Survival Guide Part Two

When you live with someone, whether it's a roommate or significant other, sacrifices and comprises are the key component to happy communal living. Toilet seat stays down, bath mats don't remain on the floor, small simple things. When you live on your own, you can have your place any which way you'd like. What a novel concept, that I'm starting to figure out. And boy, I don't know if I would change this!!!!

The first room to pack up was the bedroom. I started by kicking him out of my dresser. (I used to have four of the six drawers and now for the first time of me owning this dresser, I get the whole thing). The thing about most men, or at least Rob, he is a strong believer that clean clothes go into the laundry basket or on top of the cat post, then eventually on to him, and then finally they'll end up in the hamper. This clothes cycle of his drives me crazy. Oops, drove me crazy. It's like the bath mat. I like the bath mat to stay on the floor. It's pretty, it's nice to stand on in my bare feet, and I don't really care if Fred sleeps on it. Rob however insisted that once you are done your shower, the bath mat needed to be draped over the tub to dry properly and effectively. Hrm. Why not have two bath mats for two separate purposes?

The other thing about living on your own is the ability to freely fart. For the most part, girls fall into one of two categories when it comes to farting in front of the significant other (or at least this is my observation). There is the A category: the girl that doesn't mind farting in front of the guy. The lift-the-leg-let-it-rip then relish in the smelly gift the bowels have just given her. Then there is category B: absolutely mortified if the guy knows wind has just slipped out of you. I am most certainly category B. I didn't realize how good I became at leaving the room or blaming the dog. Don't get me wrong, one or two would randomly pop out without warning, usually when I'm in the beginning relaxed stages of sleep where I'm about to drift off when this loud sound happens and I then pretend to stay asleep (because that somehow makes it better) but secretly want to die inside.

Anyway, I was in the tub the other night reading a book by candlelight listening to Fred sleep on the bath mat next to the tub, when the worst happened: a loud ripping sound followed by liquid bubbles. I couldn't believe it. I stopped reading. I squished my eyes as tight as possible (as if that would someone how transport me to another part of the planet) and prayed that Rob didn't hear the bath tub sounds. Then I suddenly realized that I was alone. Completely and totally alone (except for Fred who looked at me then left the bathroom). I was alone. I WAS ALONE! I could fart in the tub all I wanted!!!! How awesome is that?! I could let liquid bubbles fly and not feel ashamed!!! Not feel rude!!!! I could be free!!!!

However, I did put the book down and get out of the tub because no matter how good it felt to have such a new found freedom, I find it hard to soak in a tub full of fart bubble water.

Survival Guide for When Life Decisions Hit Back

Recently my boyfriend and I came to a decision that has changed both of our lives. This decision is a good one and I would like to think that it's very adult of us to have arrived at it. We work together and live together. I wouldn't recommend this for anyone. You wake up together, leave for work together, come home together, eat dinner together, go to bed together.... Needless to say, it's been a roller coaster of a relationship. Not always a fun ride to be on but it's one I would like to stay on. So in order to do so, we decided to do this. But first, a little background.

Back in January we had a conversation that maybe we should seek some outside help. I took it upon myself to find the right counsellor for the job. In the past, we went to his counsellor (once) and to mine (also for only one visit). I don't recommend that you see each other's counsellors for couples therapy. It just doesn't work. Someone (mostly me) is left feeling awkward and wanting to run away quickly or fake an illness in order to have the session end early. Why? Because my counsellor Trevor knows me. He knows my past, my issues with certain situations I've encountered, my feelings, my sense of not being grounded sometimes, my fear of birds and clowns, and other things just as odd. That being said, I should state that it is also my opinion that anyone who has gone to therapy might not always open up and share about a certain something, event or feeling in the exact way that it actually happened or how it really made you feel, I'm no exception. As a matter of fact, I might have started this rumor based on my own experiences. (A person would think sharing your most intimate secrets and emotional turmoil to a stranger would be easy, a stranger you're even paying to listen to you whine and blunder on, but it's just not).

So in January I decided to find us a new couples counsellor. A fresh start. A new perspective on us and our relationship. So I did what any reasonable sound minded person would do. I went to the counsellor of British Columbia website and scrolled through the hundreds of pictures until I found him; my white haired, beard bearing, kind hearted grandpa like counsellor. I'm sure he had excellent credentials and came with all sorts of praise, bu I wasn't interested in that. I needed someone I could talk too. Someone that had white hair, big beard and a kind face. So with great joy and delight, I made us an appointment. We continued to see this counsellor for many months until we finally decided to stop and made a big decision on our own. The adult decision. The "lets move out together" decision. So Rob's moving out.

This is where the survival guide starts. There are a couple of things I have learned that I would like to share in case any of you are thinking about perhaps testing out the Oprah/Stedman philosophy of relationships. I'm sure there are many more lessons coming my way, but I have learned the first two today and had to share.

Rule #1.

On the day he gets his new place and you are now about to pack, do not make it the day you get your period. Period + PMS + Realization that you are about to live alone with cats in your mid-30's = SAD. I haven't experienced PMS since I was on the pill (which after 18 years I stopped taking in January). No cramps, no bloating or need to eat really salty things then cry about being bloated as if the salty products had nothing to do with it. Or just cry. But today the nasty three letter word seemed to have crept back into my life.

Rule #2.

Do not go to IKEA. Rob and I were walking through the kitchen items department when I saw a package containing two wooden cutting boards. I turned to Rob and asked if he was taking any of the cutting boards. He said yes. So I picked up a package. We stared at each other. I had this overwhelming feeling of sad swhoosh over my body. I looked around and there they were, happy couples. Couples holding hands, smiling at each other and picking out what kind of cutting boards they would like to have in their kitchen, the kitchen that they share. And there was I, holding a replacement package for which ever one of us needed it, looking at my soon-to-be-not-living-with-me-boyfriend.... The tears started to flow and thanks to Aunt Flo, boy did they ever. I quietly put the package down and walked away silently to the candle section hoping that the thought of me having baths to candlelight would somehow cheer me up. *sigh*

So there you go people, the first two rules. This actually happened last week (I'm a little behind on posting) and I have encountered a few more since. Time to make a gin martini and watch bad television.