The Blue Rooster Slinks from Jerusalem Amidst the Turning Gyres of Perilous Pluvia - and Other Adventures

Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabitation: Daring DINKS journeyed past the zodiacal xeniths to the Southlands of hobbitshire, to live it up in the Hotel (B&B) California, Inverness Branch. Serene flights of fantasy bookended by panic, baying Bays and brazen Breakers. All along a long, winding road they'd seen before. Though they checked out, they nearly never could leave IHOPpping purgation and eternal path to Embarcadero. Only through intervention of fate and mercy of the once dastardly United, could they find themselves, once more, home and hale to live their days amid the birthday cake oreos. 

Coming Up: Shoes in revolt as temperatures heat up and feet swell and chafe! Will the tumid toesies survive novelty? Will skirts blow high in the wind with Frankenshoes below? And will the capri swap conjure the lost boys with all their untold financial fortunes? Will a swap in earning capacity set Adella on her final path to Imperial fitness? Does a latte with your themelates make all the difference? The sea's susurrus slurring of skis herald the racing season is anon. The winds stir and the cumuli convene to pluck the pluvial strings of Memorial Day ballads. Will our cerulean poultry emerge from the bog pit intact? Will canoes capsize? Will the ovule be cycled once more? The cerulean poultry bawks and babbles, for its time is nigh. 

Strap on your sandals, decapsule your canoes and crack out the cowbell. It's time for some holiday madness. 

Spit-Spat-Spot  Breaching the skirt-sneaker barrier. 

From an aesthetic point of view, I hate skirts and sneakers. Really, I'm not hugely keen on skirts and flats. Or leggings/jeggings and the aforementioned footwear. The erumpent right angle of a flat foot against the perpendicular leg adds an abruptness to the flow of free-floating legginess. Barefoot or in minimal flats the transition is beveled by natural curves. The larger and clunkier the shoe at the end, the more jarring and inconcinnous it seems.

There are also separate messages that clash, I suppose. A skirt always seems to be advertising "I cared about my physical appearance today." I'm not sure why. But it just does. Maybe because skirts are a vestment exclusively reserved for women in our culture - utilikilts excepted. And sneakers are quintessentially undressy, casual, ready-to-work.

Boots are exempt from this gut level sartorial condemnation, as they also edge the abruptness by being a part of both the leg and foot lines. I except from that exception (and all exceptions), Uggs, which are - as the eponym conveys - Ugh. 

Aesthetics aside, however, like hell I'm gonna wear heels to walk at my tread-desk! And with the arch in repose, I'm mostly staying off heels in general. I have enough foot problems as it is, thank you very much. While this has typically meant that I don't wear skirts to the office very much, there are times when I need to appear semi-professional in temperatures that defy traditional trousers. When the office options are "wear workout capris", "boil in a suit", or suck it up and wear a skirt and sneakers at least until the ever-dreaded chafing (ladies know whereof I speak) becomes an issue... well I may be a Barbie girl in a Barbie world, but sometimes I'm more like a Barbie's more practical friend in a Barbie world. 

The look is something out of a Frank Whale movie given how immensely blockish my Sketchers Shape-Ups are. Sure I could hide a pair of more minimal shoes under the table a bit better, but I still maintain the roller sole supports my arch better than any conventional shoe. 

My appointment is in the morning, though. I figure I can shuffle her in, plop my feet under a table and/or hobble myself into my trusy back-up heels, and send her on her merrily divorcing way before lunch time. At which time, the capris are back on the table (and/or back on my legs). I really need to start doing all my client meetings via skype. That way I can just have a semi professional jacket to pop on for brief spells of time. 

Incidentally, the capris are also fitted and kind of a vestiary outrage. But work out clothes - despite all current implications otherwise - are primarily for working out (in other words "being comfortable while sweaty and moving around). And it works out just fine for me to not be obsessed about my appearance while dripping streams of sudor and battling my ever untameable hair as it tries to break free from its faltering bonds and swarm about my face in uncomfortable scalp-whiskers. 

So pull on the sockies and drape down the skirt for now, but soon, so soon unity will once again by mine in an entirely and literally unsuitable for work ensemble. Counting the hours. 

Tangoga-Cross-Spinabarre 20 Break out the Lycra, because I'm Chroming up for Trophydom

After several rumors and quirky procedural misunderstandings (oh sorry, that email self-eval wasn't for you! sorry you filled it all out) the Lost Boysof EIeeeeiiiiiooo got raises! Lost Boys? Are these peradventure the plucky interns who found themselves wedged behind some particularly large weldments for several years before somebody unearthed them and sent them back to work? Some kind of pick up sports group? An a capella group that sings about roller screws and dynamic friction? No, no. "The Lost Boys" refers to the kiddos who were hired after the cut-off for inclusion in the official 18 month performance review and raise algorithachacha, but who have been around long enough (over a year) to warrant some kind of raise before the next 18 month cycle. Apparently their raise is calculated in a far more simple fashion: project managers have a star rating system on a few dimensions, and presto. The official raise cycle involves several pages of complicated nuances, personal essays, blood of first-born etc. We're still waiting to hear what pans out with those in the rest of the company. 

As it turns out, there were three employees included in the Lost Boys bracket. Which is pretty amazing, because there was a huge hiring binge around the time Mr. (W)right got hired. I don't know if that's a retention issue or if some unknown but byzantine cabals explain what happens to the others (I'd check behind the machines). But Mr. (W)right was one of those three.

So, after being told that his team leader would be giving him some performance feedback (and if not, he should ask for some), the bike and chain was informed that he's now making 20% more than he thought! Which is pretty nice, since he recently started contributing to his 401k, and hasn't much liked the decrease in take-home that this causes. Plus, he's got student loans licking their avaricious little chops for more monies. 

This of course represents a major financial shift in our relationship. I mean for years he's been my cabana boy student arm candy, while I started off into the land of positive income under the aegis of extreme nepotism. Then last year, he got a job and we ascended to our DINK pedestal. Of course, at the time our proportional shares (and I'm a dissolution attorney, so trust me there is an involuntary assets and liabilities and community worth chart constantly and sloppily evolving in my head at all times) of income were about 48-52%. Making Mr. (W)right less the breadwinner than the croissant supplementer, perhaps. 

But this new raise changes everything. If by everything, we mean the rough percentage shares of income and the breadth of baked goods included in the victorious-home-bringing equation (possibly adding focaccia). That's right, we're now at something closer to 44%-56%. I know, right?

Thank god I'm hawt. Especially because - given the dire articles about the mockable otiosity of a law degree gleefully posted by everyone from Slate to the ABA (um American Bar Association... the American Bike Association remains surprisingly mum on the issue),and my distaste for the remaining avenues towards profitability-through-figures-or-litigation - I'm probably making pretty close to my highest possible income, while Mr. (W)right is still wriggling about in the room-to-grow-salary-Carharts. 

Naturally, it is my job as a future engineer's wife to start looking towards the future. I'm thinking with my mom slated to retire a few raise cycles down the road, I've got maybe three years to get started on my uxorial career as a fitness instructor. The more abstruse the associated apparati the better. I'm thinking that fusion workouts are pretty hot right now.

Since tango is my first love (absence may even make the heart grow fonder) and pilates is my thang at the gym, I have previously joked about tangolates, but - as I discovered to my delighted chagrin several years ago when I first mentioned this idea - it already exists!. So, back to the drawing board. Tango wake boarding yoga cross fit?

I think bridging the dance-workout model and lifting-heavy-things workout model has yet to be fully exploited. Maybe work off of that metal yoga class I saw, and add some literal metal of heft and repetitive grunting... while wearing superhero capes and tutus (people also like dressing up for exercise events). Oh oh or cardio-qi: tai chi mixed with zumba beats and sped up to triple time... on balance boards! 

So many choices to make... 

Budding Blisters and Blackened Toesies Shoe Sagas Spread Cross Spousal Lines

I  may note that in my previous office-shoe inventory, I actually forgot a pair. I asseverate to the skies that no prevarication motivated such negligent omission. I just plumb (and/or pruneb) forgot that I also keep a pair of semi-fashionable waterproof boots in the filing cabinet as well. I'll be wanting to remember these for the upcoming ski to sea festivities. These mostly include wading around in the Hovander Park Bog with Andrew's car in the hopes that I can figure out his 4-wheel drive again long enough to heave-ho the car out of that infernal pit, while Andrew races his leg... and some anticipatory waiting to hold the bike for a flying mount at the start line. 

Yes, the Ski to Sea is back baby. Andrew has yet another team, but this time he's less the last minuteringer and more the tintinnabulator of his teams victory bells. Or something. He's the "team leader," meaning the various participants are connected through him in various ways, mostly via Kevin Bacon of course. His cycle-team-mates are doing a few legs. His bestest old roomie (Sara, whom we all agree was the cool one that we missed piteously when she moved closer to campus) and her recruits (Sara has this preternatural ability to draw people into wild athletic capers with her) are filling out the remaining positions. And the team has its own ringer, who may have wanted an even more competitive team of his own.

As a recap, the Ski to Sea is a crazy local relay race with origins in "things crazy half-drunk loggers did back in the infancy of the 20th Century." In this case, they ran - usually in their logging clothes - up Mt. Baker and back, returning to Bellingham either via horseless carriage or car. There were no trails up Baker. They just kind of bolted through the woods and up the glaciers. There were, you'll be shocked to hear, some near-death experiences, but over time and modification, the modern version emerged. Now it's a blend of the following events: cross country, downhill skiing (which is really "running up a hill holding  your skis and then skiing down"), running, road cycling, canoeing, "mountain" biking, and kayaking.  

Andrew, once more, is on mountain biker duty. It's not really mountain biking, since there are no mountains on the course and the most "mountainy" thing is probably a treacherous traverse of the railroad tracks. But it's less "roadie" than the road cycle leg. 

But yes, I am once more on support staff. And this mainly means waiting in the bemired mud-pit of Hovander park while Andrew preps to leap astride his bike and book it to the kayaker. Typical duties have included the following: sitting in the Pathfinder with a carafe of coffee and some snacks for a few hours between the check in time and the official race meeting, vainly attempting to use the buggy Ski to Sea app to ascertain the status of Andrew's team and prognosticate the likely arrival of the canoeists (of course, since they've managed to capsize their canoe during practice, this could have some variables), watching Andrew's bike while he wanders back and forth to the bathroom in an increasing state of nervousness (if, as has been the case, his team is a bit slow in arriving and we've been waiting to go for a few hours), holding the bike for him to leap upon, and finally spending several hours attempting to extricate his Pathfinder from the traffic-ridden abbadon of race-crazed Hovander murk. 

As it is an unwritten rule that it must rain on Ski to Sea day, those boots should be handy. Or footy. Useful, anyways. 

But enough about my feet. Let's talk about Andrew's feet. He recently - after much brooding and befuddlement - purchased a new pair of fancier bike shoes. They have yet to fit him well. He has purchased a few pairs of insoles. These have yet to yield the desired results. It's a bit of a conundrum for him. I gather this from last night's tossing and turning, and his eventual abandonment of our connubial Tempurpedic (which I note is actually separate property given the timing of acquisition) to repine over this Cinderella conundrum. 

Say what you will about my "canoe shoes" (actually, I believe they more resemble clownish pontoons, personally) and my languishing and otiose comme il faut collection (hey, they look nice hanging on our wall), but I have yet to have a pair of shoes rob me of a night's sleep, so I feel fairly fortunate all in all. 

Prepare the Ark! Memorial Day Weekend Pours Upon Us 

It must truly be the Memorial Day weekend - it's raining! A fair amount. I blame Andrew. As it is a Friday in the "pre-season", he has a track night tonight. These events being held outdoors and involving several bespandexed cyclosuperhero wannabes careening about a small track at (hopefully not literally) breakneck speeds, they tend to give new meaning to the term rain check. More like "check the rain, consider cancelling, then recheck to find the rain has stopped, let the track dry, start the race, stop the race because it's started raining again, wait around while shrugging some spandexy shoulders, resume when it stops, stop when it resumes... leap lurch until cancellation or the race-finish brings a grand quietus to these soggy syncopations." 

Given that the race track is in the opposite direction from home - and that the race does not begin until 7:00 p.m. - it's kind of a bummer when the race gets cancelled on account of that perilous pluvia. Ny then, Mr. (W)right has spent all day waiting to head out to Redmond, lingering at work, eschewing his carpool, forgoing uxorial delights and delectable dinner... only to turn around and drive home for a late evening return. Not ideal. So when there's a chance of rain, the bike-and-chain spends some decent time checking weather forecasts, and forestalls his final track decision until the night before a race. 

Of course, one can't really trust our weather forecasts, all of which have been blaring "rain!" like Chicken Little with his head cut off (I'm guessing he has some kind of stereo recording to make up for his absent voice box). They are often incorrect. Or off on timing. Or otherwise just dissonant with experienced meteorological phenomena. But as little as one can trust the forecast, the weather itself is even cagier. One minute it frolics with a naively welcoming purr, the next souring and throwing a tantrum to turn toddlers green with envy. Yesterday, for instance, all predictions of cloud or rain were gleefully flouted with an exceptionally zesty summer morning. Though the end of the day succumbed to a saturnine slug of overcast swampiness, rain still seemed miles away. 


Like sands through the hour glass, so the forecasts turned (the channel, because seriously, there are better soap operas out there people! Passions, anyone?). Percentage-chances of rain shuffled and reshuffled with no trackable (har har) pattern. And eventually Mr. (W)right declared that he would take the risk and rise to the ovular gauntlet once more. Thunder cracks pealed far and wide, but in muted tones that couldn't be heard through the chirp chirp of our maniacal avian troubadours. 

And so: rain. Granted, that's only rain here in the Ham of Bell, so perhaps the malevolent meteorological Lokis got their wires crossed and inundated an innocent town. Perhaps this inundation is merely the dress rehearsal for the grand Ski to Sea Sunday flood. But where there're blobs on the radar, there's always an ambiguity about the evening's final track tally. 

Not wishing to take chances, we enjoyed Thursday night like it was our last... one can never predict what might happen on that winding gyre of grunts and glory. And, finally finding respite from the shoe-anxieties which plague him, Andrew seemed to sleep deeply. So deeply, he was not inclined to rise with the vociferous birdies this morning. He also perhaps was not sensitive to subtle nuances and became confused by my variation on "breakfast is ready" ("Breakfast shall be served anon"). It took him a while to run google translate on Adellaese, and realize this meant "come down and join me for repast" or (google translation for early in the morning with insufficient coffee stores) "EATZ! NOW!"

By the time he made it down this morning, I was nearly finished up and out the door. Half a snippet of conversation and he excused himself for the gentleman's room (that's the gender equivalent of the ladies room, right? Sounds far more untoward somehow!),  ensuring that I was packed and standing by the stairs by the time he had debouched his morning haze. I can only assume he's made it off with trumpets ablare and a good soggy mildew beginning to form. Because it really is still raining 

Churning and Burning in the Spinning Gyre...

... The loris cannot hear the Portlander;

Wheels fall apart, the spokes cannot hold;

mire anarchy is loosed upon the wheel. 

The mud-dimmed tide is loosed upon the world

The semblance of senescence is drowned;

The best lack all conniption, while the worst

are full of passionate intensity

Surely some revelation is at hand,

Surely the Ski-Sea Coming is at hand

Ski to Sea! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image of Cyclo cross mundi

Tremors my sight: somewhere in the railroad tracks

A shape of a rooster body and the head of a man

...

Enough murdering Yeats. Ski to Sea is almost upon us even more than it was almost upon us previously (but not as much as it was almost upon us back on Sunday morning last year). Yesterday, Andrew celebrated by tripping out the power to his office in rain-besot Mukilteo (or so I can only surmise, since the power mysteriously "went off"at work) and coming home early to briefly "work from home" and then set off on some epic tsunami of a project on one of his bikes. There is such a slurry dross and detritus in the pantry that I pretty much must consider the entire room and its contents lost. Apparently new wheels are pretty well packaged. As a companion, we have various bits and pieces of things strewn about the house. 

Since this is all tied in to several additional moving parts, I expect to have the downstairs of our house back... maybe after my trip to Jersey? Which may be when I have my husband's brain back from his vortex-fretting session about his ill-fitting shoes. But in the meantime, he's got a reality-lariat about his big-toe and pends over the cavern of no-return, largely due to other projects, the occasional episode of House, M.D., and this raceamajig thing coming up. 

Yesterday, I also was truant from work-work-work. Happening into a fortuitous window of mutual availability and text contact, I dusted off my rag-worn spontaneity and dropped-in on bestie Molly and her rug-rabbit Emma. They were watching Frozen for purportedly the five billionth time. Note to self, there's a happy ending involving pretty people with enormous eyes. Also the entire movie can be summed up as "lnolma" which means "snow man" and must be chanted at increasing pitch and volume depending on whether the movie is currently playing and at which volume. 

I was having such a good time -- repetitious random movie notwithstanding, because the bright side of a child's repetitive obsession is that children don't really require a lot of attention be paid, and Emma was more than happy to ignore the movie so long as she had guests to show her mad crazy-baby-lunatic-skillz -- that I may have stayed the whole day if I didn't have an upcoming appointment at the WDRC (dispute resolution center).

I went in to talk with them about volunteering some case management services, since I'm flush with case-management skillz. Looks like there's a position currently available (good timing more than by design) that suits my strengths and experiences. Incidentally, they did not skimp on the job interview routine. I had several job interviewey type questions. I know as an introvert, I'm way too self-critical, so I doubt I seemed as insanely awkward as I felt I might have been (seriously, it felt like I was speaking at lightspeed and grinning maniacally in a way that would make The Joker uncomfortable). In fact, nobody looked too off-put or concerned. 

I do think I should probably go on several more non-crucial job interview rehearsals before I actually need a job. Because I came out with some decent responses, but only in between upending my purse on the ground, staggering through some rather annular monologues about my desire that English had more compound words like German (in response to "three words colleagues would likely use to describe you"... as a logophile, this was a moment of agony, even if I alit on "conscientious, thoughtful, and compassionate" with maybe "obervant" and most-of-the-time "patient" as my own words). And I staggered through a dark forest of trumpery before coming up with my personal philosophy on professionalism (respect, clarity in expectations, truthfulness, and self-respect and confidence in delivery... but with a lot of "not artifice and not really formality" peppered in there). 

As happens on dates, interest and commanlity can smooth over awkwardness and artificiality. I was fortunately enough of an actual fit to (1) have past experience to explain and discuss back in my introvert-comfort zone, (2) have some natural curiosity about the way they conducted things. And also, well, not a paying position and they need somebody, so not unduly stressful. Just a reminder that I have shockingly little practice answering those types of questions due to generally finding work through knowing friends-of-friends-of-profs-and-or-family. Though I've had some excellent interviews, they're a ways back now and it's been a while. Had it been the same questions in myspace bulletin board survey (don't pretend you don't remember this golden era of ante-diluvian virtual narcissism), I would have broken the awesometer on all answers, I assure you. 

Anyways, I feel pretty pepped about giving up 5 hours of my free time to do more work for absolutely no compensation. Because I'm odd. Or latently idealistic. Or just really think it could be a refreshing way to delve into a community of interesting people with a sense of competency (knock on wood), contribution, and shared purpose. See I could totally nail these questions on myspace. 

Today, after stirring the loris from his chimerical dancing sugarplums (and suitable shoes), it's off to the races... wait not yet. That's tomorrow. It's a run about Padden and then a pre-race cyclo-cross something in the mountains (Andrew only), followed by a TEAM LUNCH! At one of the business breweries right smack dab in the middle of the Blossom Parade downtown. I'll be bringing my earplugs and a spare pom-pom and/or cowbell. 


GO ROOSTERS! 

Trial Runs and One-True Parts Against The Kobucha Computer Demons!

Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabitation: Toes twinkled and twisted in tempestuous tangos, as our dynamic A-Team seeped out in separate directions to tilt at windmills and mire in mud. Tales of travels past reinvigorate the pioneering spirit, and finally a warm homecoming reunion as time melted and modulated. A day of recovery before the zombie(case) attacks!! Trial looms despite wolf-sharks marauding through the streets of Bellingham. 

Coming Up:  Wolf-sharks vanquished, will the nefarious computer hackerz drop their guard long enough to allow a family law trial to make it to court? Will such an occurrence set off the necessary chain of events to bring us all to Apocalypse? Does one get paid time off for being taken up in The Rapture? The PIECE arrives! Will our brave engineer survive? Will weekends end? Beware of the kombucha? Will it tear this family apart? Adella slips away to be pawed and palped by a man with masterful hands while Andrew conquers a mountain. What will come of such Saturdays (lots of ice!) 

Find out, below... 

We Made it! Now will we ever make it out?? 

A trial - a bonafide actual family law trial - made it to trial! Hades just issued a frost watch, I assure you. After many twists and turns, this little zombie-case has made it through one whole day and most of our client's case. And  - thanks to the international conspiracy of government hackers, international thugs, and ("evidence is leaning to suggest") our client's cabal of boyfriends and ex boyfriends proficient in nefarious computer manipulation - the other party apparently is not "as prepared" as he'd like to be. And yes, that was his opening "argument" (hackerz ate my homework!). From what I hear, he may not be conducting his case in a manner to cultivate credibility. Our client survived several hours of questioning on cross-examination. As I understand it, most of that time was spent with her, my mom, and the judge attempting to identify a question  in the complex lattice-work of tangential conversation. 

Because this is an odd case through-and-through, the next day of trial does not commence until next Tuesday. Our opposing party claims that - since he is not prepared - he is confidant that this will be a short case. I claim, based on having seen him in action, that this will not be the case. 

In unrelated news, there is apparently now an Aztec Diet centered around chia seeds. For good measure, it throws in quinoa and its wing-men amaranth and bulgar. As somebody who rather enjoys chia seeds (they are very strange little specks that do funny things when soaked), I wish people would stop hyping up the foods I like as SUPERMEGAAWESOMEHEALING-FOODZ, and turning them all trendy and fancy. I guess I shouldn't complain too much, since it does make them more likely to be available locally at stores that aren't marked up twenty percent for the glow of smug satisfaction one derives from shopping at an all natural locavore community health-store. But since I buy my stuff in bulk from amazon, I'm less swayed by this availability. 

I remember in the days of childhood when a pomegranate was just a fruit that couldn't be eaten without cordoning the dining area off with crime tape. Then it had to go and get all magical healing antioxidant on me and... well at least we've gotten bored of that one.

I also remember drinking kombucha as a teenager because it was the only soda-like beverage that wasn't overly sweet. Oh and I could legally buy something with alcohol in it, which was entertaining. Oh and maybe the creepiness of that whole SCOBY mother and babies and oh I can't go into it all without actually remembering what I'm talking about, but trust me brewing kombucha is weird.

After rediscovering it recently as a moderately caloric drink for my bulking desires, I also discovered that it's currently revered as some kind of agnostically holy panacea for all that ails you. And that Lindsay Lohan blamed it for a positive alcohol test she had, which may inspired a (now ex-) client to try the same "it was the kobucha seeds" excuse for a failed UA test. Realizing, perhaps, that the alcohol content in kombucha is minimal and could possibly show up but would not likely do so in high concentrations, he cannily added that it was also "the listerine" and "hand sanitizer" Now I'm an optimist about the human spirit (sort of), so I'd like to believe him on that one. In extreme cases, any of these could lead to a positive UA. I'm guessing it could have been all those things... probbaly mixed together in a cocktail with some high-proof vodka! But at the end of the day you've got to be careful about those kobucha seeds: they ruin lives and break up families!

Well, I'd best be off to do a little dabble of work before my gym-hippety-hop, office errands, and bonus dance lesson this evening. 

Saturday Regained 

A large piece of something huge has arrived at Mr. (W)right's place of employment. It was expected roughly first thing "next week" for as many months as my pretty little head can contemplate (so, about three). Other wee pieces also expected "next week" continue to be expected "next week" and possibly "late next week" at that. However, this is the piece, the true piece, the one and only piece. All other pieces are inferior echoes of this great and singular PIECE known as "base weldment." Or so I might infer. 

I have long been promised (oh those sweet nothings) that once THE PIECE arrives, all hell will break loose at work. Andrew keeps referring to "all hands on deck" and "swarm ball." I think he says "swarm ball." He also says "swarm ball" to refer to that league of soccer where the children are too young to actually play soccer as much as run around and look cute. Needless to say I'm envisioning kind of a Village People Musical of rugged engineers in EI t-shirts and cut-off jeans playing some kind of mad game with a soccer ball and sailor hats. I'm not sure this is exactly how it pans out in reality. 

Anyways, I was also promised that there may be some weekends worked. This one, in particular, seemed to be cordoned off for such activity. But, well, I guess all that other next-week parts remain important enough to require a presence before hands can get all decky and balls can be swarmed. Phew - single girl crisis forestalled. But it does sound like he's feeling the stress of looming deadlines a bit.

As we're currently at trial and I'm in denial about the other two trials coming up this month, I'm serving as the sanguine pillar for the next two or three minutes at least. I'm such a good spouse that way. I'm even really investing in the role by getting a massage today. It would have entertained me more to do this while Andrew was working instead of while Andrew is on his mountain bike trying to ride himself plumb off a mountain.  

But before all that mountain massage madness, we'll actually get to do our regular Saturday routine after all! Should be interesting as I planned myself into doing a pretty tough intervals workout yesterday on the benighted belief that I wouldn't be running today. I figured it would be ok if I made it an "easy pace" which Andrew jokingly figured meant I'd not dash off and lose him after two minutes of warm up. Silly boy, as if I could resist Sweet Pea-ing straight into oblivion!

Mmmmm Aaaaaahh Oooooouch

Yesterday, I slipped away from my husband (only after insisting on his giving me a reverse strip tease into his full bike kit), and slunk down the street to visit Nick. I go to see Nick every few weeks, and the experience is always the same. He has me doff my garb and climb into bed. Once there, I give my body over to him, allowing him to throw me from position to position like Raggedy-Anne on a bender. He touches me in ways no man or woman ever has or would ever be welcome to do.

Nick asks about pressure. It's always "good" with a slight moan. He is open to input, but he knows my body better than I ever could. I'm but an eager sight-seer on his whirlwind excursions about my physical form, gasping at the discovery of a new isle of tension or tendon. The sheer rush of sensation transcends such perfunctory modifiers like "pleasure" or "pain" - both apply, but fall far short of the exquisite agony of his probing palp. 

When it's over, I can barely stand, and must gingerly reassemble myself from the depths of roiled reverie lest I stagger into the wall. He sees me to the door with water and a gentle word, and I stagger away only after discretely leaving him a token for his troubles. 

Nick makes conversation from time to time. The chatter is inevitably routine and intentionally bland - dentist chair chatter. We know odds and ends of social weave. I'm attorney who dances and likes to run with her husbands. He's a skittish tow-headed kid who could be anywhere from 19 to 39 who enjoys mountain biking and thinks the autumn leaves are beautiful this year.

But to him, I am really only sinew, joint and muscle to be tamed. He is a warrior making a last desperate stand against the scourges of tension misalignment and those nefarious little knots. My body provides quite the battle arena. 

For me, he is a personal mechanic. I smile as he mutters "oh, I don't like this..." as if the recent problem area he has unmasked may well be wired to detonate. It's about to hurt a lot, but whatever it is, I'm going to need it. I laugh when he apologizes for some discomfort on the horizon. To my mind, I've brought it on myself and he's only the agent of inevitability. Massage, to my mind, is just another aspect of fitness, and a vital foundational component of building or maintaining the good technique I stumble upon from time to time

Needless to say, I am sore today. In a whole different realm of sore than my usual post-workout sore. But I'm also surprisingly loose and light. It won't last. I'll set about acquiring a whole new host of things to confound Nick over the next two weeks. There are dance lessons to be had. Weights to be pushed. Intervals to be squeaked out. And ergonomically questionable work to do hovering about a keyboard and mouse.In the meantime, I've got my pain relievers and some very gentle stretching to do as I muse on the unbearable lightness of being less tight. 

Monday #shoesday  Trial Day Super-Tuesday 

Well let's just start the week thoroughly disoriented shall we? The courts are closed on Veteran's Day, so the office was also technically closed.

That's not to say that some of us didn't come into the office for a spell or two. My mom, for instance, has a trial resuming today, so she seemed to think it would be helpful to ... I don't know... prepare for it? I think it's probably impossible to actually prepare for anything in this trial.

See, as I mentioned, the opposing party is apparently the center of a world-wide government/criminal hacking scheme that mostly (from what I can tell) involves harassing him in petty ways, melting his cell phone, and interfering with his ability to prepare for trial. This is as much as I cold glean from his "opening argument" at any rate, although we've heard similar claims for several years (including that he's right on the cusp of cracking the case and our client had better be concerned - you know, I kind of hope our client does turn out to be this evil mastermind who's completely gaslit this dude for several years. I would so have to give her kudos for that).

Yes, yes, ha ha NSA, etc. etc. Of course it's not crazy to think we're being hacked/spied on/our privacy invaded. Hell, when my computers start acting up, I talk to them like little children and inform people that they have been infested with little demons and we may need a which doctor (I speak in metaphor or something of course, but what is truth, what is reality, but a series of mirrored analogies of unglimpsed truths?). It may, however, verge into crazy land when we start waiving samurai swords around from our roof tops or chasing police down the street with blenders because we can't open our email (not the actual facts of the case, but I decline to comment on how the actual facts compare in terms of wackiness). The first day of trial was mostly reserved for an Abbot and Costello style whose-on-first-witness-stand cross examination of our poor client. Lord knows what comes next. Hopefully a song and dance routine. 

I worked a little too yesterday (while watching The Avengers via Netflix, sure, but work!). Mostly in preparation for the upcoming Collaborative Professionals Meeting. While my mother dons her linen flack jacket and heads into crazy land, I will wield my maiden shield of ultra book and attempt to wade through a high-paper trail day of deliberations. Technically my term as secretary ends next month. I have indicated my willingness to sign on for another two years, although I think I should add some conditions (the conference room where the board meets is not allowed to be set higher than 68 degrees, and all meeting minutes must end five minutes before 1:00 p.m. so I can shut down and leave). We're also voting on some actual official stuff to adopt or shred. I seem to juggle the papers around here, so I had a lot of papers in the air yesterday in preparation for today. 

Naturally, I'm having a bit of a hormonal flare up these last few days. I was downright distant last evening in that particular way I still associate with an influx of alien estrogens rampaging around my system. I'm starting to think that the progesterone pills actually mellow out the estrogen a bit. They make me really tired, but I have less of a prickly skinned estrogen impatience generally speaking. Needless to say, I've been delightful and expect to be a sterling scintillating candidate for office this afternoon.

Perhaps the right pair of shoes will stead me well. Of course, I'm drawn to the skulls on the October 31st pair, but perhaps that's reinforcing the message I'm attempting to tamp down on. The ones from the 23rd have a nice secretarial feel to them. Well, think ultimately, might have to go with the 10th/11th pair. They aren't the friendliest, but they will get the job done and kick down any evil computer geniuses trying to get in my way today.

Socktober Sixes and Sevens: Halfiversary Madness and Pacific Northwest Balleting!

Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabigorgistation: Our (W)right heroes returned from the far Birdlands abutting the Nation's erstwhile capital (we are now just a loose confederation of tribes and feudal powers now, right?). Swimming through the tempests of equinox, they resumed their rightful place amongst the yippies and sock-and-sandlers in time for more eating. A new arrival to the (W)right household!! A beautiful bouncing bag at roughly ten pounds, nine ounces! Adella's world gets tumbly as follow ups yield rabbit-holes straight into the land of hormonal unbliss. In desperation she turns to seasonal succulents for support. The delicatas come up sere, but her newly reinventied garnet YUMS come through in a pinch as Socktober evolves and howloween draws nigh! And it all led up to the first head to head weigh in of Socktober: Adella is up and Andrew is down as they race towards the middle mark. To celebrate, both immediately high fived and then scurried off to separate but equally masochistic work outs.  

Coming up: Cue the wedding march! Wait are we in a time loop? Wasn't that six months ago? Six months? How did that elapse so quickly and yet not at all? Who are we and why is that Adella Thompson person still stealing our heroine's mail? A wedding echo endured... for a while. Will our plucky couple manage to beat back the hordes of yuppie beer crafters and survive long enough to view the buffet line? Will any wedding ever measure up to the sheer awesome that was the (W)right dance party of 2013? A return to Seattle with Twyla Tharp. Will the father make his train? Will Sinatra songs be sung? Will the Isaac Mizrahi costumes amaze and adaze? Will Andrew stay awake for an entire ballet on a warm day?? Adella tips and tops her world a bit more with attorney SPRING BREAK!!! Will she make it through her rolling run and onto her very important date? Will those shoes ever find a home or will they languish in Metropolitan foster care for all eternity? And pants get snug. Will our heroine finally give and start showing up to work in a fleece hooded onesie to avoid future shopping trips??

All that and more coming up...  

Socktober 6th Flashback - 

On this day last Socktober I was attending an engagement party in San Francisco with my lovely boyfrianceband. Yesterday, to properly mark the occasion, I attended another "highly celebratory and social scene with scads of chit-chat, action .... etc." except this one was a wedding and not all about me (and/or Andrew!)

It was, instead, the wedding of Macy's excursion fame. To wrap up on that little story, I did eventually buy a Macy's gift card without the help of any consultants or complicated registry computers. There was no absence of teeth gnashed over this little endeavor either, as the cards came in $25 and $50 values. I cringe at fifty, but twenty-five seems like it doesn't even cover the cost of our place at the table. As such, I waffled for several weeks right up until yesterday's grocery run to Fred Meyer's. Freddy's - despite once again shifting the sands of all locatable and desirable grocery items in their ongoing game of "remodelling Hell" - made it easy for me by only carrying the $25 gift cards. 

Dogged propriety will out, though.I guiltily threw in a bottle of wine about thirty minutes before our departure in a left over gift bag from our wedding. See, this is why I keep things! That and neglect. Mostly neglect.

 It was a nice bottle, too. A client brought it in to the office as a thank-you several months ago. Leslie and had I kept it in the office fridge for a long time idly speculating that we would drink it at some point... we did not. Turns out we don't even have a bottle opener at the office. Nor did we have a stopper. So, unless things got really bad and one of us was ready to just break-neck the bottle and finish it of with only minor helpings of glass shards in one sitting, it probably wasn't going to happen at the office. Eventually, I brought the bottle home with the idle speculation that I - in my weight gain 3000 mode - would definitely drink it. And, actually, I probably would have. I'm nearly through with the bottle of wine Daddy Dubya left after his visit in July. But, hey, weddings take perverse priority over all else, and I'm hardly enough of a wine snob to suffer the loss of a bottle of free good wine when I could purchase perfectly passable cheap wine in its place. 

Wedding gift acquired, our next task was enduing ourselves in a sartorially appropriate manner for the occasion. After checking the website to ensure that no theme costumes were required, we purdied ourselves up (we do clean up nicely) quite well if I do say so myself. I stuck with sparkly pants and a drapey top, which was quite subdued if you don't count the sparkly dance shoes and orange and blue polka dot socks blaring flamboyantly from my open-toed sparkle shoes. The shoes also were made for dancing indoors (preferably on ballroom competition circuits in rhythm events), thus requiring my very dapper husband to carry me from the car while I shrieked like a giddy child. Naturally, we almost ran smack dab into some other wedding guests.

The wedding guests were... not from around here. Most of the attendees had traveled to attend, and it showed: cocktail dresses and coifs worth of Saturday night clubbing were popular, for instance. And nobody in this part of Whatcom County has that kind of tan or dedication to painting themselves two steps shy of pop-art. I will note that there was one lanky gentleman in a pepto-bismal suit with a blue tie. I wanted to sit near him. But mostly, we weren't exactly kin and kith of the general wedding population. 

The ceremony was short and sweet - a fusion of Jewish traditions and secular personalized encomiums from a friend/officiant. I rather liked the wine-box ceremony they included: They had a bottle of wine, and each added sealed notes to the other about why they were there that day, their hopes and dreams, and what they loved about the other. All these were sealed in a box. The idea being that if there were ever a rocky point in the marriage, they committed to opening this box, drinking the wine, reading the letters and talking about where to go next. 

The rest of the wedding was less short and not so sweet. There was about an hour and twenty minutes of down time between ceremony and dinner, for instance, and not a whole lot of room to do much with this time. It seemed like this was mostly reserved for people to get handily inebriated while the bride and groom finished up their wedding photos and otherwise not really being around. The hall was small and an acoustic nightmare. The dining area, when it finally opened up, was no better. In fact, it was also quite stuffy to add to the din and roar. 

We couldn't hear anything except our table-mates, who were jocularly blathering about their favorite beers and home renovation projects (relentlessly detailed, I think, although I could only hear every third or fourth word so I'm honestly not entirely sure what was up for discussion). Something to note: the bride is a rocket scientist, so most of her friends are engineers. Many engineers are an obstreperous brand of yuppies with fitness instructor wives, tricked out silly cars, and boundless materialistic obsessions. I know we are yuppies now, but we're not quite at that level just yet. They all seemed very nice, but with neither of us being blissfully buzzed, the noise, and the impossibility of relating to much of any of the conversation... well, we ended up pulling out our smart phones and chatting with each other for a large portion of the evening. 

So downtime... there was the hour plus before we were allowed into the chamber of echoes. And then dinner. Dinner didn't really seem to happen. There was a buffet line. I'm pretty sure that people were being selected by table to go stand in this moebious strip of a meal line (I heard something echoing around about that over the speaker), but an hour after we had been called up to dinner, we still hadn't eaten anything other than a few slices of bread and an eensy salad served on a plate made for dolls. 

Andrew had done some kind of insane work out, so he was both somnolent and starving. I hadn't really eaten much either and was reaching a collision between hungry irritability, surging introversion and my general aversion to stuffiness. We eventually determined (via chat) to bail, and drop by Taco Time on the way home. The best part of the wedding by far! 

But back to the engagement party: at the engagement party, one of Andrew's aunts pointed out that it was exactly six months away from our wedding that evening. Which consequently means it is again exactly six months from our wedding on the other side. We've apparently been married for six months. I find that kind of odd, but I can't decide if that's because it seems like it was soo much longer ago and we've always been married or because it seems like it just happened and I still giggle when I call my loverboy my "husband" and/or introduce myself by my married name. 

And, of course, far more significantly. It is coming on a year since I got LASIK. Now that deserves a party. Or a follow up eye exam. One of those!. 

Afterglowing from the 6th Month Commemorative Date Day

Six months, huh? Rather amazing! I may still get mail addressed to Ms. Adella Thompson (the evil associate whose YMCA membership I've also been riding on for as many months), but the bike and chain and I have been oh-so-very-(W)right for six months as of yesterday! I know that doesn't qualify us for any marriage endurance awards, but I'm happy to say that we've at least outlasted the typical Hollywood marriage at this point! Andrew still has outstanding thank you cards to send (there's a reason I insisted on starting ours during our Honeyday at the Chrysalis, and had all of mine done and mailed within the week - momentum lags after that first rush). We were speculating that it would  be a good time to send cards saying "well, since we're still together after six months,  we think we can call it good on keeping all the gifts and calling it a success; so thanks." Because we're snarky little bastards, we also thought of contributing a special thank you to our attendees for being way better wedding guests at a way better wedding than the last one we went to (hey, this is the Wrights, here, we're going to be competitive).

Thanks or no thanks to the general community, we've made it far enough to definitely be through with the honeymoon, if not quite the wise old married couple period just yet. I don't know when one stops being a newlywed, but we're definitely transitioning into the more intermediate stages of married life. Pretty soon we'll be marriage pre-teens or something. Oh they grow up so fast! 

To celebrate - or actually entirely by coincidence - we had a rather delicious date-day at the Pacific Northwest Ballet's first production of the season: AIR TYWLA. Turns out that "air" wasn't a theme of her works or anything, as much as an acronym for Twyla Tharpe having been the Artist in Residence this past year. The performance was a trio of pieces, a premier book-ended by classics.

The premier was a collaboration with Allen Toussaint (who actually performed with the orchestra for some of the performances) called Waiting at the Station. It was expectedly all bluesy and rag-timey; a bittersweet thematic periodish piece that had a choreographed stream of consciousness involving father-son dynamics, final goodbyes, mortality, setting things right, something to do with two married couples, and the eponymous train station. The exact narrative wasn't essential, but the themes were clear and intermingled with some fantastic contemporary performance and design.

Something that always strikes me about Tharpe is that her pieces inevitably capture an indelible joy and jouissance even when themes are dark or melancholy. Many contemporary pieces are so strikingly evocative that they use music and movement to rip your heart straight out of your mouth with the first quivers of strings and legs. Tharp's works never have that intended clarity of catharsis. There's always a celebratory note and a sly nod and wink to even the most mournful of moments. Perhaps that's why her Nine Sinatra Songs works so darned well, particularly That's Life and My Way, which also bridge the divide between profoundly sad and joyful. 

While we did spend the day gallavanting around an unseasonably gorgeous Seattle, worry not: Andrew got his ride in last night (not intended to be a euphemism, you dirty bastards). He pretty much arrived home and hopped into his cycling kit (at my prodding - also not a euphemism - since I figured the faster he got that ride out of his system, the faster we could eat dinner and cuddle with our mini-bottle of champagne). I, in turn, had time to ... oh I'm not really even sure what I did, but I think maybe zoning out and not doing anything was rather important. Oh read! I did read half of Mark Richards memoir House of Prayer 2: A Writer's Journey Home. It's been on the kindle for a while waiting for another burst of literary enthusiasm. I feel appreciably Southern for having begun the reading. 

But yes, back to six months. Take that Kardashians! This also means that Mr. (W)right is coming up on six months at the job. In theory this means some more of his benefits package kicks in (benefits package being yet another thing not intended to be some kind of entendre). This "package" includes a potential raise, but more importantly it includes actual vacation, so the next time we go travelling he doesn't have to work extra long hours every day surrounding any day he takes off!) Me, I'm just enjoying the impending anniversary of having no need for prescription lenses. 

And trying to figure out where the heck everything is at work. The cleaner has been here and continues her reign of terror. Nothing is where I thought it might be. I think she's in collaboration with Fred Meyer's to drive me mad(der than before). 

Happy Adopt a #shoesday  !! 

Today my world is turvy-topsy-tipsy (only a dash of whiskey with my morning coffee, really, and even that only in my head). I am continuing my legal education , or CLE-ing as nobody else in the business has ever said (I am the Shakespeare of the legal profession, meaning most of my legal briefs are nonsensical word plays with totally obscene sexual puns and innuendos, and most of my work product is ghost written by Francis Bacon via ouija board). It's Adoption Law 2013!! WHOOOOOOOO. This is my version of a lusty teenager's spring break... with more clothing and less booze (but far more coffee). 

Since the CLE runs all day, my usual Tuesday activities have been strewn to the winds. Since "all day" is a normal person's version of "all day," I actually don't start the CLE until 8:30. That has left me with a very good chunk of time to reapportion my Tuesday workout to brighter and earlier than ever (set socks to stun mode). Yes, as+Andrew Wright pointed out, I am one step closer to ultimate yuppiehood: morning workouts. As I pointed out, I used to do the morning gym routine regularly when I interned at PeaceHealth and it is my absolute preferred time to do it. Meaning, of course, that I've been a yuppie all along. 

So far so good. I am continuing the momentum of Saturday's vergingly masochistic interval thing and did a nice thirty minute hills workout. Mostly, I think it's just that treadmills are really boring if you don't do something to make them more interesting. Since my nullity of investment in rediscovering headphones that will actually stay in my ears while I run, I need to amuse myself by seeing what bizarre things I can do to my poor heart. Besides, starting the day all sweaty and endorphined up is a great preparation for being lectured and taking notes, in my world. 

Say what you will about chocolate milk, I would counter that a grande latte is the perfect recovery drink. Carbs, protein, and caffeine (which apparently does actually boost recovery according to some study I happen to like because it supports my pre-existing behavior). Who cares that it costs as much as a gallon of milk and some instant coffee? I'm on CLE today! (attorney SPRING BREAK! WHOOOO!)

In other news, I noticed yesterday that my favorite pair of work pants were actually a bit snug. Good news, bad news, really. This is a new one, since I spent about four years looking like a bag lady (because I was just planning to gain weight anyways, so why buy new pants!) before FINALLY relenting and going pants shopping a few months back. Now that I'm heading back towards being a size something, I get to experience all the other vacant joys of pants. Like being too tight in the thighs and hips for my waist and still probably being too short. I do remember one pair in law school that would duly inform me whether or not I was retaining water. Very helpful pair of pants, I assure you, at least as an early warning sign of impending mood alterations. As now, I must just have a slightly more muscular right leg, because when it feels snug, it's right around my right thigh. 

So good news is the weight gain thing may actually be working or hey the lady-pills that are making me all spacy and irritable are also altering my body composition in ways consonant with the aches and general sensations I feel. And, of course, every one else around me is totally lucky to see my fabulous figure well displayed and exposed to all the world. 

The DUN DUN DUUUUUN of it all, though is that eventually, they might be a little smaller than snug. Oh god, I finally found a pair of pants I liked and now I'm going to have to do it all over again??? The horror. I may set myself some kind of fund and goal. Like putting some amount of my paycheck in a separate shopping account every time I meet my weight goals. And then setting a time to use that money to buy myself some new clothes. In the meantime, they will go beautifully with my totally messy hair and my work out shirt. Yeah I brought a change of pants, but no shirt. Whatever. If I could live exclusively in athletic clothes, I would do it in a minute. I drool over the target workout area. The word "wicking" makes me tingly in a far more pleasurable way than this estradiol nonsense. 

But yes, shoes! Bright, beautiful shoes! Including some of my favorites from past weeks. The 27th is a particular favorite, although I feel like the 15th would be more appropriate for today. 

Whatever else, I bid you a happy #shoesday  #socktober  as I head off to my CLE WHOOOOOOOO!