Where is Father Merrin When You Really Need Him?

OK, so I maybe has some feels about the last break-up.

Arguments could totally be made that I'm experiencing emotions of a savory, angry flavor. I can't legitimately maintain a 100% lack of any tears. When last I was wrestling on a bra my chest might have sounded like a knapsack of martini glasses. I may have used up the year's allotment of the words "Crap Weasel" and "douchenozzle" as well as the phrase "AND LET ME TELL YOU ANOTHER THING...!" (and by "this year" I mean 2018. Happy February!)

You wouldn't be able to confirm these emotions with any of my friends or family though. I've been playing these cards very close to the chest. Because how else do you win at "Got Dumped!"??? Due to the lack of talking about it I've been able to fool myself into thinking it's all been processed occasionally. Then I'll go for a bike ride or take a shower, something that has me in a solitary situation where my mind (and my mouth!) are free to wander and all of the sudden I'm that crazy homeless lady on the corner by the McDonalds screeching about the government plot to make everybody left-footed via the fluoride in the water! I just start talking.

Well sort of talking...

Sort of talk-yelling. With not so much talking. (and a looooooot of yelling.)

Yell/sobbing.

Yobbing.

...

...

What were we talking about?

Right! Emotions! Yeah, so I was really hoping that if I took a full year and had no contact or chit-chat, etc. about The Cowboy then all these emotions would just quiet down. Slowly but surely fade away. Go nighty-night. I mean after all, that IS how emotions work, right??? But no. This little shits are tenacious. It's almost like they refuse to go away until I somehow actually exercise them! Which SUUUUCKS!!! Because I can only take so many showers a day, people. A one-person household should never have a water bill like this!!!

I've tried journalling.

Have you ever had that thing where the loud, screamy emotions shooting out of your mind come so fast that you can't write them down fast enough? You're just writing down the quick chunks of each thought, with sentences coming out like "Why such a selfish can't even just YOU WERE THE ONE WHO thing with the counselor and you never even paid me back!"

These are journal entries that get you committed by loving family members, people.

I did channel the feelings into quite a few playlists. That actually worked pretty well for a while! But then there were the "cease and desist" emails from the good people at Spotify. (Although one guy did tell me that they had new data about how many songs on their service contain the words "dick punch" thanks to me! That's something!)

I even thought maybe I just needed to go and actually see The Cowboy. Tell him all these thoughts and feelings smashing my poor, defenseless brain. This idea was very short lived because I need my voice for work, and also because I can only take 2 days off from work and that's not even enough time to say it all. (I know this scientifically because of how much time I've spent on bikes and in showers since things blew up. Because maths.)

So I've worked out two 100% foolproof tactics that will definitely process all of these emotion-things in the next few months.

1. YOU GUYS. I'm gonna share occasional rants here when something overloads the system. You guys like that kind of stuff, right? Sure you do...  ...  ...  Yep, I'm sure of it. You do.
2. Axe Throwing. 

The Science of Recovery

So, like I said it's been many months, but not quite a year, since The Cowboy bailed his 5th and final time. Each time I've been kicked to the proverbial curb I've found it a little bit harder to deal, to heal, to figure out how to move to the next stage, which I am hoping is friendship. That's something I've always believed in: that (unless your ex is truly a BAD PERSON or did something WHOLY UNFORGIVABLE) people should be able to eventually become friends with their exes. Ironically this was the first big fight between The Cowboy and I in our early days when I insisted on trying to establish a friendship with T.E. Cowboy's reaction to this was pretty simple: "Why would you do that? Nobody should ever do that. Now allow me to do my ceremonial unreasonable-freak-out-dance."

I disagreed. We fought a bit. But eventually Cowboy made his peace with the idea and T.E. and I made a friendship. It was cool.

Cut to the first couple of times Cowboy dumped me - almost immediately after saying "I don't wanna do this" he was saying "but I do wanna be friends." Apparently when he stood to benefit from the idea it suddenly had merit. Value even!

But I told him then: too soon. I needed time to figure out that transition. Because as strongly as I believe in this idea of exes being friends, I also believe that you can't just flip a switch. We're talking emotions here, people; feelings and the like. They have their own schedule and will be rushed by no man. Or woman either.

Or maybe think of it like chemistry. When you're freshly dumped you're one very specific chemical compound, with your atoms and your... nuclei? Is that a chemistry thing? You've got a very specific atomic number, and that doesn't just CHANGE. It can change, but it takes some stuff to happen first. In chemistry it's...

Ok, I'll be honest, I'm not totally sure what changes things in chemistry, but I am sure there's stuff. Relationships are the same way. Something has to be added to the situation in order to change the periodic element of ex-girlfriend (let's call that EX) into that of friend (we'll call that.. is BFF already a periodic thing?) With relationships what's needed is time, folks. Good, old fashioned time.

I asked for time each time I got dumped. "Just give me time, please, to process stuff. Make my peace. Find the paths to forgiveness, to healing." It never seemed like an unreasonable request - I'd been dumped for doing nothing wrong, and though lots of folks might tell a person to fuck-off and die I was just saying I needed time. But he just couldn't do it. He couldn't make my needs his priority.

Of course it always backfired on him because neither of us were ready to move on to friendship, so when we were mashed back together it would always rekindle fires that hadn't been allowed to die out  (I'm pretty sure I'm mixing a lot of incompatible science metaphors here with mashing and rekindling. Things that mash normally don't kindle.) and we'd be back together within weeks. Now, as the dumpee that was what I thought I wanted. I hadn't asked to end things and I was still plenty smitten, so when those doors inched back open I was definitely not gonna be the one to close them.

If my stupid Magic Eight Ball had been worth a damn I would have known to slam those suckers sooooo stinkin' fast.

Still, I was consistent in my request, and he in his ignoring of it. So, we were consistent. That's something, right? Yeah, that's definitely a thing...

This last time I knew that we were done done. That there was no going back this time for a variety of reasons (which I just might share with you guys some other time if I find myself all pissy and/or drunk) and so I had to have that time. I decided through 100% unscientific methods to set a goal of one year. I wouldn't respond or make contact with T.C. for one year, in hopes that I'd be able to make peace with it all in that time. And when I say "make peace with it all" I mean all. I'm really good at finding ways to forgive when I'm in the relationship, because you have to in order to keep things going. But I've learned about myself that once I finally stop forgiving of the stuff then it ALL counts. I go back through the archives and I find all the truly shitty things that I forgave, and I throw each and every flammable one of them onto the fire. AND I DANCE NAKED AROUND THAT BONFIRE, BABY, UNTIL IT ALL LOSES IT'S POWER!!!

So here we are at around 8 months - 4 more to go. (because maths!) Cowboy seems to have finally given up his consistency, sending his last reach-out about a month ago. (for those of you still counting on me to do the necessary maths, that's 7 months of contact before he backed off.) So I'm just now FINALLY starting to do that processing and stuff. Oh, and here's a delightful surprise: it's not fun! Not at all! Nope, not a drop of fun to be had... But I'mma stick with it. Due to science.

I'm not dead, but I'm probably pretty dim...

Hey guys. Long time no write - how’ve you been? Did you lose/gain weight? Is that a new hairstyle/earring/third arm? Well, you look great.

Oh me? I’m awesome! Seriously excellent! Cooooouldn’t be better!

Well there was that pesky heartbreak. That sort of sucks. In that “I am going to crack open that ribcage and scoop you out of there like rotten cantaloupe, you fucker!” sort of way.

Yeah…

…

But otherwise? Suuuuuper-excellent. How’s the kids?

---

This is the time of this blog where I do three things:

1. Apologize for being that lame friend who is all about you right up until she finds a boyfriend, and then just totally vanishes. My bad, you guys. I definitely do suck. 
2. Consider seriously changing the name of the blog, at least temporarily, to “Unlikely in hate, the bitter edition” because guys suck and also emotions. 
3. Hit the bottom. Bounce. 

I’d be amazed if there’s anybody still out there that even remembers this quaint little blog, but if you do all I can say is thanks, you guys. I don’t deserve you.

Since last I was around here (which, according to the date up above, was a truly tragic 4+ years ago!) I’ve been back and forth in the relationship with The Cowboy. All that drama came to it’s final conclusion last year, and now I’m in the aftermath of it. I’d actually planned to wait until I was over everything before I came back here because NOBODY wants to read the caustic ruminations of a chick who’s all bitter and angry. But I seem to be stuck there. I mean I’m that Top Gear moment where the bonehead has been revving the engine for 5 solid minutes in a muddy bog and the wheels are half buried. Stuuuuuck.

And then I thought maybe what I need is somebody to give me like a push.

So, working on the assumption that nobody is still reading this blog anymore anyway I figured “fuck it - maybe a bit of caustic ruminationing is the solution!” So please enjoy some hours/days/weeks/oh-god-please-don’t-let-it-be-months of Unlikely in Hate, where Femtastic shows her dark side. (If I had the graphic abilities I’d try to give my interobang tab icon a goatee, the universal indicator that our hero has become our villain!)

Now, a little recap:

Last you heard from me the relationship with The Cowboy had ended. But then it started back up.

And then a little later it ended again.

Oh, but then back up it came again!

Then I moved from my cute little Hippyville to “The Big City” or TBC as it will now be known within these walls. TBC was also where The Cowboy lived, but that wasn’t the main reason I moved. More than anything I decided I wanted a life filled with as much adventure as I could get while I still had the money, the health and the bravery to get it. This move has been really great, and I’m totally glad that I did it!

But the move also killed things with The Cowboy again. For those of you keeping score at home that’s 3 breakups in about 18 months. And yes, I should have recognized some stuff at this point. But brains can’t be heard over hearts. Hearts are loud assholes.

About 3-4 months later The Cowboy and I somehow were back together, but in this really shitty “I’m pretending that it’s not serious and trying to have no expectations” sort of way. I’m sure this will come as a surprise to you - nay*, a shock even! - but that didn’t work out either. 5 months later I was dumped a fourth time. A FOURTH TIME. Oh it’s ok, you can go ahead and shake your head. I deserve it.

Three months later - you guessed it. We got back together AGAIN. Now, somewhat in my defense I’ll say here that I was hard to convince that time. To say “I’d been hurt before” was a major understatement, and MOST of that hurt had been at the hands of this same dude. I’m not super-smart, obviously, but I was at least smart enough to know that the odds were not in my favor here. I was the romantic equivalent of all those characters in The Hunger Games that were doomed to die some horrible death. My heart was just one more cannon shot away from tragedy. And so you’d be justified in asking “The WHYYYY? Why would you get back into this again? What is wrong with you, lady???”

I like being in love. Actually no - I love it. And dammit, I’m really good at it! I mean I know it sounds like I’m not based on “on again, off again, holy shit, is this a season of Beverly Hills 90210???” but that wasn’t because of my skills at being a partner. The Cowboy has damage - a lot of it. Some makes sense, some is bullshit, but his damage was the unspoken third member of our relationship and that bitch caused a LOT of drama. But see, I have grown up in the middle of a pack that truly believes in partnership. The people in my universe do the things that the Tom Hanks characters in movies do, and they do them genuinely. We are a species that believes in all the shit that nobody believes in these days. So for me I will always try again if there is any spark left in the love. It feels just wrong to me to do anything else.

So when this man that I had come to love like a part of me said he adored me and was sorry and wanted, even needed, me back I went. I took coaxing, but once totally coaxed I jumped in with both feet. And I made him a promise: as long as he was still fighting for us then I would be too.

Because where I come from that’s what you do. You fight for it.

I want to say that I’m proud of the fact that we lasted 2 more years. And ok, part of me is proud of that. Because after 2 years of lasting only some months and then imploding I guess that’s an improvement. And also because it proves that I was true to my word: I kept fighting because I thought he was too. But to say that those 2 years were really good would be donning rose-colored glasses that I’ve since had to retire. Once we finally ended I had to take a solid, honest look at the four years that had come before and see things for what they were. And a lot of it was not so good.

If there were any justice in the world one’s heart would let go of shit when the brain identified it as shit. Like when the brain did the tv detective thing and exclaimed “He was never able to commit! Not in 4 years!” the heart should go “Whaaaaaa???” followed by a healthy tableflip and then just storm off in a huff. F those feelings. One night of drinking, followed by a day of puking, and then brush off your heart-hands and move on. But if 2017 has taught us nothing else, it’s made it brutally clear that there is literally NO justice in the world. And this is why I sit here, almost 8 months later, sliding through pictures of The Cowboy and crying into my Cheerios…

Don’t worry, I haven’t been that chick for the last 8 months. In fact this one was a surprise to me even! A backslide, if you will. A classic relapse of emotion and bad thoughts. These things happen, for sure. But when they do, it’s hard to know what to do with it. Drinking and puking is really not my thing. I could get stoned and eat a pallet of Cool Ranch Doritos, but that would make the last few years of constant exercise and calorie counting seem pretty stupid, and I feel stupid enough, so… I decided to write.

I’ve been wanting to get back to you guys for most of the last 8 months, but I did something I know you won’t even believe: I overthought it. I came up with all these ambitious post ideas and overworked them and then hated everything forever and then Cool Ranch Doritos were texting me “U up?” and it was all bad. But this morning as my pillow developed two pathetic little wet spots about a head’s width apart I thought to myself “you’ve been stupid enough for a lifetime. How about you try being a little less stupid in this moment???”

And here we are.

So yeah, my hope/plan/dream is to get back into this now. I’ve ripped off the bandaid (and holy hell, that hurts you guys! How come nobody ever talks about that? And why is there hair literally EVERYWHERE??) so now I should be able to just do this. I don’t think anybody out there is still reading, but maybe you’ll find your way back to me. But in the meantime I got stuff to say and I’mma say it.

*that’s right, I said “nay.” I’m fancy like that now. Deal with it.

Learning How to Lean

I can’t remember if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but I’m stoic.  I inherited my wonderful Granny’s epic stoicism, the product of which related in her living with chronic pain for roughly sixteen decades.  (ok, slight exaggeration.  But I kid you not – when she was given pain meds in her early 90’s for shingles she was quoted as saying “Wow, that’s the first time I’ve been pain-free since the toboggan accident…”  WHICH HAPPENED WHEN SHE WAS SOMETHING LIKE 15 YEARS OLD!!!)  I’m like this too – when I hurt myself I generally ice or elevate the injured body bit for about a day, and then I move straight to the “work it hard until it just gives up hurting because it knows that it cannot defeat me.  Cannot defeat me!” form of therapy.   Pain is a form of weakness; fatigue a sign of defeat.  And there’s always way too much to do and way too many people counting on me for something to allow such things as pain and fatigue to get in my way.  I can’t afford it.  I can’t allow it. 

I’m just a little bit stoic.

Part of the reason for my stoicism, as it’s evolved over years, is that I’ve always been a solo player.  I’ve been the living embodiment of the old phrase “if you want something done you’d better do it yourself.”, not because I think I do it better than everybody else…

…ok, yeah, that’s crap.  I do think I do it better than everybody else.  But that’s not the ONLY reason I live that phrase.  The first and most impactful reason is simple: I had nobody else to do it.  I had to bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan.  If I knew how to fry up bacon in a pan.  Or in any other piece of cookware.  (and it’s sad, because I really like bacon.  Still, my not really knowing how to make has turned it into magic food, like French fries and frozen yogurt!  But I digress)  Also I had to do all the other things that needed doing:  pet care, home care, car care and all other variety of cares.  On a given weekday I’d work 8+ hours, come home to work out, go for groceries, make dinner, go do my social plans with friends and family, come home to feed kitties and clean-up some part of the house and then find my way to the bed.  So if I hurt myself or get sick and actually sat down or even (shock!  Horror!) lied down to succumb then who would do the work or feed the kitties or make the food?  Nobody, that’s who.  And that guy?  He sucks at all of those things.  Ever et his food?  Dreadful.  No flavor, no texture and absolutely no nutritional value. 

So then what – these things just don’t happen?  Well that’s fine, I guess, for working out or being social – when you’re all sick and mucusy nobody REALLY wants to hang out with you so much anyway.  But you’re also talking no eating and no cleaning up the kitchen, which leads to a hungry, cranky Femtastic surrounded by grungy bowls and stinky pots and eating utensils stuck to other eating utensils.  Uck.  And nobody can “relax” on their couch with two grumpy, hungry cats standing on your chest, yeowling about “where is our food?” and “how about a bit of feeding, yes?” and “don’t you even try to close your eyes until we’re full of foods, you!!”

So there you go – want or need it done?  Gotta do it yourself.  This was my mantra for about 15 years.  And then along came The Cowboy.  A guy my age, but with many more years of being with partners under his belt, he knows how to be someone you can depend upon.  He’s a doer and a helper and a taker-carer-of-er.  He’s someone upon which I can actually lean.

If I allow myself to do it.

Here, in a truly happy, comfortable, wonderful relationship, I find my stoicism colliding headfirst with his generosity, kindness and love.  I know that he would be happy if I could learn to let him support me – he’d love it, in the same way that I love to support those that I love, including him.  But years of my needing to stand on two feet and handle everything, everything, by myself has created this wall.  Or scaffolding.  Perhaps its jack stands and a ladder?  Some kind of construction-type-thing that is preventing me from doing what I know I can, should, and he would like:  lean.  

At first it was so novel when he would do so much for me that I indulged.  It was like someone giving me permission to have pudding three meals a day for a week.  Who says no to constant pudding?  Crazy people, that’s who!  I indulged in his constant-pudding-goodness and let him take care of me in small ways that mean little to most and meant so much to me.  Cleaning up my terrible little kitchen.  He did my laundry.  Mowed my lawn!  Mowed my frickin’ lawn!  Loved on my kitties and got my car washed and just so many lovely things that I over-puddinged and started to be sure I was literally getting spoiled.  I’ve known spoiled people in my life, who let others do for them and never give back and never think to wonder if they truly deserve the gifts they receive and never, EVER think to say “oh no, I couldn’t.”   I don’t want to become one of them, so the construction-barriers reappeared.

They didn’t shoot back up, nor were they as high and blocky as before, but I found I had to make a concerted effort to allow him to support and do for me.  I also thought about how seldom it seemed like I did for him.  Not for lack of trying, but he was so self-sufficient, strong, grown-up that from my paranoid, spoiled perspective I felt like it was always him doing for me.  So walls or scaffolding it was.

But in the last few months a couple of things have happened.  First, he finally has truly needed me.  He’s had health issues crop up a couple of times that I’m sure he could have handled on his own, but I was around and he let me take care of him.  I loved that feeling, taking care of someone I adore so much, and I thought of how seldom I let him have it.  And I recognized that by being my stoic, mule-headed self I was being selfish too. 

He also had some rough days and he let me see that they were rough.  He let me see how he was truly feeling rather than pulling out the old “I’m fine” card – one which I’m all too familiar with.  That was such an honor and a privilege and once again I saw that what I’d thought was an imbalance that only prospered me was actually an imbalance that robbed from him. 

And then, as if the universe knew I was right on the rim of the “I could trust and depend on this man” hole, I found myself really needing someone. 

I won’t bore you with the details – they involve running on the beach, gravity plus momentum and the jaunty ways of a one-eyed basset – but I took a spill.  Nothing too severe; no broken bones or trips to the hospital.  But my big, dumb knee swelled up to the size of my big, dumb head and I really needed help to get around for a day or so.  When the shock and size of the problem hit me, pushing through one hell of an adrenaline cloud, the only person I thought of that I wanted to lean on was my Cowboy.  He protected me not only from my injury, but even from my stoicism, strapping me to the couch to keep me from hobbling to the fridge for a soda or gummy bears.  I could ask him for help and also for input because I honestly had no idea how to handle the head-sized knee of badness and he did. 

So I leaned.  Hell, at one point I even wondered if I’d be leaning so hard he’d be carrying me fullstop.  (But thank god that didn’t happen.  There are no words for how much I hate being carried.  Except for these words:  I COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY HATE TO BE CARRIED, DON’T DO IT EVER, I WILL POKE YOU IN ALL YOUR SOFT, SENSITIVE PLACES, DON’T THINK THAT I WON’T!!!!!!)  From the leaning a funny thing happened:  I pushed through the version of leaning where you force yourself to do it and into the version where you really don’t have an alternative, and you can instead truly be grateful and thankful that you can lean; that you have someone on which to lean.  Leaning where you just keep realizing how lucky you are in your leaning. 

Stoicism has it’s place.  But when the universe kicks your legs out from under you and you’re face-first in the dirt snorting sod it’s an incredible thing to look up and see a strong, safe hand reaching down to pull you up and limp you to a comfy place to sit; bring you a cookie and maybe even (if you’re truly lucky) rub your feet.

Me?  I’m truly lucky.

Why Do We Blog?

You know about my new man – we’re going to call him the Cowboy.  One of the things that makes me so thrilled about him and us is how many things we see very eye-to-eye about.  We’ve been completing each other’s thoughts and sentences since the first weekend we knew each other. 

Still, one day I mentioned to him that I am “a writer”, (being a “writer” means I am totally qualified to use “air quotes”) and part of how I exercise those muscles is by way of this blog.  He listened, did the “I’m listening” nod at just the right intervals, and didn’t react too much.  Not right then.  But a day or two later he came back to the subject.  Came back with a look of genuine confusion.  And, long story short (“What?  Why?  You know that’s not why we read this blog, right?  You’ve never made a long story short before – why are you doing it now?  Boooo….”), he asked me not to write about him in this blog.

(Yes, I know I wrote about him in the last post.  It’s ok.)

He was incredibly articulate in his request, giving me clear reasons why and never showing any anger or judgment.  But it was clear that at the heart of his request was confusion.  He was, quite frankly, baffled at why I’d want to write a blog. 

(Yes, I’m writing about him again.  Here.  In the blog.  Like right now.  I know.  Seriously, it’s ok.)

He saw blogging as basically “public journaling” – the laying out of my heart and mind and emotions to the entire world.  He worried how he might come across in these pages, especially if something between us were to go south.  Worried that I might take out some revenge by slandering him, or (even worse) by telling an ugly truth. 

(Just keep reading!  We’re getting to it!  I’m not even making the long story that short!  Chill OUT.)

More than that, he boggled at why I’d ever be willing to put my heart and mind and emotions out here in the public eye, where people could judge me, criticize me, try to hurt me or tear me down just because I’d given them the chance and the access.  His confusion lead to a request to protect him, but it also had shades of being protective of me.  I’ll admit I was a little bummed about it because I’d really been excited to gush to you guys about the awesomeness that is the Cowboy and about the cool relationship stuff going on and still to come, but I understood where he was coming from and respected it.  And more than that, it made me think. 

God, I hate that.

The question he was asking made sense.  In fact, the question made way more sense than the blogging did.  Why the heck DO we do this?  Is it crazy to let folks into our inner workings like we do?  Even though I respected his request and considered his concern, my strong desire to get back to writing here was hot.  It was ferocious and nagging.  “Write me!” said my thoughts and feelings.  “Spread me out over the internet like honey roasted peanut butter over a cheesy Asiago bagel!” they cried.  “Don’t worry about protecting yourself!  Wriiiiiiiite Meeeeeee!”

(Side note:  peanut butter on cheesy bagel?  Seriously awesome.  So many yums, many of them very unexpected.  Check it out.  But, you know, later on.  For now go back to reading.)

But why?

I’m putting this question out to you folks who might still read this and who also blog.  I’ve got my own answers, which I’m going to cover here, but I want to know how many of you have had this same soul-searching moment, either because you’ve had it bite you in the ass or because someone who doesn’t have the writer’s bug questioned your reasoning, or possibly your sanity.  What say you, fellow bloggers?  What is the deal with this?

…I let the Cowboy’s request to keep him out of the blog sit for a while, initially thinking I could work within that boundary.  But as time passed I discovered first that the boundaries were making it hard for me to get back to writing because in very short order he had become intertwined in pretty much everything in my life.  And because so much of what I desperately wanted to write about, frankly, was him.  And since the things I’d wanted to write were not easy to negotiate with his request I just didn’t write anything.  Which is why it’s March and I’m just now getting back to this.  (Well, ok, and also life is crazy busy with way too many things to even sleep enough, let alone hobbies and exercise and… ok, it’s crappy to blame the boundary.  But it was still harder.  Or it would have been.  If I’d really tried to writing.  Juggling things is hard!)

In order to figure out anything else I had to figure out the answer to his question.  The first answer is true and obvious:  because I’m a writer.  And writers just need to write.  They also need others to read what they write.  I’m a writer; therefore I write.  See how noble and even eloquent the response?  Full of alliteration and pithy repeatiosity.  Classy even.  I’m embroidering it on a throw pillow as we speak.  Soooo fancy.

But really also crap.

I write because I’m a writer?  That’s like saying “I sing because when I talk it’s really slow.  And rhythmic.”  I’m a writer because I love to write.  You know that endorphin rush that everybody always says you can get from working out?  Running or whatever, and people talk about hitting that stride where suddenly it’s joyous and you’re making energy instead of spending it and it’s better than sex, etc.…  Well I’ve been biking 100 miles a week for 5 years and also kickboxing and recently dabbled in running (except of course it’s not REALLY running if it’s just in 60 second bursts, but it’s a start) and I’ve never had this mythical endorphin rush.  Not once.  NOT.  ONCE.  Not from exercising or running or jumping or…  oh come on, neither have you.  Neither have any of you!  MYYYYYTHIIIICAAAAAAL! 

But I’ve totally, totally had it from writing. 

I’ve had the experience where it’s 11pm and I’m sleepy.  In fact I’m sleeping.  Or I was, crashed on the couch with the TV blathering in the distance, all drooling and mouth hanging open.  Out COLD.  But then I wake up, with some kind of vague idea of something to write about – maybe I dreamt about fish politics or the IQ of paisley or impressionistic madlibs – and I open up the keyboard to jot down the idea.  A quick note, just enough to remind me later.  OK, maybe a couple of sentences, because there’s a nuance, you know?  There’s a gist that I need to get, to be able to do it right later.  And that takes a three to four sentences…  six tops.

And the next thing I know it’s 3am and I’ve written the idea I had, it’s vaguely amusing neighbor idea and four mistreated step-children of the initial idea.  I’m on a roll.  I’m on FIRE!  And I swear to you, I’m flooded with these mythical endorphins.  I write because there’s about four or five things in the world that give me a bonafide rush.  A high even.  And one of them?  It’s taking handfuls of words and phrases and concepts and hurling them all over empty sheets of “paper.”  It’s taking that most frightening of things – the blank page – and carving and scribbling and mooshing and oh-my-god-even-hacking and slashing upon it until it’s a thing.  A story, or an essay, or a letter to an editor of a thing.  It’s my thoughts, cohesively assembled into a readable thing. 

When someone who doesn’t have this crazy-ass reaction to writing (or painting or decoupage - you pick the artistic endeavor) asks you “why the hell do you do this?” it’s really hard to explain to them the “why.”  It’s harder when they see this artistic endeavor as something that could lead to crowds of strangers mocking and ridiculing you and your thoughts and feelings and, ultimately, crushing your soul.  Because the true question at this moment is “why do you want people to crush your soul?  I happen to like your soul, and I want it to stay in it’s current, non-crushed condition, and there is no way I can protect it, and you, if you’re willing to leave it on a busy street corner, naked and unprotected with a sign saying “super-crushable – ask me how!”  They’re worried about you.  They want to take care of you.  And you’re saying “that’s super-sweet, baby, but I’d prefer to dance around with a big, shiny target on my head and my heart.  Thanks anyway.” 

Since the original discussion about the craziness of blogging and the request to please not write about him my new, wonderful partner has done some of his own soul-searching, and he’s offered me an incredibly generous, brave compromise that allows me to write about him here sometimes.  In a normal situation I’d be very impressed with this action.  Knowing how scary he finds the idea of being put out there for public, anonymous, unfair and vicious internet bullying makes this action amazing.  Heroic even.  And in the face of this how can I not at least take some time and thought and think about why I need to be out here, swinging in the breeze?  So I ask you guys again:  Why?  Why do we do this? 

In Love in 2013

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Happy New Year!

I’m in love.

…see what I did there?  Boom!  Last you heard about such topics from me I was all sad and trying to recover and then I was recovered but then I was all “screw you, love.  Screw you romance and relationships and other such things.  You suck and I totally know that I'm never gonna find it again; that I’m gonna be alone and blue.  So I choose to know I’m gonna be blue and to own that emotion and wear it like a big, shiny, Captain America shield.  Impervious to want!  Immune to loneliness!  What’s that?  Desire?  Never heard of it.  Good day sir.”

(and then love went “yeah, but-“ and I went “I said Good Day Sir!!!” and I totally stormed off.)

I’d been that chick for a long, LONG time so I knew I could do it.  And in my questionable head and heart that seemed to make some weird kind of sense.  Like the time with T.E. was this little vacation from being that chick which the universe had seen fit to gift me.  A bone thrown, if you know what I mean.  Maybe so I’d know what it is I’d always been missing.  Maybe to make the loss and absence more real.  More poignant.  It’s possible I was looking for an excuse to become a poet and thought such blues would make it seem a little less lame. 

And then, probably just to remind me that I’ve pretty much always sucked at predicting the future, the universe threw me such a curveball.  Almost immediately after I stood up and looked my old relationship in the eye and flipped it the bird (finally!) I ran smack into this new guy.  This new, amazing man. 

I have this blog post in my head – have had for a few months – which is the greatest glowing, adoring, gushing letter to this man.  It goes into great detail about the scores of ways that I find him astonishing and impressive and so totally too good for me.  It talks about his sense of adventure and his generosity of spirit and the way that he balances being this rough, masculine manly-man with being this big-hearted, tender, sweet and sensitive companion.  The main reason I haven't written it yet is that I don’t have FOUR SOLID DAYS WITH NO PEEING, EATING OR SLEEPING AND SIX MILLION WORDS with which to write it.  But it’s coming.  You’ll want to clear some time on your calendar to read it.  Mow the lawn later. 

I can’t tell you for sure what 2013 is going to bring.  I’ve got plans; lots and lots of plans.  Probably more plans than I’ve got time to put into place or money to pay for them.  But I knew that 2013 was going to be better than 2012.  It had to be.  I wasn’t going to allow anything else.  Now, pretty much no matter what of my plans comes to fruition, I already know 2013 is going to completely rock.  Because suddenly, out of the blue, there’s this man.

Getting Back up on the Horse...

I’ve been wanting to get back to this blog for weeks.  Months even.  I have stuff to say and stories to tell and super-clever views on the world that I know you would all benefit by reading.  Seriously, they’d probably change your life.  And I want to change your life.  I want to write those life-changers and other stuff here, but I’ve been stuck.

Stuck behind THIS post.

Because before I can share all the new things I have to update you guys on all the stuff that’s happened since the last post.  And that’s a lot of stuff.  Also large amounts of that stuff sucked, so I really haven’t wanted to re-hash it.  Also it’s not a very interesting post – just exposition without the swanky flashback scenes that we’d do if this blog was on television. 

But still, it has to be done, so here we go:

Last you heard T.E. and I were “on a break.”  That lasted for those 2 weeks but at the end, despite about a million reasons from T.E. why he worried about staying together, we stayed together.  In hindsight I know now that was a mistake.  In fact I realize now that T.E. and I should have said a sweet, loving and genuine “good bye” at the airport before he flew home from his time here for the holidays.  Since that visit things were never right between us and they just got worse and worse.  But one of the things I know about myself, for better or worse, is I’m a fighter.  So I fought for us.

Oh crap, I’m totally jumping ahead.  Let me get back to the chronology.

We stayed together, but with all sorts of plans for how to make it better or more solid or less oval or more turquoise or whatever.  Those plans lasted for about a week and then it started to unravel again.  The last few weeks were awful, and some of the only things I could possibly categorize as a ‘regret’ in our time together.  But again, we fought to the bitter end and I give us credit for that, so I can’t really call it a regret.  It was painful and confusing and frustrating and completely, tremendously heartbreaking.  I knew that it was over for about 2 weeks before T.E. finally said the words.

And still, with all the foreshadowing and pain and heartache the first four weeks after it ended were some of the darkest days I’ve ever had.

I won’t go into details – I was depressed.  In all the ways that a person could be.  Daily tears and lack of sleep and crappy, crappy eating and things like that.  I decided to just let myself wallow in all the sorrow I needed to get through for those first four weeks.  If I felt like sleeping all day, even if the sun was shining and kids were playing in my front yard and birds were singing then I was gonna sleep all day.  Take that, stupid birds.

After that first month I decided I was tired of being sad.  I was tired of sleeping all day and flinching when I heard someone say his name and being completely exhausted with overwhelming misery all.  The. Time.  So the second month, I decided, would be “take a month off from getting over your great and lost love.”  I cleaned up my house (many thanks to my Mom for helping me do that) and started caring about how I looked and found safe books to read and music to listen to and things to watch on tv.  And above all else:  distraction.  Don’t think of the relationship.  Don’t think of the break-up.  Don’t think of T.E. or heartbreak or any of the stuff that paralyzed me. 

I’m heading into the last week or so of the second month and I haven’t decided, yet, what to do with the third month yet.  I read somewhere that it takes a month of recovery for every year you were together – it was on the interwebs, so it must be true – and so I have just over a month to go before I can be “over it.” 

I can’t wait.  

How Does One Stay The "New Toy" Forever?

I can’t remember (and am WAY too lazy to do the research to check) if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but one of the things I most adore about my Dad is the way that he always makes it feel like my arrival is a wonderful occasion.  No matter how recently we talked or saw each other or how mundane the occasion my Dad is always and sincerely thrilled to see or hear from me.  Like I’m saying he and I could talk on the phone for an hour and then sign off, and then I could realize I forgot to ask him what size shoe he wears or how many ounces in a gallon and call him right back to cover that super-important detail and even though we were just talking only minutes before when my Dad hears my voice he still honestly sounds thrilled to hear that its me.  This is about the best quality a person could have and my Dad has it in gallons.  (or a BUNCH of ounces, because apparently there are 128 of those in a gallon!)

When T.E. and I first met this was a quality that I recognized in him:  that he was so eager for my time and attention.  That he seemed like he, too, couldn’t get enough of me; wanted to hear all about me and my days and my stuff.  He would even be bold-faced in his interest to the point he’d ask incredibly personal questions or to read my emails or listen in on phone calls.  He knew that it was pretty danged nosey but he was unapologetic about it because it all came from wanting to know everything about me.  He was that enthusiastic and I will admit that I loved it.  I joked that it was just “new toy syndrome” – that thing that so many people do when they find a new person and are fascinated by the coolness and the differentness and the just plain newness of the new person.  But I was the Buzz Lightyear of his world right then and I would take every bit of it.

Now look, I know that everybody talks about how relationships can’t keep up the level of intensity with which they start – this has been repeated over and over, and I’m sure that just about everybody out there believes this to be the sad fact:  eventually things have to become boring and average and plain and you just can’t keep feeling so over-the-moon about a person.  You just can’t.  Honestly I’ve had some people explain it to me with such fervor and certainty that it almost seemed like they wanted it to be true; wanted to know that nobody could possibly maintain that level of intensity.  It’s just not possible.

Is it?

This spring I read this book written by the last woman to love the great comedian George Carlin.  Here’s this book about one of the crustiest, surliest, most curmudgionesque icons of this or the last century and it’s all about how he never, ever stopped courting this woman that he loved.  He, contrary to popular and very depressing belief, felt like it was totally up to him when he should stop doing the things that make us fall in love with each other in the beginning – notes, gifts, gestures, lovely words and amazing acts – and he decided that the time to stop doing that stuff was never.  And when the man is right, he’s just plain right.  So this became my rule too -- never stop courting.

The enthusiasm that T.E. had for me in the beginning was intoxicating and made me feel fascinating and amazing and just possibly worth all this attention.  I ate it up with a spoon shovel industrial grade forklift.  I also made very sure to lavish him with the same level of fascination, which was easy because I felt it just as strongly.  And to this day I still do.  Every morning, no matter what time I have to drag my sad, old bones out of my super-snuggly bed, the thing I’m most eager to do as soon as possible is get online and see if T.E. is around to talk to.  There’s this tiny little whisper noise that our main chat application uses to indicate someone has logged on and when I hear that noise my heart skips a beat every.  Single.  Time.  I adore every minute with him, and I’m really excited and proud that my level of adoration has maintained even after years and distance and age difference and even a little heartache.

When T.E. and I first connected there was another big difference in his world as compared to now:  his social life was pretty quiet.  He was just finishing up his equivalent of high school and, as is often the case the end of the summer after graduating from high school, most of his chums were heading off to new adventures.  As a result he had a lot of time available to chat with me, his newest toy.  But as the years have gone on and he’s started his University experience and built an amazing new social group of bright, funny, cool people his “new toy” attentions have waned.  Given our time differences I’m often that thing he can do for a while at the end of his day before he goes to sleep.  The more social fun he has with his chums the later the end of his day is, and the less time before sleep needs to happen. 

Recently I’ve realized that gradually I’ve become his “if there’s nothing else to do” option.  If he doesn’t have fun social things to do with his group there’s always me to chat with, waiting eagerly on the other end of the skype line because I’m still that excited to make our connection whenever I can get it.  For a while it seemed romantic, but now I have to admit I’m starting to feel like the classic old toy:  that old, beat-up, dog-eared teddy bear that you’ve had since forever but you really only cuddle up to when the world has treated you roughly and you need the kind of hug that only your old toy can give you.  I love being here for him, but sometimes this dusty, lonely old shelf can seem a little sad.

If I were a better, person – closer to the person I thought I was before I actually fell in love with someone – I’d decide to walk away from this and show my independence and my ‘stand on my own two feet’-etedness and all.  But one of the rules that T.E. and I have been very clear about is 100% honesty between us, and if I’m being 100% honest all of this doesn’t change the fact that I think about him constantly and clamor for the chance to connect.  So for now you’ll find me where he does:  between the Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em Robots and that damned Jack in the Box.

Like a cat in a rocking chair factory. But where there's hardly anybody in the chairs...

So how do you do a relationship that has already been deemed “temporary”? 

T.E. and I are still together, still going strong – stronger than ever maybe.  Last Sunday we hung out together on Skype for 10 hours straight, with him finally going to sleep at 8am his time.  We’ve had deep, meaningful conversations (or DMCs as he calls them) several times in the last few months that have continued to grow our bond and deepen our connection.  In all the ways you’d normally diagnose a relationship ours would seem solid and secure, with nothing but a bright future ahead of us.

So why do I get so nervous?

There are a lot of things I guess you could point to which cause my nerves.  Some of them are all mine – when you spend the amount of time single that I have (of my 26 years of date-able time I’ve been in relationships a total of about 6 years with only a handful of men.  A small handful.  Little kid hands, or possibly midgets.  Or maybe squirrels – their hands are small too, right?) it tends to impact your opinion of whether or not you can attract and keep a partner.  Just does.

Some of the things are our logistical challenges – for those of you who are new and haven’t yet combed through the archives to find out just what the heck this crazy chick is talking about anyway I’ll round those challenges up for you:  20-year age difference, 5000 miles between us, 8-hour time difference, he doesn’t like bacon…  All big things.  Especially the bacon thing.  (Seriously, who doesn’t like bacon?)  But don’t let me focus on that.  (Bacon!  So tasty!)

But I have to admit that the biggest challenge for me tends to be the knowledge that James, ever the pragmatist these days, has really thought through the potential future for our relationship, with all those challenges, and determined that at some point we’ll end.  He’s not setting an end point, and has said he wants to stay with me as long as we can, but he’s not fooling himself that we can make it long-term.  Some day, he says, we’ll be done.  We’ll go from being lovers and partners to being friends.  We both know with complete certainty that we’ll always be friends and connected but he can see that there must be an end.

Ironically I was the one that started out with this idea.  In the beginning of our relationship I felt it was very important that I be realistic about this.  “All these challenges really say that having this relationship is flat out impossible and don’t you forget it!” said my rational mind.  “This is a fling.  Just a fling.  Don’t get too attached, and for the love of GOD do not fall in love.”  What changed my mind?  He did.

In the first year or so of our connection he kept telling me wonderfully romantic, idealistic things like “well I guess I’ll just have to keep you forever then.” Or “it’s a good thing that we found each other because we’re clearly perfectly matched.”  I tried to hold those ideas off as cute but crazy.  The cute was just so cute, that it trompled all over the crazy and left me nothing but cute to focus on.  Eventually I was convinced that we could make it. 

And make it we have!  We celebrated 2.5 years this December!  We’ve already beaten all the insane odds!

But part of what fed the break-up last spring was T.E. reaching his own conclusion about our odds, and it was that we had to eventually end.  We just can’t really last forever, and he has reminded me of this periodically since then.  I know he’s being smart and he’s most likely right.  I should try to get back there too.  I should get realistic and get ready for whenever that end comes.

But then I keep coming to that question:  if I know we can’t last then how do I trust in this relationship now?  All of those damned love songs playing on all those radio stations talking about how person A will love person B forever, until the end of time, til the world explodes, etc. – I shouldn’t be able to relate to those because I have been assured that’s not going to happen.  So even though I’m in this for the long haul, and have told T.E. that , I’m on my own there and it leaves me feeling a little out here on my own.  And from that?  Comes some nervous.  

Making the Necessary Adjustments

T.E. is back in his native land.  He’s talking the talk and walking the walk and eating the foods (although given where his native land IS you gotta wonder why he’s doing that last one.)  Although actually right now he’s most likely sleeping the local sleep, after 24 hours worth of travel.  Yes, you heard right – since coming back to Hippyville it now takes, door to door, an entire DAY for him to get home (if you define “takes a day” as “he leaves our home here in Hippyville at 11am and arrives home in England at 11am the next morning.  Which you shouldn’t, because it’s actually more like 16 hours.  But at the same time when you’re the person doing the travelling it probably still FEELS like it took a day.  So yeah, go ahead and define it that way if you want.  I’m sure he does…)  This is because instead of having an airport a short drive away (as we did when we were in the big, fancy city) we’ve got one a very, very long drive away.  Heck, we leave the house four hours before his first plane leave the ground.  Lame.  L-A-M-E.

Meanwhile though I don’t have the epic, awful, forever-and-ever-and-ever travel day that he does I have to come home to a house that I’ve been sharing with him for weeks or months and get used to it all sad and empty.  One thing that is part of his experience, and which I kind of envy, is that he has two lives.  He’s got the life of a young man essentially single and living in England, with his friends and his family and school and martial arts and all the other things in his life there.  And he’s got the life of the young man involved with the older woman living with her in America and with the US friends and family that he got through her. 

For me I have this life that sometimes has him in it, and sometimes doesn’t.  So I keep having to make this adjustment between them each time he arrives, and each time he leaves.  The adjustment is worth it, but still hard.  So here I sit, way too aware of how much room there is on this couch and how little conversation I’ve engaged in today.  By next weekend I’ll be used to this.  But the first few nights are the hardest.

Man I Hate Being Right All The Time

T.E. ended things with me yesterday morning. It’s too fresh to give details – not sure if I’ll ever be able to do that. Enough to say he needed the freedom to live the life of the University student and having a relationship, let alone a long-distance one with an unemployed old lady, wasn’t so conducive. And as he so often was about most things, he was right about this too. So he’s gone. And I apologize for the tremendously dramatic following sentence, but honestly it’s the LEAST dramatic way I could find to describe me: I’m shattered. One million pieces is the tip of the iceberg.

Not sure what’s going to happen with this blog, folks. Right now it feels like anything I’d write would be so morose and self-pitying as to require the Smiths or the Cure or another band that starts with “the” to write the soundtrack. And I don’t want to be that blog. So I’m sure it will be quiet for a while. Take care of yourselves.

Say, you look familiar - have we met?

Look, the bottom line is it just kept being a choice between writing to you guys, WHOM I TOTALLY ADORE, DON’T GET ME WRONG!!!!, or doing stuff with T.E. (get your mind out of the gutter you dirty, DIRTY minds! What kind of stuff do you think I’m talking about??? Oh. Oh, then we’re good. Sorry about the “dirty minds” thing – you totally pegged it…) Can you blame me for the choice I made? CAN YOU? But still, now I feel bad about it. Also I had this big fantasy of having all these blog posts while he was here and being able to relive the whole visit in my blog, yadda yadda yadda… Man, did THAT not happen!!!

So here I’m gonna try to do “T.E.’s Summer Visit – the Good Parts Version”. Hold on tight…:

T.E. shows up and it’s instant awesome with magic sprinkles. There’s all sorts of worrying about what this will be like over time, and whether or not we can live around each other and what if, what if, what if… and then we get that there’s nothing to worry about. Because instant awesome. With sprinkles. Of magic!

We geek, and I’m talking UBER-geeking. Games night, followed by another games night, followed by face to face D&D’ing, COMPLETE with high-tech mapping, Oreos and Funions. (sadly there was a distinct lack of Mountain Dew. Not sure who dropped the Dew ball, there.) And yet even Dew-free the geeking fun was geektastic! One of my favorite things about T.E. is our mutual geek appreciation.

Whee! I got a Wii! My fabulous boy arrived right after my birthday gift did, and turns out he’s so stinkin classy he got me a Wii. A BLACK Wii (because everything is more cool in black.) With extra Wii thingies, and stick-on thingies. All in stylish, slimming black. Right now my tv area is so slim looking, like it went on a tv-area diet… We Wii’d with cool Lego games where Batman bursts into bits. But even more we discover the joy of “hey, let’s watch right now with no previous planning at all…” and we went to Netflix through the Wii and Voila! Instant fish! Or even better, Instant tv or movie! Thanks to my slim, black Wii and online Netflix mojo we burned through the 2nd and 3rd season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. INSTANTLY!

We had awesome sex.

Three words: fancy French unitards! Yes, that’s right – we Cirqued! Kazoobalitamosquiso, or whatever the new Cirque show is called, came through town and we cirqued it up good. His first Soleil, my 6th and a big pile of “holy crap!” dusted liberally with “how does she do that???” and garnished with a dash of “body parts don’t do that. They don’t. Make them stop doing that.” However I learned this year that it’s not always a good thing to have friends who also go to the cirque show. There was this amazing moment where the guy on the top of the Wheel of Deathly Bad JoobJoob and Nightmares of Gravity was jumping rope (yes, like a school girl. A super-hot, buffed, French greased UP school girl, thank you very much!!) and he caught his toe and almost took a 2-story face plant. Big gasps! Big squeals! BIG FAKE! Turned out macho man did that same dance with death in every show. Sigh. (it was still cool at the time.)

Happy Birthday USA! Now let’s go and shoot stuff! We spent Independence day down in Hippyville, enjoying not only ‘splosions of celebration, but we also went out with a friend who has an epic gun collection and shot stuff! Wolves and bears and wild hobos! (ok, paper plates. About a dozen paper plates. But they were wild, untamed paper plates, who could have attacked at any time with no warning. And those paper plates will never threaten another person again.) We shot sniper rifles with these scopes that brought everything right in front of you. And then made them dance around, mocking you. “Sure, I SEEM right up close, but can you stop moving around to hit me? CAN YOU?? That’s right, little girl. Go home and cry to your mama.” And then I killed them. Hee hee. There was a shotgun that fully intended to dislocate T.E.’s shoulder from the rest of his shapely, English body, and a machine gun that fully refused to be aimable, and Dirty Harry’s gun. Because yes, we totally felt lucky.

Also games, games, movies, comic books, zoo, mini golf, movies, games, Costco, library, comic books, games. (and awesome sex.)

…and that, in a whirlwind of stuff and things, is the nutshell breakdown of 2 months living with T.E. right here with me. It was so wonderful, every bit of it, and we’re going to do it all over again in about four months, when my English gentleman comes home for the holidays. In a word: Yay.

Meeting Our People

When my sweety (wait, what are we calling him again? Right, The Englishman. T.E.) was here around the holidays we went back home to Hippyville and he had the joy panic-driven fear-fest experience of meeting my people. Practically ALL of my people. Family, the Royals, and even the ‘rents. I give him BIG credit for throwing himself to the wolves like that, and he passed with FLYING colors. Witty, friendly, classy and the snazzy English accent can’t HELP but impress.

The big worry was really meeting the parents. Because let’s face it – parents are scary. Even uber-cool parents like mine are scary because HELLO! They’re the PARENTS! And the funny thing was that my Dad, who has always been the very picture of “not your average guy”, went very much into average guy mode when he got the details of my relationship with T.E. He did ‘posturing’ and ‘glowering’ and even a little ‘he’d BETTER be worried about me!’ I honestly waited for him to grab his dick and spit, so dude-like was my Dad all of the sudden. So I was mostly worried that this new-found dudeness was going to spill out when he and T.E. met and I was going to have to splash them with perfume and a hose to break things up.

But to my “yay!!” everyone was on their best behavior at the first, and that segued nicely into just being the cool guys that they actually are after a day or so. No competitive hand-shaking or ceremonial dick-measuring necessary after all. I was very proud of both of them.

Since I don’t go to London (there’s reasons for that. It’s not like I don’t WANT to go to London. It’s LONDON! There’s rain and pubs and a place where words like “bangers” and “mash” describe FOOD! Logistically it’s just complicated is all. But I digress.) there isn’t the same opportunity or requirement for me to meet his people. So I’ve been sucking up long-distance. I sent his parents a Christmas gift – one that actually reflected what I’ve been able to glean about them from my sweety. This seemed like truly high-quality suck-upping! And it seems like it payed off, as I’ve been promised a “thank you” email in response. (yes, I am this excited at getting an email. Shut up.)

And then tonight T.E. introduced me, via crazy swinging Skype party, to his very best mate. After the ‘rents T.E.’s best buddy (who we will call The Romantic, or T.R.) is really the most important person in his world, so this was a big deal to me. It came w/out planning or warning, so I had all of about 30 seconds to consider the idea, prepare my most fabulous anecdotes, do the virtual breath check, etc. In the end it was pretty much an accent-fest, with these two FABULOUS-sounding voices bouncing back and forth like a sexy tennis match! A good time was had by all and according to T.E. I passed muster with the buddy too. If we like each other and our people like each other what else is there, right?

Love Sick...

So as I already mentioned one of the best things ever was the three weeks that I got to spend with my sweety around the holidays. It was truly awesome and totally yay.

I got sick.

(wait, you got sick and yet it was awesome? I’m confused.)

Dear Confused:

Yes, the time together was awesome and yes, I got sick. Now big chunks of the time I was NOT sick and those times were very awesome. There were movies seen and games played and family and friends introduced to and all these were good things. Awesome things. And if this was the whole visit I’d stand by my “was awesome” stance with confidence. But it was even better than that, BECAUSE I got sick.

More than that, I got sick AND I did NOT kill him! Not at all! I killed no part of him, nor was I even tempted to do any him-killing!

Oh, but wait, it gets even better: he took CARE of me. While I was sick. And I didn’t kill him even more AND (this is the big part): I LET HIM TAKE CARE OF ME.

(even bigger part): I LIKED HIM TAKING CARE OF ME.

For any of you who have been reading for a long time you’ll remember that a couple of years ago I went on record on this site saying that I never be able to have someone in the house when I was sick, but instead would require anyone in the house to be… not in the house. Also known as ANYWHERE ELSE. This is something that I was truly sure was gospel, based on many things not the least of which was the fact that when I’ve been sick in the past I didn’t even want my MOM, the person who birthed me and who was my chief “Meh. I’m sick. Take care of me.” person growing up, to come look after me these days. So if you don’t want your Mom to take care of you how could it be that anyone else would do? Answer: it couldn’t. Hence ANYWHERE ELSE.

And yet there I was, lying beside my sweety in bed, feeling like if he really loved me he’d go ahead and kill me out of my own best interest, and yet loving that he was there for me to roll over and snuggle up next to. Loving those moments when he touched my head to see if I was hot or encouraged me to sleep some more or just generally looked over at me with the expression that could only say “Awww… how are you feeling, baby?” He took care of me and I absolutely loved it.

This morning I woke up with one of those headaches that reminds you how much easier life might be if you scooped your brains out with a melonballer. (of course I’m not much of a cook, and don’t like melon. So no melonballer in the house. Dang.) Lying on the couch, feeling pukey (both literally and figuratively), I found myself wishing so much that my guy were here to take care of me again. How crazy is that? Must be that “love” thing. I’m really going to need to get used to that.

Start of a New Year

Sorry about falling off again. For the most part it was focusing on my sweety while he was here for a whole THREE WEEKS. (Woo hoo!) since then there’s been a lot of time with work and life and stuff, but I’ve been totally thinking of you guys. I swear!

So I don’t do the “new years resolutions” thing because in my experience that’s just an extremely efficient way to make yourself feel wonderfully awful later. And really, aren’t there more than enough ways to do that in this world already? And yet still as the Christmas stuff gets boxed up and I sweep the latest little batch of pine needles up in the kitchen and I FINALLY get used to writing “2010” on stuff you really can’t resist thinking about what the next 12 months hold for you, right? Yeah. Right.

So here, for your eyes only, is what I’m going to try to do with 2010:

• Size 8 by my 40th. It’s possible, and not even impossible ever. It’s currently 3am and I just finished another hour on the bike here in my apartment’s workout room. See how dedicated I am? How serious? How possibly insane and/or nutsy? All these things are important for a true weight loss goal. (also The Queen told me about this cool weight loss app for the iPhone and we all know that anything is possible once there’s an iPhone App.)
• 200 sit-ups and 100 push-ups. There’s this whole work-out challenge thing online where they promise that you can, in six weeks, be able to do 100 push-ups and 200 sit-ups in a run w/out stopping or, SUPPOSEDLY, falling over totally dead. I’ve tried this. Actually I’ve tried it twice. Both times I get to the 5th week and do what we like to call “epic fail”. But dammit, I’m not giving up yet! (Later on. Later on I’ll probably give up. Like 2011 or something)
• Debt Free, Baby! OK, this is a little bit of a boondoggle because I can’t actually get completely debt free. I took almost 2 years of classes through the community college in my home town and owe monies from that, which I can’t take care if on a short 12 months. HOWEVER just about every other debt I have out there I aims to kill all dead and killed-like by the time I start over-spending for Christmas 2010.
• Keep up the blogging. No, seriously. What? Why are you laughing? Aw, c’mon guys! I’m not kidding!
• Build even more on this amazing “love” thing. I never saw this coming last year and I have a total of F*ck All bonafide experience in relationships. But I’m not going to let that stop me. This is the best thing to happen to me in… (doing the math)… (fingers don’t fail me now)… forever. Just plain forever. So the one thing this year I’m going to do, SO HELP ME DEITY OF YOUR CHOICE, is not mess this up. And if I’m smart I’ll even enjoy it.

I’ll see you guys back here next time. In the meantime if anybody has any suggestions for an annual goal I haven’t included here I’d love to hear it, my Peoples!

It's beginning to look a lot like Sunday...

Hey, is it just me or is it almost Christmas?

Presents – they are purchased. And also they are wrapped.

Stuffers for stockings are found and sorted and ready to stuff

Food is figured out and ready to be cooked and such. By me! I’ll cook food!

House is clean, tree is trimmed, stockings are hung by no chimney with care, and yet I will confess (with much chagrin for being so sappy) that all I’m really caring about is Sunday. Because on Sunday returns the Englishman.

(oh, by the way? That’s his nickname. The Englishman. T.E. for short, but you guys don’t know him well enough for that yet, so we’re sticking with The Englishman.)

I’ve told him before, and its ever so true, that he’s ruined Christmas for me. Because normally all I’d be able to THINK about right now is the impending arrival of a fat guy in a red suit with bags of cool stuff. But even though I’m still super-happy about Christmasness right around the corner I’m down right GIDDY about the impending arrival of a gorgeous guy in whatever the hell he wants to wear with bags of his stuff, the better to stay and spend weeks with me.

Oh, and Christmas is cool too.

Of course once I’m sitting amidst my family and food and presents and Nat King Cole on the stereo I’ll be all focused on the holiday. Well, mostly all. But it really does amaze me how much his arrival has trumped everything else, becoming the pinnacle thing to anticipate. What are we doing while he’s here? Nothing much, really. Just hanging out. Just spending time; enjoying each other. But that is the very best thing I can think of to do, and everything else is “nice too.”

So everyone please have a very nice Christmas. But have an AWESOME Sunday!

Returns from the (not) Dead

OK, so first thing’s first: I am NOT dead. Repeat: NOT DEAD.

However I do very much suck, the chief evidence of which is my whole having abandoned my blog for the last 6 months. For the one or two people who still read (and what the heck are you thinking???) I owe you such the explanation.

Let me start by cataloging everything that has changed in the last 6 months:

• I moved to another state
• I got a super-cool new job
• I lost a bunch of weight and got myself into really good shape again
• I took a martial arts class for a month (the start of many such things I hope?)
• I’m making real money for the first time in my life!

However in all honesty none of those things can really be held responsible for my lack of blogging. I hate to admit it, but it all comes down to one thing: a guy.

If you were reading before (or have the ability to scroll down) you’ll remember my last post was all about how I’d found this English dude to chat with online. Nothing serious or long-term or anything. Just good fun. And CERTAINLY nothing that ever could or would become love. Remember that? Remember how I was so very sure I could never love Mr. English flirty guy? Yeah, well…

Last Monday was the 6 month anniversary of our connecting.

Oh my good and true internets, I cannot believe that I can say this, but the total truth of the matter is this: I am in love.

Now this isn’t even the most amazing part of it to me. This is actually the first time in my entire life that I’ve ever actually BEEN in love. There was this other guy over a dozen years ago that I kind of thought might be serious emotions, but now that I have this to compare it to it’s more than obvious that the douchebag from Jersey was crap and more crap. This. This is TRUE love.

Lest you think that this is the end of the big love hunt I should clarify all the many and asundry challenges in this relationship. We start with the distance – a continent and an ocean. Accompanying that is the 8-hour time difference. Next there is a pretty damned substantial age difference. There are other things that could also be pointed out, although those mentioned are really the biggies and are CERTAINLY big enough! And yet amazingly we just keep going and going.

About 2-3 months after he and I met (ooh, he needs a nickname, doesn’t he? I’ll think of it…) I got offered an incredibly good job opportunity in another city. In another state. This was kind of the answer to all sorts of “first star I see tonight” wishes that I could change my job situation, as the job I had in Hippyville was completely making me nuts. In the bad way. This new opportunity is in a leadership position for a start-up company. As opposed to my previous job I finally have a little control of my destiny at work, as well as really being challenged and pushed. I would be lying if I said I didn’t wish it could calm down JUST A LITTLE, but between being bored out of my skull or being really challenged I’d take challenged any time.

And as my sweety would say, I kick ass at this job.

The change of job and change of city in which I’m living have coincided with a paycheck that I could actually enjoy. And that paycheck lead to me being able to subsidize English Guy and I actually meeting for the Labor Day weekend! We’d been spending hours talking online (I love Skype with every fiber of my being and should totally buy stock in it!!!) every single day and yet we worried that we’d have no face-to-face chemistry when in the same space. This turned out to be a ridiculous fear and the four days spent together were the most passionate and exciting of my life. Believe it or not, the great stone heart actually shed tears when I had to put him back on a plane.

Therefore it’s great thrills and chills that I face his return a week from Sunday.

I could go on and on and I will over the coming weeks and months I hope, but I’ll wrap this up with the following incredibly unlike me gushing:

He’s amazing. He’s brilliant and so damned mature (especially for his age but even without that caveat) and he gets me like nobody ever does. He makes me laugh, and even more important he lets me make HIM laugh! We have a ton in common – so much so that it shifted somewhere along the line from quaint and cute to almost creepy – and his voice can melt me like butter on popcorn every. Single. Time…

Just wait. There WILL be more.