Cohabitation, Part II

When I was a young lass (so many, many years ago) I cohabitated with a male person who then became my husband. All of my friends were cohabitating too. And, at 22, your notion of what is irritating or inconvenient is much different from the notions you have fifteen years later.

There has been not one debate over toilet paper roll placement (paper goes OVER THE TOP), toothpaste tube squeeze methodology (I’m not touching this), bed-making efficacy, or dishes. There have been no lengthy discussions over the cat box, feeding of the cat, or locating the cat (the cat likes to hide).  There have been no concerns about money, or time apart, or time together.

In a large part, the things I have to get used to are the things that never occurred to me.

Leftovers, for one. As a mom of one (who goes to his father’s house 3 nights per week), leftovers in the fridge mean lunch– or even dinner– for the next day is taken care of. Bankable food. Thanks to folks in from out of town, and a disinclination to cook after you’ve moved furniture around all day (all the furniture that was left in the house was crammed into my 12×12 dining room), we had Indian leftovers and Italian leftovers.

They never stood a chance. I’m not saying Lobster Carbonara isn’t a perfectly acceptable breakfast item, I’m just saying that if my choice were that or cereal I’d eat the cereal.

Then there’s the GIGO law: Garbage In, Garbage Out. Literally. When the Male Person asked me when Recycling was, I told him it was on Thursday. However, I did not mention that Trash Day and Yardwaste Day are on the same day. “How come the Recycling bin is at the curb?” I inquired. “It’s recycling day, I thought you said.” “Well, why didn’t you take the trash and yardwaste out with it?” “Because you didn’t tell me that was the same day.”

Or, like the time we went to go yell at Lowes. I had ordered new basement doors — my basement doors are an odd size and come with measurements that suffix with “3/16” and so forth — and they came in incorrectly. After procuring the receipt, copy of submitted measurements, etc., and piling them neatly in the “man area” of the counter, I sauntered down to the truck and asked him if he needed help with the doors. He said no, so I went and sat in the truck. As we readied to depart, he asked me if I had the paperwork, and I said “No.” And he looked at me as though I was from Mars.

It’s fair to point out I may have been. I have no idea *why* I just assumed he’d take the paperwork, because after all he was the one to do the measuring and so, in my semi-logical brain it fitted that he’d get the paperwork. How that was supposed to manifest itself into his hands from the kitchen fifty yards away was not part of the equation.

Taking two people who have lived essentially “alone” for a period of time and having them live together is an interesting social experiment. It is also an exercise in patience, something I’ve been short of as of late. (You have your house torn up for 4 days straight and see how well you function). (Also, the IHOP in Bellevue does not have cheese blintzes, so if like me you made a special trip to get a fix to kinda calm you down? Don’t do it.)  As we move to Phase III of Operation Super Secret Project, I expect to be more patient. After all, my house is together.

If only I could get over the insurgence of forest-green towels. Really.