Mauve Mamma #1

Oh no, you didn't.

I have a unique perspective on this question because I, 24 hours ago, moved in with the love of my life. The relevance is too much to bear. TOO MUCH!

Now, perhaps I shouldn't say that, as some will use that information to figure out who I am, but I have committed to answering these questions honestly and with abandon, so there you go. The question becomes, then, not "what would a live-in lover have to endure," but "what has the poor fellow had to put up with already, and what might you put him through in the next week?"

The answer: Plenty.

Panties seem to be a good place to start, as they appear in the question, and now, in the top drawer of the dresser where his sweatshirts used to be. I have a lot of panties. So many I actually threw out several pairs of less sexy, cotton underwear to make the move. If he didn't see 'em, they didn't exist. Live the fantasy! Current panty count: twenty-seven. I am trying not to use this knowledge to convince myself that laundry on a more than monthly basis is foolish and wasteful.

Anyway, I am not a terribly demanding woman, but my panties need space. Last night, after the obligatory celebrating and hugging, I got to work finding them a sweet piece of bedroom real estate. The poor fellow (hereafter PF) and his sweatshirts didn't stand a chance, so he wisely told me to do whatever I wanted with the dressers and the closets. I consolidated, relocated, and fold-erated his small wardrobe into oblivion- at at least, into the small corner closet. Then the parade of my outfits- led proudly by the Panty Brigade- marched into the dresser and the larger closet and set up shop. (I should get some credit just for the combination of odd metaphors there.) End result- I have taken over the whole dresser, and my panties, bras, and socks are happily resting in the top drawer. PF pretended to be interested when I showed him my handiwork. Excellent.

It's just the beginning of what he's going to have to live with. Virgos are supposedly neat, analytical, and critical bitches, and I make up for not being the first with a healthy dose of the other two. I should just say I checked out his fridge and made a grocery list, but honesty again compels me. I took a piece of computer paper and a pen and wrote down everything in his kitchen, then made another list of the staples every good vegetarian pantry needs, then another of groceries for this week's cooking. I know, scary. I love lists almost more than PF himself. This apartment's going to be organized and inventoried and full of culinary wonders. WONDERS, I say! You kind of feel bad for PF, until you realize that he gets to sleep with me.

Then even the machinations of the Panty Brigade seem tolerable.