The Art of Cohabitation

Have you noticed that their stuff is shit and your shit is stuff? God! And you say, "Get that shit offa there and let me put my stuff down!"
-George Carlin

It hasn't quite been a week yet since Omega and I began and we've already begun to question things. Monday's blowup and little sleep, led to last Tuesday night exhaustion. Like my the people commenting on my blog have noted, I'm fairly confident in myself and in the knowledge I'm not making a mistake. I love him, he loves me; we've known each other for years.

Then his stuff started arriving. Each day he'd stop by his place pack up something and bring it here. One or two boxes meticulously labeled including a printed list of contents. Who the hell has time do all that? My head feels like it's going to explode, I need an aspirin. Not to worry, he's got that covered, after probing what type of headache I have, he hands me a bottle, one of the 30 in the box labeled medicine.

Just give me a fucking Advil!

I just warned a friend that I had a strong tendency toward sarcasm and I only wish this was one of those times I was being completely sarcastic.

Cold medicine, he's got every brand made and some I've never heard of. It's all neatly organized, categorized and packed into that box. I had a feeling that I was in a little trouble when he arrived with this clothes. I'm sorry to say but I don't own a lot of clothes, I tend to get rid of older things when I buy newer ones, so I end up even. And very little shifting was required of me to accommodate his clothes. I gave him to use the drawers in the empty armoire and easily gave up half the closet. When he arrived with his clothes and spent a couple hours reorganizing them, I was a little concerned. His socks, which I would normally just toss into a drawer, are folded, and arranged by color. Light to dark. It doesn't stop there. His casual weekend wear, is arranged by function, then by color. Longer pants grouped together then arranged by color. Long sleeve shirts, short sleeve shirts, tank tops, all arranged by function, then by color. Suits hanging in the closest, same thing, grouped together first by use, power suits grouped together, more causual Friday type separates grouped first by jacket color and then by pant color. All his work shirts are white. So, they're grouped together at the end. He found a dry cleaner that actually folds them like when you first buy them and wraps them garment paper. Most of these are unfolded and hung up, but a few he brings to work, just in case he spills something. Yes, he's always prepared. Don't get me started on his ties or cufflinks, or shoes. Just take comfort in the fact they too are arranged (okay, was total sarcasm)

Morning routines have been difficult for us to juggle though we both enjoy company in the morning, it's kind of nice having someone to talk to in the morning about the day before it really begins. He writes me a note reminding me to drive carefully, that he loves me and maybe a suggestion for dinner--or if needs me to buy something special for him. My work day tends to be shorter than his so this makes sense. I save each note. Even if it's nothing more than a short todo list--I find myself saving it.

Yesterday, when I did finally get home from work (I stayed a little longer). He had started to worry about me a little. He called my office and each time I had assured him that I would be leaving soon, but I'd remember something else that just required a little touch-up. Touch-ups take time, and soon he was calling again, worried that I had gotten into an accident. I was mentally drained and physically exhausted but I also tend to push through that to get a job finished. I ended up leaving work at a normal time. When he couldn't reach me at work, he called my cell, and I could hear him sounding a little frantic--maybe that's not the right word--and then admonished me for answering my cell while driving. I told him I'd be home soon and this time true to my word I was.

He was waiting for me outside, I could see him as I drove up the street him almost nervously pacing but his face showed none of that. I smiled. I couldn't help it. It's like when he muses out loud about his shoes feeling tight and worries if his feet have swollen. He also gave me a gift, a small box with my name on it. I smiled warmly taking it. It was a first aid kit for my car. It slides under the seat he happily explained, and the rubber on the bottom prevents it from sliding. He continued that keeping it the trunk wasn't safe if you can't get to it. And the ones that fit into the glove box aren't large enough. I opened it and looked inside, it was complete. If I get bit by a snake, or stung by a bee, or go into anaphylactic shock, I'm very covered. The tourniquet was a nice touch, just in case I sever a limb. Naturally band-aids of different sizes and shapes, and antiseptic alcohol wipes. An ace bandage. Gauze, and that tape they use in hospitals along with some surgical scissors. In case I need to perform surgery. I wish I could say that I just threw my arms around him and thanked him for such a thoughtful gift. But instead I laughed..I didn't just giggle I laughed. I nearly fell over.

He told me that I wouldn't be laughing if I was driving and suddenly found a rattlesnake in my car! I somehow stifled my laughter and kissed him. He didn't buy what I was selling but he accepted it.

Really I think we're good for each other. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to hide the label maker he owns.