Dragons Dance in the Sparking Grotto: And other remembrances of things passed by Vincenzo Nibali...

Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabitation: The scald was on and the beet-blood ran through ruts and rivers! Borscht ice cream debuted with a splat and a ducky quack quack. Corn-stalks smoked in geographically dazed summer swelters. And the race was on for (W)rightful victory with a side victoire atop the Alps. Pressure was pointed and propinquity of flesh dissolved in a puddle of palaver. Empresses adazed, staggered through the room of Hades, but nigh came a conquerer to save the day! 

Coming up: Tour and Tangos take the lead in the race for weekend supremacy! Workweek anomie awash in Lethe, as pilates pain punches 1-2-and out for SUMMER (Or at least two unfettered days). Will that wild and wacky wastrel work strike back upon the return? Adella dons the mantle (and leggings) of "on trend" with a residual shudder and a scream of liberation. Will Lulumon feast on the blood of innocents this evening? Dragons spark and sizzle, electricity in air and arch. Will our heroine hobble through? And auditions are posted for Mr. (W)right number two... will back ups be required? 
Leg-up your sporty spandex, stretch out that crotchety arch, and delve below where Angels fear to tread... 






Into the Alps and Out of the Seasonal Swelter Saturday looms like the peak of Chamrouse

Well, just as those little Tour de France cyclin' avatars on my live feed have one heckuva final glute-grinder to make it to the end, I've got one more day to get through before THE WEEKEND!! I'm excited about the weekend. Several hours of liveish video replays of all those attacks and counter attacks and rogue motorcycle attacks and crashes and devils and chromatic ovines...

Plus a side spot of tango (the rehabilitation 2014 part 2) and not being at work in a bit of a jaded-out frenzy to pick up the pieces of strident clients who retrench into defensive legalistic fortresses in the face of combative incompetence (and a bevy of that from the collective attorneys on the other side). I sympathize with all the riling sides. I really get why clients are scared and worried and lash out defensively. I really get that some attorneys are just incompetent by nature or by overwork, and just can't quite walk the talk that they espouse. I get why that disconnect is occasionally amusing. Most of the time. But it's a shame when it just makes everyone snippier and tanks the opportunity for a mutually beneficial outcome.

Outside of that little bubble of blurg, though, actually the work week has been taking a turn for the pleasant! Shielded as I am from the frontlines of litigious battle, I've been grinding my nose on several interesting and engaging projects that involve - dun dun DUUUUN - papers! research! Basic math that I continue to screw up royally because I can't use a calculator!

And my mediation skillz have been decomissioned for now. The couple I was working with were either so moved by my calming and reasonable manner, or so terrified of having to continue dealing with me that they are now going to reconcile. Which is good. I maintain that divorce can be a good and even healing thing, but I'm just as happy for it to be a tremoring event that forces couples to really sit down and reevaluate their lives, their communication styles, and their goals... however that turns out (hopefully founding a small island nation/Bond villain lair). Of course reflection could lead to a vast improvement in an ongoing marriage, because it makes marriage a choice again, instead of a default. And that's a pretty huge thing.

I have, of course, also been gadding out about the town during working hours (in my perpetual quest to make my work schedule more full of holes than my oldest pair o'socks).

Yesterday, I was the only person at Pilates. Well, the only student. Rachel, the instructor was there. I felt mildly guilty, since my persistent presence forces her to teach, and I do remember fantasizing about having either many or no students when I was on the hook for a lesson. But it was really great for  my selfish ends. Not only did she kick my ass (not literally, so much as with a potpourri of apparati and movement, though my ass feels it this morning), but we also sort of had a chance to chat a bit. She does some personal patter during lessons, in a delightfully wool gathering way, but it's often less directed and usually more overtaken by some of the other characters from our Pilates cast.

She now knows what I do, about my experiences in law school and my dance background, Andrew's background, and a whole lot about me actually. Other than my name (which I'm sure she still doesn't know because I never introduced myself, and I remember how it is being a teacher... you know people by face and posture, and that's usually far more intimate than a nom de danse).

For my part, I now know that she moved to Bellingham from a very successful business in L.A. (where she worked with several minor celebrities and colorful characters including Ed Bagley Junior, Julia Roberts' brother, and a bevvy of burlesque dancers and strippers who just wanted to work on their  butts) to take care of her mom. And that it was a tough transition trying to make it out here, but she really connected with some communication techniques that resemble a lot of what we learn in NVC/mediation trainings. Oh and she likes to go to the Food Co-op for breakfast after Pilates. I wasn't sure if that was an invitation or just a notice, so I didn't really follow up on that. 

Quite the week for getting to know my various professionals!

After another dalliance with work, I was off to a pleasant day at the DRC. Vanessa is one week away from leaving (and thus tearing up at random intervals, of course). Funnily enough, the girl who actually did the interview process with Vanessa just left yesterday. I'm not sure what that says... but anyways, it was a quiet day, and I got to play in the mediation rooms. Refilling snacks! And beverages! I care about these things. so it was highly satisfying. 

The air conditioning unit, of course, remains sitting in our bedroom in thoroughly inutile condition. It's cooled down, as predicted. The motivation to do much with it aside from admire the sheer post-modern depths of its shiny new desuetude has abated. It remains artwork not otherwise specified. The enormous box has been removed from my path when attempting to exit the bedroom to the study. During transition, the bottom fell out, which I guess was the way it was supposed to be opened. Ah well. 

And today, we may even get a spot of rain! That will make fleeing work and trying to watch the last minutes of the Tour way more comfortable! Phew! I was worried!





Tour de Couch Let the Trumpets Blare and the Weekend Commence!

As reveille resounds in gusts of sotten zephyr, the (W)rights are up and at 'em, full of ambition and ardent anticipation: It's Tour Time, baby! I keep forgetting how many weekends the Tour can dominate, but it feels like the loss of a loved one at that final stage in Paris. Sure, it wreaks havoc on our carefully constructed schedule, but then again, summer and Mr. (W)right's made cycling ambitions do that anyways.

Case in point: instead of watching the final weekend of the Tour next Saturday, Mr. +Andrew Wright  will be participating in an aptly named race: the Nine-2-Five. If you recognize the "2" as an adorable textese homophone for "to" then you've got exactly what this race consists of. Well almost exactly. The idea is that you start at 9:00 a.m. and do as many laps as you can before 5:00 p.m. rolls around. But if you've started a lap, even an eensy bit, after 5:00 p.m., you get to finish that lap. So, I'm thinking it's probably more of a 9 (or 9:30 since things will always start late) to 5:55 p.m. (plus the usual hanging around for results, awards, etc. This event is also across the Cascades, so a long drive on either end. And then he's turning around and driving back to Darrington on Sunday afternoon for a friend's wedding. (Darrington is roughly 45 minutes from Bellingham, so not far by his attenuated standards, but not near either). 

I keep asking if maybe he wants to get a hotel room or find a place to crash, but I think he's saving that up for (drumroll please) the weekend after next, when he's racing in a 20 mile race on Port Gambol. Go ahead, ask me where Port Gambol is. I don't know! Somewhere you need to take a Ferry to reach that is near Poulsbo, which has lots of casinos. That's kind of what I understand. Anyways, it was nice having a husband, but I'm auditioning replacements next Saturday from, well, Nine-2-Five. Applicants should submit a headshot, a relevant resume, and a brief cover letter specifying their interest in the position.  Maybe at Andrew's friend's wedding, there will be a spare bridegroom. Worth looking into. 

Yes, I've thought about coming along to both or either far flung event. But I want to watch the Tour next weekend. And since Andrew's planning on staying in Fort Whereverthewhatsit on Friday, I'd have to drive out all by myself, and then would be kicked out of the hotel fairly early into a longish race. 

Still that's a long ways off. Today is a day for Nibali to continue being ridiculous. I'm kind of sad for him that the favorites for the yellow jersey have withdrawn from the race. He probably could have won this against the titans, and it would have made for a more interesting race in the offing of a more undeniable victory. Of course, there's still a chance that the Tour de France Organizers will decide things are getting a little dull and set a brood of wild pitbulls on Nibali during his final ascent of the day... just to spice it up. Maybe involve some fire? 

I'll be rooting for more wheelies from Sagan, a breakaway that makes it (Tony Martin is insane, by the way), and an interesting battle for top ten over all. Maybe a resurgence from the polka dotted mountain royalty! And a comfy couch from which to watch it. 

We've got plans this evening. Right here in River City. With a capital P and that rhymes with T and that stands for Tango! I may stay an extra tanda or two, if my foot's feeling up for it! Knock on arch... 

And in the meantime, it shall rain and Andrew shall get soaked whilst wheeling about mountains. I shall also get soaked, but most likely from a kitchen sink gone berserk. 





A Sprinter's Delight Short and Semi-Sweet for Sunday

On the road: an occasionally blipped and pixelized hoard of cream of the cropping cyclists. They're beaten and battered by carnivorous cobblestones and agonizing elevations. And slightly pollacked by the distorted signal/recording (we can't quite tell why the broadcast goes all techno video from time to time, but I swear it gets worse the closer you get to that final 5k excitement). To the side of the road: What appears to be a fuzzy french bird-angel with enormous crown and several flags, dancing in the lavender...  Oh yes, we're back for the Tour. 

In theory, we will wrap up this cartilage crunching carapace and break for a running rampage before Mr. (W)right's three hour tour of Galbraith Mountain. I reserve the right to postpone the run, since I was out dancing and prancing last night. It's already been a month since my first foray into tango 2014 rehabilitation. I've been dilatory in efforts to increase my frequency beyond the usual Tango Experience obligation.

But as an obligation, tango is a welcome one. As last month, I "taught" the "lesson" with David (felt a little off and rambly, but my best advice was basically "don't be a dick to your partner" which is probably the best thing anyone can learn), did my share of tandas, and bolted with a bag full of pastry pelf. While there was electricity in the air (souls sparking with sonorous strains of heavenly spheres), a different sort twinged in my right arch. Nothing painful, but a warning signal to be heeded. Heed I did, but only after a few final dances with crucial leads. 

As of last night, I have also officially conceded defeat: I've had a longstanding moral and spiritual objection to the trend of leggings in lieu of pants. I intrinsically abhor the silhouette it creates, as stumpy, unflattering, and simultaneously lurid and dowdy. I'm a flowy kinda gal who likes her lank to breeze away into the luscious folds of bootcut and flare. And, again, spandex blends are flattering to nobody. Particularly while dancing, since it emphasizes the natural bend in the knee (and undermines that long-legged straight legged look). But I give up. It's running capris and yoga pants all the way. With a tuxedo shirt perhaps, and flashy dragon socks. They're comfortable. They're efficient. They harken at some sense of "style." They don't catch when I dance. And, hell, for those who cavil about the casual sloppiness with which Amuricahns endue themselves: active wear is American fashion. It comes rife with implicit signals of class, status, and philosophy. It has as much if not more focus on making eye-catching looks to distinguish the wearers (yoga-mom competition and the peacockery of recent running/triathletics has ensured this). And it's about on par price-wise. So, I'm no longer an unprofessional slob, y'hear me? I'm "on trend". 

I cortada this ocho here, and wish you a happy Sunday. Its time to fixate on the boys in spandex. 




Monkeys Macerating Mondays And other ways to start the slog through the week

Well, phew, we survived that awful stretch of structurally slack time known as the weekend! Back to balance sheets and tipsy turvy schedules constantly waivering beyond the bounds of equilibrium. Good to be back... I guess. No, no, I like my work week. Every day still has a special little treat to get me excited. Maybe it's pilates. Maybe it's an unscripted odyssey to small claims court instead of my usual WDRC treatment.  Maybe it's the ever-popular dental filling excursion. But there's always something. 

This week is a bit of a bear (when I make ursine allusions, I'm envisioning an ornery circus bear that has gotten into the communal grog after a late night party and is now galloping around the circus tents in a battered clown ruffle and trailing the dress of a very scared reveller he happened upon in mid-skinny-dipping-revels...). The mediation floodgates open this week, and our longest standing, most complicated cases are up to bat first. I don't know if they're really the most complicated month by month, but since we've had them so long, they have the concentrated effect of several evolutions of sedimented complication AND the disconcerting errors and delusions of memory to compile atop. 

I've got clients coming in. Clients expecting work from me. And several other tasks that need to be done this week in between staring at spreadsheets and five year old documentation with a budding migraine. Oh do I look forward to that dentist's chair! He'd better not get me in and out all efficiently and with smiles like he's done the last couple of times! Darned pleasant, dentist-photographers...

But today I've got the monkeys at my feet and will tip toe to a full prance and whinny by mid-afternoon. At least we have our autumnal weather back to erase memories of heatwaves past (and apparently any obligation to figure out the air conditioning unit until the next time we're broiling. Because it's more fun to struggle with new installations when you're already hot and miserable!!

And, thank goodness, today's a rest day in the Tour de Awesome, so no little tugs at my attention towards the avatars of cycling glory.
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