Toenails in the Tub: Cohabitation 101....January 28, 2000

Toenails in the Tub: Cohabitation 101....January 28, 2000

After a week enduring the wrath of Mother in the form of snow, ice pellets, and freezing rain, a relative peace has at last settled into my little north-eastern corner of the continent. The unseasonably mild, breathless nature of the clime enveloping my tiny abode now seems almost anticlimactic in comparison. Nevertheless, it is a welcome respite, for Mother, too, I am sure. She never fails to deliver in her brumal responsibilities.

After at least a week enduring the wrath of The Goddess in the form of insecurities, defensiveness, and unpredictable, unprecedented mood swings, a relative peace has at last settled into my little corner of the universe. The unusually stable, chipper nature of the aura enveloping my betrothed seems almost disconcerting in comparison. Nevertheless, it is a welcome respite, for The Goddess, too, I am sure. She never fails to deliver in her Scorpion responsibilities.

The almost five years that I dwelled alone, save Maude, were novel to my twenty-six years. I basically abandoned the comfort and security (I use these terms loosely) of Mom and Dad only after getting married the first time. Once separated, a stint at bachelorhood was essential and blissful. So much necessary personal growth occurred, I fear the person I could have become without the opportunity to spread my wings, live wholly independently, and not have to answer to anyone but myself and the spirits that guide me.

Yet, alas, my emancipation was not without some consequence. The pain of losing a lover not in death, some five years later, is at times as fresh as imminent. And, somewhere along the way, I forgot (perhaps repressed) the turmoil of cohabitation:

like getting pinned to the edge of the waterbed, whilst peacefully slumbering, by a snorting, drooling, nocturnal bed beast, and realizing that the king size bed purchase would be moot,
or how when waking up every morning sans bedding, one knows that even the Inuit must be having warmer nights,
such as how going to the corner store requires at least two hours preparation time,
or how maxi-pad sticker-backings seem to magically leap from the trash, only to stealthily make their way to another room in wait of attacking any testosterone laden organism by attaching themselves to the underside of said testosterone laden's socked foot,
such as every move, every destination, every expression, every insinuation, every breath taken, being scrutinized then logged for future reference,
like how our shaving cream and razors seem to only last half the time,
like how one's nature calls have become a spectator's sport,
like PMS (primordial syndrome),
or quiet time being an endangered species,
or seeing that it is 6:00pm and knowing instantly what is being broadcast on the Women's Television Network,
such as becoming conditioned to ask oneself, "What Martha Stewart would do?",
or how the remote control's sudden disappearance is accompanied by an audible burp,
like how one's denim always shirt smells like Secret,
or how the morning phrase, "We have an issue", is like a sticky note reminding us to book the week's evenings off just prior to spending the day re-reading our bush tactics manual.

I could continue further with my domestic domicile dichotomy dissection, but in the interest of sparing my brethren any further triggers or flashbacks, I'll exercise brevity.

But I am compelled to add that finding toenails in the tub was a new experience even for one so adept in cohabitation as me.

Yes, even the sanctity of my personal hygiene routine was invaded by the evils of cohabitation with The Goddess that bright sunshiny morning I had to remove the toenails from the tub before having a bath. At first, I did not realize what lay scattered hither and yon from one end of the bath to the other. Upon closer examination, I quickly concluded the only thing they could be. With knightly courage, I grabbed a wad of toilet paper into which I wasted no time assembling the pointedly thick sheddings of my bride, whilst rehearsing the manner by which I would address the issue without damaging her feminine delicacy. I then bathed quickly in the dire image of what such a graceful beauty could leave behind.

All the while, I could not stop thinking about what awaited me since she put her face on.

And to think that leaving the toilet seat up is a capital offense.

Shame on us.. ...

....Blessed Be...