When It Works

Some days I'm not sure if I'm entirely capable of cohabitation with other human beings. I've had good roommates, and bad roommates, and good roommates who turned bad. I've dealt with insane dogs that whiz at the drop of a hat, uncovered pot stashes hidden in bathrooms, been walked in on during more "intimate moments", and had my stuff borrowed, used, and stolen.

Given, I've had plenty of great experiences too, but all and all, I like my privacy. The fact that Rob and I have been living together now for about three years is nothing less than a true sign that Satan is ice skating in a freshly frozen hell. When it comes to living together with my partner, Rob and I work pretty well considering we're polar opposites in so many respects.

I am an OCD neat freak. Everything has it's place and must be in that place at all times when it's not in use. I pick up trash as I walk and throw it away, and the thought of sitting down and attempting to relax with an episode of Xena and a glass of wine while there are dirty dishes in the sink is on par with brushing my teeth with a cheese grater.

Rob on the other hand is a card carrying member of the "throw and go" way of life. Where ever something lands, that becomes it's new home. CD's, clothes, empty boxes, junk mail, cereal which has permanently glued itself to the carpet with a determined refusal to budge. Milk glasses of days gone by have actually molded under piles of clothes, warmed by the soft hum and heat of the computer in his lair (i.e. the office of no return). Is it any wonder the cat box is in the closet (read: storage space) of this room? And the mess in the car is a battle I have relinquished; a fruitless war not meant to be fought, at least not by me.

It's actually a shock that we haven't killed each other yet, as The Mess is the usual cause of any arguments we do have. But somedays I seriously just want to take the nearest saucepan and bludgeon him over the head with it. "Doesn't seem so hard to put your dishes away now, does it!?" I would laugh maniacally over the now dead Rob corpse. I would then systematically dispose of the body cleverly by turning it into sausage and serving it with polenta in a very Silence of the Lambs fashion at a dinner party (I heart Dr. Lecter).

Still, I find ways to work around it, bitching and moaning being my usual go-to method, with underhanded trickery coming in close second. Once when a friend was coming over Rob started cleaning and actually vacuuming the house. Moments later the friend texted me and had to cancel. A moral dilemma: Do I tell Rob he can stop cleaning and go back to doing something he enjoys? -OR- Do I let him keep cleaning and take advantage of this rare opportunity at sanitary exploitation?

Later, the apartment now spotless without my help, I informed him of my friend's sad situation and how she no longer could join us.

Yet in all of our craziness we make cohabitation work for us both. At times, I don't know how I managed living before and not end it all by hurling myself into oncoming traffic. Take a few nights ago for example. I was attempting to make a grilled cheese sammich. I say attempting because I was in one of my high stress, freak out sessions which are a regular event for me and to which Rob has learned to kindly tune out until I calm down 10 minutes later. I was buttering the bread with cold butter when the bread then tore smearing butter into my palm.

I'm not sure what happened, what caused me to snap and lose it. I guess it was the proverbial straw. All the stress from school, from work, from life, from family, from the coming holidays, from the pets, from the blog, from the magazine all bubbled up and exploded.

"GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!!" screaming as I threw the butter knife across the room, slamming it against the wall. The cats ran from the room assuming they had done wrong and expecting the spray bottle to punish them. And as I watched them hide and looked at the torn bread lying butter side down on the floor I just started to cry.

"What the hell!?" Rob called from the office of no return.

He paused. He came out and into the kitchen. He picked up the bread and wiped up the butter. "Why don't you go sit down on the couch, okay? You go rest. I'll make dinner, okay?"

"Okay..." I mumbled wiping my eyes.

"Do you want one or two?"

"One please."

"No problem, and I'll add some mushrooms and onions to it to make it healthy for you."

"Okay." The weight slowly lifted and I knew all the stress was in my head and I just needed to get it out. Ten minutes later I was fine and had begun plotted everything I needed to do calmly in my day planner, the smell of grilled cheese sammiches wafting from the kitchen.

And that is when you know you're in a good place, and all the dirty dishes, and the barring opposites, and all the other crap in the world fades away. That is how you know it all works.