Size only matters if it's 90 cm or less

It's a bit like my first year of college, except I'm a bit older (although maybe not wiser) and no longer look forward to the prospect of "dorm living" -- basically a year of summer camp for 18-year-olds, without the adult supervision -- with giddiness and glee.

Maybe my standards have gotten higher, or I've just become more finicky in my old age. I've started to appreciate the finer things in life, like the joy of not having a roommate walk in on you while you are...ummmm...otherwise occupied, or being able to saunter around all I please in my birthday suit since I'm the only one paying the rent.

Another small pleasure I've grown accustomed to is sleeping in a bed somewhat wider than a balance beam. My first year of college, I somehow managed to sleep in a single twin bed with my freshman boyfriend, with his roommate peacefully slumbering across the room in his matching twin bed. A few times -- on the rare occasion that some poor girl was drunk enough to think the roommate was actually attractive -- there were four of us waking up a room slightly smaller than the kitchen closet currently housing my kittens' food.

Yet somehow, we survived. And it didn't really seem all that bad, at the time. Maybe we just didn't know any better.

But after four years of college and almost the same amount of graduate school, the novelty has worn off. Nothing is more important than a good night's sleep. (Except for maybe the mind-blowing sex that precedes aforementioned good night's sleep).

So I have been accused of being a bed monopolist. AND, to add insult to injury, a cover hog.

I plead guilty, although there is not much I can (or am willing) to do about it, short of getting a bigger bed. And there is no guarantee that even that would solve the problem.

It's a condition, I tell you. Even when I was a little girl, my mother hated sharing a bed with me. The most diplomatic of her descriptions of the experience was that I was a "whirling dervish."

I was recently complaining to my mother that the Guy had the nerve to accuse me of being a bed hog, and you could hear the sympathy in her voice, all the way across the Atlantic. I put him on the phone, and I’m sure he would have had a lot to say, had he not been stunned silent at the prospect of talking to a woman he had never met about the fact that he shares a bed with her daughter.

“So have you gotten an elbow in the side yet?” I heard Mom ask.

He mumbled some kind of response, and I had to muffle uncontrollable laughter since I had accidentally kneed him in the forehead that very morning.

When it comes to sleeping arrangements, we have two choices: 1) we can sleep in my 120 cm bed, located in my cat dander-ridden apartment that is occupied by two small, furry creatures (one of them orange) that makes him sneeze; or 2) we can sleep in his 90 cm bed, in his dander-free apartment that is also occupied by a not-so-small-or-furry-but-also-slightly orange creature, known as The Roommate.

And just to clarify, when I say 90 cm bed, I mean 65 cm for me and 25 cm for him, if he’s lucky.

One night, which was particularly cramped, I woke up several times, and I can only describe his slumbering in the following terms: he was sleeping angrily AT me. He was sleeping so angrily AT me in fact that he seemed to prefer cuddling up with Flora, the cold, hard concrete wall on his other side, to cuddling with me.

Another evening, at my house, I was the one who suffered, as he had implemented new preventative measures. Try as I might, I COULD NOT wrest the covers away from him, as he had firmly anchored them between his knees so I couldn’t steal them.

The next morning, he was well-rested and quite proud of himself. I, one the other hand, was still shivering and VERY grumpy.

“That’s what I call offensive sleeping,” he proclaimed.

“Yes,” I said. “I found it very offensive.”

The moral of the story, gentlemen, is that regardless of what she tells you, SIZE MATTERS. So go out and buy a bigger one, already.

Organize This! Part III

In a moment of temporary insanity, last week I invited my supervisor from the university to come to dinner at Casa Curiosa on Monday.

She accepted the invitation, and remarked, "It will be interesting to see how you live."

I think it was actually just a case of Swenglish, and she meant to say where I live, but little did she know how close to scary she actually was.

For various reasons, any attempts at "cleaning" were conveniently left until the hour and a half before she arrived. The Guy who Likes Things Far Neater than I Do came over to assist me in my neatness preparations.

When he arrived, I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off.

"Hi, Honey. Thanks for coming over. We have exactly thirty minutes to make this place look like someone other than me lives here."

"In other words, you want to create the illusion of neatness."

"Well, it is all about appearances, isn't it?"

Meanwhile, I was pulling various knick knacks off the shelf, and setting them out on the window sill. I turned to the Mini Kitten (also known as Vessa), who was watching me intently, "Now if you knock these off, I'm going to make a cat skin rug out of you."

She appeared entirely unmoved.

The Guy who Likes Things Far Neater than I Do, in a state of brief shock, exclaimed, "Oh my God. You DO have a sense of decor. You just choose not to exercise it."

"I never said I didn't have taste. It's just been hidden underneath all of the piles of junk."

Then I decided to reassure him that he had arrived just in time, and had been spared the goriness. "By the way, you're lucky you weren't here 20 minutes ago, when I first got home. You would have found my 'organizing' methods very painful."

(I could just imagine the look of utter horror that would have been on his face had he withnessed me unflinchingly dump the entirity of the the bathroom counter into a black garbage bag, only to then stick it underneath the bed.)

"I'm glad I wasn't here either."

"But I think I've finally figured it out. I know why you're dating me. It's for my organizational skills, isn't it?"

"WHAT organizational skills?"

"Well, just so you know, I really appreciate your help. If you ever need help organizing something, I'd be happy to return the favor."

"The thought is sweet, but please forgive me if I decide not to take you up on that offer."

Followed by muffled snickers.

Hurumph.

Morning quips

Upon receiving freshly squeezed grapefruit juice:
Me: "That's very good, even if I did make a face. Just because I made a face doesn't mean I don't like it. In fact, I make the same face when I eat pickles."
Him: "Fantastic. So I made you grapefruit juice that tastes like pickles."

Upon being handed a latte as I step out of the shower:
Him: "Here's your latte. I didn't add anything extra to it yet."
Me: "Excuse me for a moment while I say something really cheesy."
Him: "..."
Me: "It doesn't need any sugar since you're so sweet."
Him: "That is quite possibly the cheesiest thing you've ever said to me."

Running from the bathroom to the bedroom:
Him: "I really like not having my roommates around."
Me: "I like being able to run around naked."
Him: "As I said, I really like not having my roommates around."

Upon drinking previously mentioned latte:
Him: (With a look of disbelief) "I believe that's the closest thing I've ever seen to someone mainlining caffeine."
Please note: The Chevy Camaro, one of the fastest cars in the world, goes from 0 to 60 mph in 2.7 seconds. The level of caffiene in Curiosa's bloodstream went from 0 to 99% in 1.3 seconds.

Attempting to put on shoes:
Me: "Damn it. My socks don't match."
Him: "Since when has that ever bothered you?"
Me: "Since I have to go to work. But no one is going to look at my feet anyway."
Him: "There you go."
Me: "But that's a rationalization."
Him: "I've noticed you are very good at those."

Running out the door:
Me: "I like having somone to get ready with."
Him: "So do I, but I generally prefer less of a panic."
Me: "Well, get used to it. You are, after all, dating me."

Things that make Monday mornings tolerable:
A kiss as I sprint out the door, and a chocolate muffin for the road.

Organize This! Part II

Can you guess which side of the bed is occupied by Hurricane Curiosa?

Nine to five

Gone are the days of blogging late into the wee hours of the night, only to spend a lazy morning slumbering peacefully until noon 1 pm 2 pm, for I am now....drum roll please...gainfully employed. That's right, ladies and gents, Kommissarie Curiosa is officially a productive member of society. And I'll be getting a paycheck (and paying taxes!!) to prove it.

The self-satisfaction lasted until about halfway through my second day on the job. I was very pleased and amazed at just how much I was able to get done BEFORE noon!! But by about 2 pm, about the same time the post-lunch food coma kicked in, the euphoria wore off and I was propping my eyes open with toothpicks and daydreaming about my bed.

And to combat the fatigue that is very likely to occur tomorrow about the time the caffeine wears off, it's time for bed.

It's time to say "Hej då!" to the professional student/coffeehouse maven and "Hello!" to the working girl.

Alarm clock

Whoever invented 6 am ought to be beaten with a fermented herring.

A journey of a thousand miles, one step at a time

One of the first evenings that we spent together, you told me that a sign of a good relationship is not that the other person asks you to change, but the fact that he or she inspires you to be a better person. In other words, you complement each other and bring out each other's best.

When I’m with you, I feel no need for pretences and you give me the freedom to be myself. At the same time, there are things about myself that I would like to change, not just for you, but also for myself. Being with you gives me the inspiration and the strength to make those changes, which don't always come easy (especially for those of us who have on our own for awhile).

We are both making small adjustments in the way we do things, to make room for the other person. These changes are not happening over night, but gradually, one at a time, as we get to know each other.

The fact I don’t doubt myself or the relationship when we’re not together signals to me that the bond that has developed between us in such a short time has the potential to grow stronger. The future is suddenly not just about “me, myself, and I;” there is a “We” on the horizon. And I think it's important to both of us not to loose ourselves in the "We," but rather to enhance the individual "I's"', together.

You do make me feel safe. There is a security in knowing that someone will be there, even when things are no longer glamorous, or when I get sick to my stomach. There is a security in having the freedom to make mistakes and learn from them, and being able to accept the fact that no one (including myself) is or can be perfect, all of the time.

When I say "security," I don't mean it as a “guarantee” or as a “certainty,” for I don't think that such things actually exist when it comes to human relationships. I use “security” in the sense of “refuge” or “sanctuary,” somewhere where you can take the mask off, somewhere you can relax, somewhere you can be yourself, and somewhere you can laugh.

Right now, that somewhere is with you.

I don’t know where we’ll end up, but I'd really like to find out.

And just remember what Confucious said.

Happy Birthday.