap back on things very tightly and I leave them loose (we each have our reasons). He hangs his wet towel on the shower curtain and I put mine back on the rack. He closes the bathroom door closed when nobody's using it, while I leave it ajar... and I won't get into the odds and ends we both do to gross each other out and our compromises on cleanliness standards etc. We've definitely figured some things out regardless. But of course it always is and always will be an adventure. And adventures need some chronicling (at least if one of the participants is a compulsive typer like myself)

"The Obviously Imperative Cleaning Binge" (1/19/13):

 So, this morning - as is the case with virtually mornings - I woke up about an hour and half before Mr. (W)right and milled about with my morning sundries for a bit. At some point, I needed to use the restroom, which is adjoined to the bedroom. Fortunately, Mr. (W)right is a heavy enough sleeper, that I feel few qualms about sneaking in and groping my way through to the bathroom (the generally dark room, not my dormant fella, usually).

 Once, in the bathroom, I just happened to notice some small speck of uncleanliness, which in turned triggered off my usually dormant girl gene and ended in an orgy of ad hoc ablutions. First the toilet bowl needed cleaning. There was bleach so that was pretty easy. Then, compared to the toilet bowl, the rim looked a tad dingy. Bleach and toilet paper for that one. The ever-expanding radius of messy-toilet took my bleach and TP through its paces and spread in a devastating expurgation of all things unsanitary. Even the sanitary was suspect - soap glop on the sink and shampoo slag on the bathtub... before I knew it, I was resisting a tear through the bedroom with the vacuum cleaner. 

Deep breaths and I left things as was. All was appropriately booby trapped for the next person to use the bathroom: scrubber drying in the toilet, sink stopped up and full of chemicals to bleach it out... Fortunately, while Mr. (W)right is often stunned with debilitating sleep inertia to the point of incoherence, he seems to have managed those perils fairly well. There were a few scenarios that spun through my head with dizzying horror of how things might have gone awry (tell me again how your boyfriend managed to drown in the sink with a toilet scrubber stuck in his eye...), but thank the saints above, it was a less groggy morning altogether. And I managed to restrain myself from rushing into the bathroom after he had finished, to finish with the sink... for at least a half hour. Win-win. Incidentally, I am a total slob, so these random onsets of cleaning urge always take me by surprise. Something about living with another person definitely increases the likelihood of trigger, I guess because not-my-mess is more apt to be slightly different messes and therefore more noticeable. Once I get going though... scary! Somebody might wanna hotfoot it straight on outta there depending on just how manic I get (prepare for visual pun in 10...9... 8...

Evening Plans (1/19/13)
After a sink related mishap at his home inspired Mr. (W)right to refashion our scheduled Seattle weekend into a Bellingham one, I realized just what luck this was for me: now I could attend The Blue Moon's January dance party! This had been postponed from the prior weekend due to the last death throes of their antediluvian heating system and subsequent struggles to de-ice our dance space. 

Of course by the time we finished up our day's activities at my mom's home we were running a little late in my mind (as in "not horribly early so that we run a good shot of showing up two days ahead of schedule and camping out in front") with dinner still to be had and dance gear to get. Mostly, I just don't see Molly often and that first hour of the party is when we can catch up so I was anxious to tap every available last second.

I try to moderate my strident panic about these things, but it may come out with accents of increasing impatience. These initially go unnoticed, increasing the license for my petulance to surge. Past a certain volume, the invisible anxiety becomes pointedly opaque. At such point, my mellow fellow gets pretty stressed, which in turn discombobulates him into a state of rush of hindrance in the flurry of suddenly non-routine routines. Shoes get lost, pencils get dropped, and hearts race. And we end up in the car with dialogues like these:

Mr. W: (While driving after a speedy shove of two bags in the car) What did I do with my black jacket?

A: TURN HERE. sorry... um dunno

Mr. W: Oh I've never been to On Rice from this direction. 

A: hmm is it in one of your bags? 

Mr. W: No ... I don't know. I'm just so used to only wearing the hoodie

A: well last time I saw it was on the chair. 

Mr. W: You know I think I left it at your mom's house. 

A: Guess we will check when we get to the restaurant and figure out what to do.

Mr. W: and where is that toothbrush I bought?

A: I have no idea at all. Haven't seen it since you bought it. What did you do with it after you bought it?

Mr. W: Think I threw it on the seat?

A: Are you sitting on it?

Mr. W: You know, I might be.

A: the princess and the pea you're not.

Mr. W: She would have such a hard time Alpine skiing

We made it to the restaurant, where there was of course a wait, so we ran back to pick up the jacket while Adella practiced her Lamaze to prevent rabid punctual bunny melt down. On the drive back, I had to interrupt our conversation and ask:

A: So unrelated question, *were* you sitting on your toothbrush?

Mr. W: Oh yeah, hmmm I dunno. (Rummages around a bit) Ooop yep here it is!


Anyways, we got out of the restaurant with five minutes to party time and had to pick up my dance shoes... which naturally I couldn't find, so I said screw it and danced in my socks. I still have two black toes and bruises, but I'm glad to report none of those were acquired last night. 

It was a great night once there. The baby was adorable, Molly was indeed there, Mr. W was feeling his inner John Travolta and dancing all sassy-like, some familiar faces showed up, and I got to see my future second husband. That would be Molly's preteen son who bears the name of an internet test's prediction of my soul-mate, and who will likely be a pretty fine catch when I hit about fifty and want to find comfort after Andrew's toothbrush removal surgery hits complications and snatches him from this world. 

Pre-Prandial Sock-Hoppin' in Mornin' (1/26/13) These are Andrew's brand spankin' (oh yes, we've got the red marks to prove it) new dance shoes. He reports that - oddly enough - they were cheaper or on par cost-wise with equivalent non-dance shoes, so lesson to men out there: hit a dance store before you go to wherever men go these days to buy formal shoes. 

While my main focus - really, for me, the whole focus of my wedding - has been the father daughter dance, I also volunteered to schedule and take as many private lessons as Andrew wanted for as complicated or uncomplicated a dance as he saw fit for our first dance. I know he's got a lot on his plate and I also want this to be fun. No pressure for either of us seemed preferable, but a little pizzazz never hurts. Given our schedules, it's mostly down to about three or four lessons over the course of more months, but that's enough for a fun entrance, some technical polishing, and a handful of dips and tricks to throw into an otherwise improvised dance. This was our second full lesson, after a technical burnishing last time. I think we learned about four or five fun and slightly tricky sequences to throw in somewhere. They are, fortunately, on tape (so we can learn them and also so that we can realize "wow, this quirk xyz of my dancing is OH MY GOD WHY DO I LET MYSELF BE SEEN IN PUBLIC???" ok maybe that's just me. I'm a bit... critical, which usually leads to deliberate practice and improvements in my dancing, but can make an evening combination of mirrors, my tight pants, and tango leave me emotionally destitute for at least two days following). And no, they will not be released at this date. Like the CIA, I will be declassifying my records on a 60 or so years after the fact schedule. 

Since it was a slew of sequences (none of them easily picked up), and our next scheduled lesson is a few weeks before the wedding itself, I suggested that Andrew and I might - just might - want to practice on weekend mornings. From personal experience, any move or technique that I don't utilize again within about two weeks of acquisition, evaporates into the ether, only to return as an "OH YEAH!" about two years later in another lesson. 

So  this morning we began what I hope to be a new tradition: Pre-Prandial West Coast Swinging in Socks. I knew there was a reason I never bothered to buy furniture. I have a great space for practicing as it turns out. Andrew decided to put his shoes back on, although I was happy with my furry feet (think I may have to wear my blue yeti boot slippers to my wedding - they dance well, are comfortable, AND do fit that something blue part of the old wedding tradition). To cap things off I made Andrew show me the new way he learned to lead la crusada (tango) at his weekly class. I agree, it's way awesome when he leads it this way, and it's still really sweet of him to take lessons in tango so he can maybe enjoy tagging along to my various tango events a little more. 

And Spoiler Alert: we have this really adorable little transition worked out. My dad came up with it actually, and Nate developed it. Midway through the father-daughter dance, there's a point where we split apart. At that point, Andrew will cut in and lead a little bit of lindy before sweeping me up into his arms as Paper Moon fades away into our song and our West Coast. I'm utterly enamored with the transition and the bitter-sweet resonance as an end to the father-daughter dance. 
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