Much Ado Over....Nothing Importnat

I realized when downsizing, I would most likely lose some of my precious kitchen cabinets, perhaps, a closet or two….what I didn’t realize, is that this kitchen? The one in which I’m attempting to find homes for say, anything of use and/or value? Has odd sized cabinets. Oddly small cabinets and drawers. The smallest one piece silverware drawer divider, for example, is HUGE comparatively speaking, to say, the drawer. Now, as I seem to attract all sets of silverware like moths to a flame, I have indeed, a place setting for at least eight, and in some instances, twelve, including things like soup spoons, steak and butter knives…three sizes of forks, long handled iced tea (really, they should call them ice cream) spoons, and believe it or not, grapefruit spoons.

Yes. That’s a lot of spoon options.

Now, I’m stuck with Limited Options in where to STORE said spoons. Not to mention knives, forks, cooking utensils….oh, the dishes look lovely - the ones that I picked up when I returned all that unused really expensive wedding china we got, for which I still had the receipts - seriously. They were in the boxes. They fit quite well in the cabinet. Notice. Lack of “s” after that last word. Cabinet. ONE cabinet can hold glasses and dishes, the other’s, need be designated to hold something (anything really) else - did I mention, there is no pantry? Am I living in Europe? Am I supposed to shop for the Bottomless Pit everyday?

Don’t misunderstand - I adore the condo. It’s cute. It’s quaint. It has mostly hardwood floors, a first floor master, which I’m learning to live with, a finished basement with an office larger than my bedroom, and enough rooms for H to run wild.

But. Damn. The kitchen is only large enough to count as one for the building inspector.

Sadly, I’ll be making yet another trip out to return this last batch of dividers; one can’t just have thier silver flying willy nilly around the drawer! That just won’t do.

I’ve sold most of the furniture, which I’m thrilled about - this whole Starting Fresh is rather liberating. I think? I’m really getting into this whole purge thing while moving. So far, I’ve counted (really, I counted) I’ve unloaded about 49 trash bags full of…..crap, mostly I think….toys, sheets, towels, blankets, clothes, baby stuff, xmas ornaments - anything that remotely reminded me of B is hitting the road.

As 12/5 is our court date, I can only hope that he’ll be hitting the road as well!!

The Wedding is over, and while the post-wedding weekend nausea still lingers, at least I don’t have to don a satin (which I looked really fat in) dress back on, and parade around in the biggest parody of familial harmony I’ve ever been party to. Yep, I read at the ceremony - even teared up in fact - but mostly? due to the fact that I got cheated, and the ceremony was lovely, not really because I believe in the couple. Oh, I know that sounds bad, and maybe it is - and perhaps, I’ve merely a jaded view right now of marriage, but really, this whole experience did not bring my sister and I closer together as my mother had hoped - it more proved to me why I married the jerk I did, and how to avoid that in the future.

Like by boycotting marriage altogher.

Except really? I don’t think I can do that.

I go places with M, all dressed to the nines, and he toasts my success with the big Holy Very Scary Department of Ins exam (which I took, and passed on the first try!!) and the closing on the new condo, and got all teary-eyed and well? My ring finger feels naked. It just….aches for something shiny, and platinum….not, mind you, that I’m saying it’s M. Heaven only knows who it will/might be - I’m just saying. It happens when he’s around. Of course, at the moment, he doesn’t want to get married, and, it’s not like either of us is even fully divorced yet (boy, is THAT dragging on…..but, I’ve a trial date! 12/05/07) but sometimes? I think even he thinks about it. Not necessarily with me, mind, just in general.

He’s very good to me. So good in fact, I’m not quite sure what to do with it - and while he’s still a bag of mixed signals, mostly, I think, he’s terrified of me. He’s convinced that if he falls in love with me, I’ll turn into the Broadzilla’s he’s married before, and will treat him like shit. Funny thing is, like the morning, when I picked up some printer toner, as he was out, he practically threw it at me, as it he cannot accept that someone wants to do something nice for him. I gave him an earful. Just how he does all these very thoughtful, wonderfully sweet things for me, the least he could do (and I mean the VERY least) is smile, say thank you, and feel touched that someone gives a shit enough to make sure he doesn’t spend three weeks bitching about not being able to print at his house, as he’s no toner. That just because Other People have made him feel as though he doesn’t deserve nice things done to and for him, doesn’t mean they are correct. More often? It means they were wrong.

That’s what friends are for. Right?

K. I”m off, to meet with A Possible New Barracuda Of A Lawyer…….as taking a stand is hard, but doing it alone is harder. Always always always have good ammo, and a mean neanderthal with a stick at your side if you can. That way, you can cower behind said neanderthal, goading them on from the sidelines, but avoiding any major bloodshed yourself.

At least, that’s my plan.

My Babies are in heaven

B fucked up so badly, I'm not entirely sure I won't kill him. But, there's been enough of that today....

He had Lucy Goose, Horace, and Baby Gauge for the weekend, at his request. Apparently, he went and stayed with his girlfriend, and left them home alone, during a heat wave, with no food or water. He's had issues with the neighbor before; when they went to investigate the THREE DAY LONG BARKFEST, they were "attacked".

He left my babies home alone, with no food, no water. The neighbors pressed charges, saying the dogs were dangerous; there's a court order that they need to be exterminated.

Thus.

Lucy has gone to the big heaven in the sky, with her brothers. I stayed with Lucy Goose, the first one to go, the one who grew up with Foxy, met him the first day he came home from the hospital; I held her close, my hand over her heart, so I could make sure that she went peacefully. And then, Gauge. Finally, Horace.

I can hardly type, much less breathe. They saved my life, one day, when B got.....out of control - and now, I have to put them down.

It’s too bad, really, as the one who should have been put down, won’t be, and the ones that shouldn’t were.

Dinner Date

I’m supposed to be showering off the effects of both a quite excitingly stressful day - started the new job - and, a VERY FUCKING STRESSFULL 36 hours, to get ready to head to the Capitol Grille for dinner, with M. I’m thrilled about dinner; I only wish that the last 36 hours could either be further away from now? or, not occurred at all. I’m exhausted, from the mental and emotional roller coaster ride; I’m quite fearful I’ll doze off during dinner.

Like before it’s even served.

However, in honor of this auspicious occasion, I’ve purchased a new pair of three inch black Ann Klein shoes, with the wicked cutie little bow on the peep toe, as really, one needs new shoes in times of stress. Plus. Ahem. M has already seen all the shoes I own - both pairs - so clearly, I needed to add to the er, collection.

I also added new undies, which I’m giving considerable thought to wearing under my cranberry swing coat (it’s 50s and raining out here) sans……………dress………………you know, just to see if he notices. They’re cranberry too.

As I’d gotten news that just proves how big a dick some people can be, I wanted new things that have never seen the eyes of a man, at least, not on me, so I wouldn’t be remotely reminded of HIM while out having a good time. Because, clearly, the Dylan Rules apply: no talking about exes, work, how life is a zoo…..only smiles, and laughter, having a great time, and remembering that life is fabulous, with much to offer.

So it’ll be a bit of a stretch on my end. I’ll let him do most of the talking. Or maybe, we’ll just stare into each other’s eyes all night. He’s sooooo damn funny. He sends me the email invite, from the Grille, complete with weather info! so I can plan accordingly, what I wear (yes, he already knows I’m a huge clothes horse…but so is he) and all I care about honestly, is spending the night with him. Staring at him. I cannot seem to get enough - only then, the room feels too hot, and I get all flustered, so I have to look away…only to be drawn back in. He has the most amazing eyes.

He’s too damn cute. He knows that I prefer to get to a great resturaunt, in time to have a snotty cocktail at the bar, partially sipped, so I can watch the matre’ di carry it to my table, while I sashay behind him in impossibly high but still comfy heels. Heels I’ll kick off, while ordering with impeccable manners, so I can tuck my toes up under me. I always find the chairs too damn low! I hate feeling as though I’m sitting at a high chair.

But………………………….already? Thinking about tonight? Lots of today just melted away.

I don’t know where the two of us are going?

But I kind of like where we are. A lot.

Voice Overs

The words just tumbled out of me today - totally uncontrolled, white-hot, ugly; they burned both me and him. My tongue, his feelings, stung both our pride. I don’t know how to go back and undo that moment - and boy, do I wish I could - I went from tying to get away, and find a way to process the fact that I think he’s bored with me in bed, and maybe, out of it, and shit, maybe B was right, and I went from great to sucky in a short time, only to find that it’s not at all like riding a bike - maybe I just stayed bad in bed. I’m so egotistical to think I’m good in it - only to find I couldn’t get him….to…er…finish. So instead, as I lay there in what used to be Her Side of the bed, and then, took a shower in what used to be Her Shower, dried off with Her Towels, it just hit me…maybe, just maybe?

He wished I was Her.

I felt totally …. shamed. All these things that B used to say, that I’d shoved behind this huge door, and stuffed a fat man in front of, came flooding back, and I’m driving, to get H, and he’s called, left a message - he thinks that I found something, or something happened to H, and I wouldnt’ tell him - and he just doesn’t get it. I should - no, I need - to talk to him, not leave him wondering what in hell happened. Only in my head, I only hear B, and his white-hot words flooding my mind, screaming in my ears, making me doubt every step I’ve made since then.

Why am I to think that someone might fall for me?

How do I start that conversation? The one raging in my head, with voice overs of B, drowning out every sane thing I’ve got to say, pounding into me I’m Stupid, Useless, A Really Lousy Lay, I would be Lucky To Have Him Love Me, No One Else Will.

What am I supposed to say? I feel a failure for not getting you off? I wondered if you’d rather I was a long legged blond who treated you so poorly it makes my stomach churn and my heart ache? That maybe, somewhere along the way, I think perhaps a tiny piece of me has fallen for you, and I can’t let that happen, because you won’t? I won’t be the first one to share my Halloween candy; I’m not sending cards I won’t get back, or emails that go unanswered; I won’t be That Girl who falls for Mr. Unavailable.

Been There. Done That. He married someone else.

Nope. I have to call him back, attempt to be gracious, and get time to marshall my thoughts, frame my words - and then he just…pressures me into telling him, and he got this voice, like it wasn’t important, and he didn’t even call me back. I … snapped…something ugly, uncalled for, mean. Really mean. Low even. I immediately apologized - but, like all burns, it was too late. All the butter in the world was not going to soothe this one.

He thinks I wanted an apology! I don’t want - nor do I need - an apology from him - and that’s whats quite confusing; how we went from the fact that I feel a failure, to I was blaming him! I’d never blame him for my feelings….

Either way, it seems, the outcome is the same. I’m going to bed with no goodnight call. Without his voice in my ear.

More alone than I’ve felt in a long time.

Banging Away....

Had yet more issues with B - and this time, it’s just rich. He’s reneged on his weekend with Fox, only it’s opening weekend for the show, so I’ve had to scamble and make sure it’s covered - and then, after this huge blow up, when he’s all sinisterly up in my face, with me against the front porch wall, trying my damndest to decide hit him? or not hit him? when I’m saved, because here comes Fox….cut to - he calls me, sobbing, at ten at night.

Hysterical.

About losing the house, the girlfriend, the kids, me, whatever. The roller coaster just climbs to the top, again. Only this time?

I don’t think I’m buying the ticket. I could linger here, with his vast array of shit, serving only to upset me, should I dwell upon it, and oddly enough, it wasn’t until I told M, that I realized just how fucked in the head he truly is. Quite. Fucked. Really.

And M thought I might want him back!!

Trust me on this one: I sooo do not. I’m all set, thank you. I left my ticket to the ride on the desk, turned my cell to silent, and continued on with my night. Yep, he wanted to come up north, evidently was going to, until I assured B that if he stepped foot in this town, I’d place him under 72 hour hold, with his friends in White, and the Looney Bin. Could be what he needs most. He went fishing, apparently; wanted me to tell him not to fall in, I passed on that opportunity.

It wasn’t til M said something about me sounding sorry for him - I do feel badly for him - in the same way I feel badly that starving mountain nomads refuse to do anything different that what is traditionally done, because that would break tradition. I pity him. And not in the good way. In the sick get away from me twisted way.

I hope M gets that - I don’t want him wondering if I’m carrying around this array of deep abiding affection for someone who treated me badly.

If anything? I feel marginally guilty that B moved me to…..nothing last night, other than supreme irritation that he even called me.

Honestly. I spent a long time banging away at a lot of this stuff - now however?

I simply cannot be bothered.

Running toilets....and men

My toilet is still running.

It’s relatively new, this toilet, being a mere two years old, so honestly? I don’t think it should be having issues with it’s floaty-ball thingie that hovers amid the water line, leaving it to run and run and run ad nauseum. Clearly, there should be someone to fix it, and yes, there is, he’s called a plumber, but I think really? There should be Someone In Particular that fixes it.

Along with a whole host of other things. Things, mind you, I can do myself? But would feel as though I were being taken care of, pampered even, without the tiresome massage, and, with a noticable difference in my living situation. Light bulbs, up high, in the hallway back here by the back door leap to mind. Obviously, the floaty-ball thingie.

Which. Is. Still. Running.

Like how my mind keeps coming back to this nebulous concept of love, how to find it, how to sustain it, nurture it, grow it, bask in it. I don’t know how to do that. I can see things for other people - a little frightening, I know, but it’s there - and so far? I’ve been right on. But me? That I can’t see. I know how I think I feel, but I don’t know if it’s love, and if it is, it’s totally different from what I thougth it was, or had with anyone else….we’ve a deep abiding friendship, which I’ve managed to rock, significantly, with a whole array of my Usual Shit, but I think the foundation is there. I like him. I trust him. He’s met, and stayed with Fox, when I’ve had other stuff (read: rehearsal) to do, and he’s great with him. He should be. He has kids, and he’s an awsome dad. It just … shows. Even when he’s not with his kids, he’s thinking about his kids, what he’s got planned for his kids….and he gets H. H adores him.

There’s a line in the show, about being a miser with love, and finally, having to just forgive husbands, ourselves, and more forward - it’s the only way to go really, forward. But I don’t know how to do that. I like to know where I’m going to end up, I don’t do limbo - and isn’t limbo when you fall in love?

He’s told me, up front, not to fall in love with him. Only he wants to fall in love with me, he cannot bring himself to. He’s scared. I’m scared too! Which is when it hit me today: the ONE thing that Judy taught me, along with Jim, is the only true gifts in life are the people that love you. Love them. Tell them you do. The rest of it is up to them. You win some, you lose some, but in the end, you’re a better person for having loved.

I’m not saying I’m IN love. Lord knows he’d shit if he thought that. But. He’s important to me. In ways I couldn’t even begin to describe. For that, I’m quite thankful.

Now. Fix the damn toilet, and he’d be golden.

A toast, to Judy

A toast to Judy

A Very Dear Friend passed away this week.

Shocking, to all of us on the one hand, as she’d finally be handed a notice of sorts from the surgeons - she’s looking good! - only to find, that well, she really wasn’t. Or perhaps, it was simply, her time. Either way, he came home, from getting her meds, and found her. Or rather, her shell still lurking on Earth, but the rest of her, floating away into the netherworld, away from those of us that loved her.

I sat, to write him, after baking failed me, and I broke down, three times putting together a lasagna. I’m so bereft, I’m speechless. I attempted to find a way to put into prose, a tribute to this amazing woman, whose warmth, light and heart lit us all, all that she touched, all her life.

Which is when I remembered. Jim and I have lunch, quite frequently; not frequently enough, honestly, but often enough that we’ve a pattern. One day, not long ago, I was bemoaning my single status, how I’m selling a house that had not been christened; he quite off the cuff, told me that he’d not had sex in five years, ever since Judy’s first surgery, and while the bills piled up, and the kids grew, the housework became his - I’ll never forget this - he says to me:

I’ve never loved her more, than I do at this moment. Not when we first were married, or when the kids came - but now, when she’s totally my life, I love her more than I did standing at the alter.

I can hardly type, as it is, recalling the look on his face. Judy is his life. Was his life.

I told Jim today, that we’re only as strong as how well we’ve loved - by that stadard, he’s the strongest man I know. It’s quite cold comfort to hope that one day, I’m so well loved - and I am; I’ve wonderful friends, family, loved ones.

I’m just down one today.

So Judy, a toast: may you always know how loved and missed you are, as you’ll live in our hearts forever.

MBA or Bust.

Working on Graduate School aps is a lot like staring into the bowels of Hell - detail a hero or mentor that most influenced you and why; what is your assesment of Business Practices on the small business environment, and what would you do to change that, or….choose your own topic. Really. Why should I be allowed into a program of higher learning?

It would appear, I’ve done all my Essential Learning, outside of school - afterall, I can cook complete, nutritious and varried meals, using only a toaster oven, microwave, or open flame. I am the only human on earth, that can sear things, including the charred edges! in the microwave, and can turn out a five course gourmet meal, using only the ingredients in my pantry. I can create costumes from the items lurking at the bottom of my bags, on very short notice, and, I can feed an army of five, out of my glove box. I’m constantly prepared, for any emergency: be it canine or homosapien, automotive or septic.

I have located earring backs out of the central vacuum, along with three army guys, and one clear lego window.

I can diaper small children while on the run - both them, and me - and, I can drive while also chatting on the phone, applying lip liner, drinking a snotty coffee, and doing all the voices in Nightmare Before Christmas. I’ve amassed a six hundred dollar shopping bill at Sams club, without a list, in under 25 minutes, and, I can pack all of it into the back of a Toyota Highlander Hybrid.

I’ve sold AM Radio, successfully, which is something few can lay claim to, and, I did it all while wearing Lucky Black Pants, and cutie heels; I can walk three dogs simultaneously, nicely, and, manage an office of ten, without breaking a sweat. I’m creative, funny, smart, and cute - yet somehow, I doubt that my wardrobe alone proves enough business savvy to get me an interview. If you throw in my dating experience, you could say I’ve created Something from Absolutely Nothing, which should come in handy when composing business proposals, and, I can talk Christ off the cross.

I’m aptly qualified, I think, to attend Marketing classes.

Perhaps, then, I should simply keep it short and sweet:

Multi-tasker seeks position that combines real-world experience with client-oriented business savvy, bringing a unique perspective to the marketing and brand driven table. Ass-kissing fact checker, with fully stocked creative bag for hire. Have fabulous black suit, matching pumps, and killer teeth.

Will kill if necessary to acquire position.

Hmmm. Think my chances are good of acceptance???

I used to bake when I was angry, tired, upset, frustrated - all the reasons why some of us eat, or dive head first into those single serve one pint containers of Ben and Jerry’s - only to find that the creaming of butter and sugar together no longer soothed me the way it once did.

I switched to cleaning; only to find that scrubbing, back-breaking labor made my body ache, but my mind stayed alive and unrested.

I took up running; sweating out the frustration of dealing with B, screaming children, barking dogs, piled up bills - in all the running away I did, I think, I came full circle.

I got up this morning, peered into the pantry, and like a long lost lover finding her way home, fingered the cake flour. Standing there, the box indenting my hand, I felt the last week or so start to drain away - going further when I located the sugar, baking soda and powder, uncorking the wickedly expensive vanilla from William’s Sonoma. I’ve not baked in so long, really truly baked, that it feels quite good to warm up the oven, lovingly butter the pans, lightly dust with flour, prepare them for the delicious outcome of my endeavors.

B settled slowly into the back of my mind as I whisked together the oil and sugars, sweet potatoes baking in the oven, readying themselves for smashing; eggs warming on the counter, as you always always always get better structure with warmish eggs. I found my rythem in the whisking; eggs incorporating ever so slowly, one at a time, into the sugars, the flour sifted, garnished wtih cinnamon, cloves, ginger, vanilla powder.I built a fortress in cake, only to find at one point, it didn’t protect me - either the frosting gave way, or the cake burned; I’d lost my touch, my feel, my sense of direction.

This morning? It came back. Like falling in love; only better. Putting ones heart into ones baking is a must; finding ones heart in oneself all over again?

Just icing on the cake

Haunting....

Faced down some demons last night -some mine, some not - got up unrested, as really, I don’t consider laying in an unfamiliar bed, next to someone else, who’s facing away from me, terribly restfull. Nor, does it count for actual sleeping time. I’d too many ghosts to slay for that. She was standing by the bedside, what I suppose would be her side, and me? The interloper? Well. I got asked this am if I wanted to see a photo of her; I replied, thank you no - totally skipping the why do I need confirmation about who was staring at me all night long??? It was creepy, in the same way I suppose, that anyone entering into my bedroom, aka the Sacred Untouched Shrine, might feel as well. I always sleep on the side of the bed nearest the door - makes it easier to catch small foreign bodies that fling themselves willy-nilly over the duvet, or, to assist in the letting out of the Great Small Bladdered Danes currently residing here again. Either way, by default? That other side of the bed? I suppose it goes by the moniker of his side.

Maybe that would be weird for someone else - but I’m not too sure that guys see it that way. I think they’re slightly more focused, more pragmatic: they don’t care which side of the bed they’re on, so long as they’re in bed, with a possibly (or soon to be possibly) naked woman, they skip all inuendos regarding bedside ownership.

I envy that.

Then again, she hasn’t been gone all that long; her presence still lingered, bitterly in the hall, clung to the cornice, slipped from the bathroom mirror when I went to brush my teeth, with his toothbrush. He may have picked me up some contact stuff, but, well, my oral hygiene got left to my own devices. I’m not squeamish: if I can happily slurp down water sporting the backwash remnants from being shared, surely, a little toothbrush action isn’t beneath me. But she was still there. The funny part? He gets it that the house doesn’t feel like home anymore, but he cannot place why - and my guess? Again, a girl thing. He wants warmth, and light, airy coziness that screams Sink Into This Couch! Cook A Meal At This Counter! Spend Time With Me!! - but he’s yet to get that he’s got to get rid of the 12 years of relationship detritus that goes along with her removing what furniture she wanted: which, should you be curious? Is damn near all.

I like him. Really. I do. But I’m not sure I’m cut out for this part - being the stronger of the two - will he realize that I’m just as fragile as he? That I need the kid gloves too? Oh, he gets it, I’m not a morning person, and my bedhead is indeed legendary. He’s accepting of the fact that I may indeed lay claim to all of my favorites of his button down shirts. I adore the way he dresses, and mostly, how he treats me like a queen - I just sometimes wish? He told me how great I looked a little more. But then, really, shouldn’t I be handling that myself? He’s attentive, he’s sweet. He’s NOT DF. Or J. Thank God, there was nary a tightie-whitie in view - I dug around in the closet when he wasn’t looking. I don’t consider it spying. More like……necessary checking. I know he’s holding back, just like me, and that’s okay too.

I suppose, I just wish I’d had the chance to spend the night with him without The Haunting.

Commence Swearing

I’ve fucking had it up to my eyeballs. I’m so close to the breaking point, I might actually have already passed it, but be currently unaware of that fact - not even walking two miles with the dogs, while carrying the long-handled frog net calmed me tonight, and that was after my stint at kickboxing this am, where we beat the shit out of “people” like kickbags with escreame sticks. Think: large heavy golf club hits ocibital bone. Instant blindness. Or, as I was hitting it, death.

Naturally, B would be at the heart of much of this - he’s totally fallen off the fucking wagon, and taken the wheels with him. He won’t file his divorce paperwork? Fine. I’ll go in, and change the grounds, thereby cirmventing this whole He’s Got Five Years To Dick Me Around Nonsense. Does it mean I have to give a deposition on all the shit he pulled while we were married? Yes. Wanna bet how I feel about that? You got it. Pissed to all hell and beyond. I filed a motion for child support; in the middle of all of this, I discover that he had ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS TO GET HIS GUNS BACK - something I was promised wouldn’t happen - he should be in jail for the suspended license to carry, for a RESTRAINING ORDER, but well. He convinced someone he was okay, and I was a nutjob, and well, now he’s armed to the fucking teeth.

Did I mention, he’s not taking his meds?

That’s right. The state of MA demanded through DSS that he remain medicated, for the rest of his natural life (which if you ask me, ended a long time ago, and now, he’s just on borrowed time til I figure out how to kill him and get away with it) so now I’ve also had to face down any mother’s worst nightmare, and go ask them to get involved. You know, because he doesn’t feed the kids, or he feeds them candy, and then when they crash, which inevitably will occur, he yells at them. They locked themselves in a bathroom, got naked, and stamped each other, along with a whole host of other questionable (to say the very least) activities, all with B’s gf’s daughter, who, and this is from BOTH kids, was the instigator. Where was B or C? might you ask. Good question. I suspect? Getting it on. On the kitchen counter. They didn’t even notice til nearly a half hour had gone by. They don’t bathe or brush teeth when theyr’e there, and, if M and I don’t bring over food? There isn’t any for the kids. DSS loved that.

To add insult to injury, I get a call yesterday, at about four or so, telling me the dogs, for whom he is supposed to be caring, have not eaten since Friday, and they’re starting to get pissy. Could I either fix his upsidedown bank account (to the tune of EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS) so he can go buy dog food, or, just come get them?

Enroute, I find out (thank goodness H fell asleep; he would’ve learned a whole new vocabulary) the truck will be repo’d, the house is going into foreclosure (again) and his electricity is seconds away from being turned off. Which will really piss him off, because he’s paid the cable bill. Are you serious??? Oh, right, he throws in, and his grandmother passed away. Yesterday, at 3pm. So. He’ll be coming north with me, and staying with me for the furneral etc, which isn’t til Thursday night.

Uh………NO. You’re not.

He looks dreadful; sounds worse, and his precious guns? Laying around the house, no trigger locks on, just laying there. Staring at him. Evidently, in some cases? Loaded. He’s not eaten. Not slept. No meds. Probably broke up with C; so really, we should reconcile. I called Claire. Honestly? And yes, I know this sounds bad: I don’t think that either his first ex-wife M or I should be the ones to find him, when he offs himself. That’s her job now. She said she wanted to take him on. She lectured me on what a horrific parent I am, how all this shit with B was MY fault; and now, the shit hit the fan? She’s history.

I’m fucking pissed. And, I feel guilty. He’s sooo damn good at emotional manipulation and blackmail, it’s unbelieveable! I know better than to get sucked in by him, but it’s soooo hard not to.

Funny. I left last night, feeling like the lowest of the low, leaving him to kill himself, which he all but told me he was going to do, twirling around a loaded gun, that I took out of his hands; I kept looking at H, thinking I’ve got to do something. Anything.

I’ve nothing to feel guilty for. I don’t know why I keep getting suckered in by his array of shit; I swear, all teh time, that that’s the last straw; but it’s so tough to outrun him.

But I’m trying. God knows, I’m giving it the best I’ve got. So far tonight? I’ve run two miles further from him. It’s at least a start.

Now, if I can quit calling him a m-fing cocksucker, in public, I might be making some REAL progress.

Porn Peddler?

I have decided what I’m going to do with all that pent up sexual frustation - no, I’m not going to unearth the vibrator from it’s hiding place under the tub, supply it with fresh batteries, and drive myself up to the top,but not over the edge; nor am I going to continue down a torturous and equally unsatisfying path with someone we know, nor, lastly, am I hopping upon any available male specimen that wanders through my field of vision.

I think instead, I’ll supply the erotic writing industry with it’s next lastest best-seller.

If the cries of delight and crisis I got over the phone not too long ago are any indication? I’m rather creative. Kind of good at the whole What Would I Do To You Thing…and, well. Let’s be totally honest: now that I’ve composed an eloquent (his word, not mine) Grown-Up We’re Friends, Let’s Respect That Of Each Other email, it’s not like I can fall back into being the one to break it with an X (or triple x) rated late night text. Plus? Joe doens’t answer if I text him, in any sense, so why waste perfectly good erotic novel ideas of a man with no imagination, or, answering abilities. I could wax poetic on why it is that he doesn’t repond - I think he’s too invested in me, if you know what I mean - but in the end run, it certainly fails to matter, at least on my radar.

Also, I got to thinking, I’ve read some of what’s out there, and it lacks a good deal of…real world availability. Sure, it’s fun the first time around, to get the flutter reading about what someone else could/would/might/want to do, in an erotic romance novel kind of way - but it’s not something that’s exciting more than once, mostly, I think, because I don’t buy the characters. Silly, I realize - it’s why porn has no plot; guys don’t care about plot, subtext, feelings - at least any that extend beyond the end of a perfectly good erection.

However. Women do. And we’re the ones, according to my research, that reach for this stuff, carefully hidden under the bed, or in the drawer, when hubby is either MIA on a business trip, or, losing the battle in the final frontier of Divorce Court.

What’s a girl to do, I ask you?

Now, if I have any luck in this endeavor at all, she’ll buy what I turn out, be turned on, and have the best nights of her life - even if the only company she has is her own.

All I need is a pen name - my mother (not to mention some other’s I know) would SHIT BRICKS if she had any clue what I was up to - although, I must admit, I may have to tell her if I find one of these little gems tucked under her bed - and I suppose, should this be profitable, printed in several different languages, spanning the globe (sort of like counting the orgasms before they arrive, though, hmmm?) I may have to admit that her daughter is a prolific erotic novelist.

Before that happens however, I should at least sit down to pen and paper, or more aptly, keyboard and moniter, and bang a few out. Ahem. Pardon the pun.

Surf's Up

It’s quite funny, isn’t it? The impetus to change, wherein it lies, or how it hits. Also, how many ripples in the lake it makes, on it’s way to finally hitting the shore -

In this case, it’s followed by the always hot, always steamy, always troublesome DF sighting, texting, and coming. As usual, the Moral Hangover followed, emails commenced, and he hit a nerve. A REALLY big one. He insinuated that I’d slurred his wife, whom I never refer to by name, mind you, and was derogatory in manner….

Let’s just skip ahead, shall we, past the moral issues, and the personal flogging, the breaking of all the promises I made myself …. and jump right to: he wanted to do it over email, as he knew how I get when I’m embarrassed, and he didn’t want to do that to me. He allows me to hide behind my moniter, my cell phone, my sense of pride and propriety. (sorely lacking, yes, I realize in several moments) And now? I’m pissed.

I think I’ve finally found Mel. In all her inimitable wisdom, her firey spirit, her Kiss Ass and Take Names attitude, the fact that I never was going to allow myself to become someone I didn’t respect.

I’m not hiding. I made an appointment to go see D, and tell him, once and for all, several things. First and foremost, like him, I do not want to lose a friendship with someone I like and respect, however, there are some new ground rules. This, for the record, is where the stone dropped in the lake, and the ripples just went on for miles. I’m not a pushover; I never was. I learned to hide from confrontation with B, and now that he too has pushed me again, to the wall and nearly over it, I’m starting small, and working my way up. I am GOING to tell D exactly how I feel (well, mostly, not the whole When Harry Met Sally kind of thing, or even the Best Friends Wedding part) just that the stupid chemistry needs to find a new outlet - whether it’s chatting about mundane things and working on being a grownup, to finally giving myself the chance to see him as a human, and not as the God I’ve put on the pedestal.

Next, I’m going after B, once and for all. Oh, I’ve said it before, but this time? I’m meeting with the lawyer, and redoing the divorce. I may even go and change the grounds under which I filed, but really, I suppose the whole finalized point is this:

Mel is back in town. And she’s not fucking around anymore.

Since when did I let pasivity and the Easy Button become my M.O.? Quite frankly, I’ve been standing under this avalanche, shivering, breathing shallowly because I know, I know that once I take a deep breath, or shift my weight, it’s all going to come crashing down. It has. The snow and ice, the detritus from so many things balanced precaiously on the edge smashed me in the head, and maybe, that’s all I needed. I should no longer be afraid of B, he should be afraid of me - isn’t that what I’ve worked so damn hard to acheive? Kickboxing for taking him on physically, finding ways to outwit him mentally, being a good parent, and good friend, only to find that in the end, I still feel like a caged animal without an escape hatch.

Someone important to me, who’s enabled me to be less than I can be, and should be, pointing out that he’s handed me the easy way out.

The Easy Button? It works for Staples. Not for Real Life.

If I’m really the grown-up I say I am, then it’s time: I’ve unearthed her. I don’t know where she’s been hiding, and yes, I too think it’s odd, rediculous, yet strangely inspiring, that the one man whose hold over me has never waned, is the one setting this - unknowingly! on his part - in motion.

I’d send him some white chocolate covered strawberries as a thankyou, but seriously. He’d think I meant more than I do, and it’s way to complex to explain it - plus, I think it shatter several of his pre-conceived, and possibly at some time correct notions about me - which I’m not ready to do.

Either way, in summation, the lake has the giant wake of the stone that got dropped - I’m grabbing my surfboard, and my suit - the cutie one - and I’m riding it out. For better or worse? I’m getting divorced. I’m taking my child, and my dogs, my pride and my self-respect, and we’re headed for shore.

My Blueberry Heaven

What exactly, does one do with 21 pounds of blueberries?

I suppose, I could freeze them for the winter, but, honestly, I’ve got this bee in my bonnet about making jam. I’ve heard it’s difficult, and pissy; not to mention, a bitch to jar, seal, and store…and all that after boiling it to the point of no return. However, the soothing qualities of being amassed in steam, wafting up from open pans boiling and burbling in continuem, renders me nealy comatose with longing to take on this project. Plus, I’ve pied my way to eternity and beyond, with six to deliver to various and sundry neighbors, friends, strangers….add in the lemon scented pound cake studded with ripe, juicy blueberries - so many it took an extra 20 minutes to bake - and I’m really starting to warm to the jam idea.

First, according to the ‘erections, as H calls them, I need about ten pounds of sugar, jam jars with the vacuum seal lids, and roughly 10 pounds of blueberries. I’ve more than that, but sure, we’ll start small. No need to go nuts, yes? Lemons, fresh are a must - supposedly you may use concentrate, by why bother, when the fresh are so much better? And time. I don’t want to rush the measuring, the boiling, hearing the gentle swell of fruit coming to a boil - perhaps, while it’s boiling, I’ll pop some muffins in the oven…

Amid all the snarky ex-husband issues that have dominated my week, and the drunken excess to which I fully participated, the show, job hunting and selling the house, I find myself embracing even this one afternoon of solitude and peace, occassionally punctuated by the rising aroma of blueberry something baking away, jam on the stove, as a break from the hassle and bustle of Real Life in this age.

How lovely would it be, to slip back in time?

Scratch that. I’d be stuck with outhouses, jarring everything I could find for winter, and turning my leftover potato sacks into clothing and mittens to gaurd against the harsh winter ahead.

Perhaps, then, all the better to brew some hot, fresh, strong tea,don an apron, and focus on carfully hulling berries. If only for one afternoon, to slip into My Blueberry Heaven, where the only thing of demanding importance lies in adding pectin and sugar, lemon juice and love to a bubbling cauldron, then seived and divded among very clean glass jars.

Phantom Pain

Ever notice how getting over loving someone, especially from afar, is akin to losing a limb? There is the initial horrendous shock, the subsequent pain, the terror or becoming disfigured, and finally, the lingering phantom pain that continues whenever you pass a particular cologne, resturaunt, airport or empty bedside. I must say, I was quite proud of myself - I’d finally stopped looking for him everywhere I went, hoping to run into him, and fingering the text option on my cellphone like an addict - especially when intoxicated, which honestly? I’ve been WAY to much recently.

So imagine my shock, when I finally (finally!) meet someone who is classy, sharp, funny, sweet - who is a little intense and it scare me - only to find that the one I’ve wanted for soooooooooo damn long was not only at the same place, with his beloved, but, I didn’t even notice him.

Evidently, my presence didn’t go unnoticed. Nor did my inability to see him, across the bar, with Her. Masses of hair, incidentally, and an aura of don’t fucking touch me that emanated around the room. Funny thing though, that I was so focused on Mr. Maybe, that I totally missed my Mr. Perfect.

Sadly, however, as all good things do indeed come to an end, I got a late night text, while I was sipping water (two very late nights, including dragging a gf off both the bar where we were dancing, in four inch heels, to carrying up the steps of my house to bed is a lot for me!) sitting with Mr. Maybe, aka M. And he comments on my Boys At Via. I’m blown away, and went suddenly cold and clammy, and then hot and furious. So amusing that one can detect scorn across a text portal! I respond, jealous much?

And, naturally, he is. And, as usual, my Won’t Power deserted me, leaving me at the mercy of my Will Power. Never a good idea. It’s just as it always it - hot text, that scorched nearly everything it touches, including me, that goes for hours, with photo accompiament, (holy cow) and now, I’m left with the Left Hung Hangover, along with the Moral Hangover - which I shouldn’t have, since I didn’t start it. HE did.

Either way - the phantom pain is back.

The only upside? When my phone died and I lost my Ego Building Hard-on proof that I erected without ever even touching him, now I’ve a replacement.

Taking a page from a Pilates instructor I once had, I closed my eyes, shifted my weight, hanging percariously by my meager, weak, abs, legs partially aloft, and, as she says, deep, dreamy voilet tinged voice echoing through the cavernous room at the Y where I took: imagine. serenity. peace. details. those are the things that sustain you.

The carpet digging into my back fell away, and for once, I’m transported someplace friendly, warm, inviting; The Inside of A Cookbook. The words, accompanying photos looming large; myself small, unobtrusive, absorbed wholly in the careful listing of ingredients, their precise measurements comforting, whole, ordered. How life is so like the recipies: the sharp tang of lemon zest against the smooth, silky background of a buttery pound cake, hinting of vanilla, topped with thick, clotted cream. Friendship blossoms between orange rind and rum, coating dry cakes, infusing the dull ordinary with drama, flavor, a bit of piratic exoticism.

I swear, if I could spend a day even in the bowels of a cookbook, immersed in both the instruction and the doing of soaking beans for chili, how to properly season, marinate and prepare tofu, I’d gladly don the apron and hot, grab up a whisk, bowl, spoon, leaping in without looking either at the author, or what exactly I prepared. There is order among choas in cookbooks, stocked with knowledge the privelaged few extrapolate from between pages gummed with greasy fingerprints, jotted notes, the ever present spilled egg white.

If only my hours, days, years - my entire life - was as well organized, thoughtfully laid out, carefully seasoned and tended as a cookbook. I’d be able to enjoy the salty rim of the margarita, abated by the eversweet triple sec snuggled inbetween layers of lime, ice, tequila, and froth. All sourness would find it’s matching sweet counterpart, arrayed with precise measurements, keeping life from being either too sweet, too bland, too ordinary, too weird, too artificial.

Measuring my success in terms of fluted, high, gorgeous souffle’s, the descendant, lingering drop of the egg yolk in to the bowl, sans sticky white, eggshell-less, perfect in circular symetry, a pie crust, flakey, hot, fresh from the oven, emitting apple aroma’s into neighboring kitchens. Good parenting equated with firm, full-flavored cupcakes, swirled with frosting brimming with butter, vanilla, sugar; well balanced meals harmonious with mini-palates, but pleasing in color, texture, completely satisfactory on their own. Being a doting wife presented on a plate with mutten of lamb, fresh mint jelly, crispy roasted potatoes, plump, green asparagus.

Some people fade into the sunset, or an island retreat; their grandmother’s living room, sparsely furnished, but rich in lived life…me? I climb into Betty Crocker, turn the page, take out four pounds of butter, and settle into a life where questions have answers, where the only things that burn are the ones left unattended.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my abs are burning, and the butter is ready for creaming.

Today, may be a good day afterall.

5K, or sex?

I finished my first ever 5K race today.

No. I didn’t win. I didn’t place. I’m lucky I managed to saunter across the finish line.

And really, by saunter? I mean, heaving myself, panting, sweaty, red-faced and bitchy over the white line in the sand, while the other fully-cooled off participants (yes, I was last) swapped oxygenating formulas, and hamstring stretches. It was a tad demoralizing, until I realized, a lot of really lazy folks stood around and watched the rest of us run, when they could easily have joined in the…..er……fun.

I certainly am not an Avid Runner - I’m slowly getting into it. I like the end part. The feel really good I finished part. I’m not so big on the sweaty middle you need endurance part.

I’m better at sex. That is my exercise of choice - my endurance is fabulous, the ending is awsome, and I’m so good he’d need a helmut. Not, mind you, that I’ve a Him in mind; just, in general. I can burn a lot of calories in my bed, or, on the countertop, floor, kitchen chairs - and while I’d get all hot and sweaty, at least I’m not a forty minute drive away from a shower! Plus also? I’d not have to wash my own back.

However, as I don’t really see that as a viable Keep In Shape Option, I’ve taken up running. Which I can do with J. We’re pals. Running partners. Even if his ass is to die for in his running shorts. And no, we’re not going to extend our mutually sweaty exercise regimens to include…getting sweaty together. Much as I’d like to.

However. The first one is done. The guys that drive behind the pack to make sure everyone gets back okay just had to follow me; but I made it. Over the hill. Past the big scary dog that tried to attack me, the three tag sales, over the finish line. I considered giving up; but, I had J waiting to make sure I crossed the line. He’d never let me live it down if I didn’t at least finish.

So, I suppose, I can be mediocre at running. So long as I retain the ability to be really fucking awsome in bed.

Love. Drool. Eat peanut butter. Everyday

My guys are smart. Today, they taught me several lessons. Love, really, is all you need.

Lay atop the ac vents, and when it’s this hot, stay out of the sun. At least, if you’re black. Pant, leaving drooling on the floor; wait for ice cubes to appear in the water dish. Follow the biggest, alpha dog around; she knows where all the good stuff is kept.

Chase bugs. Eat moths. Leave bees alone. Don’t eat mommy’s roses; they are delicious, but her approval is more so. Eat off the counter. All the bestest stuff lives up there. Lick the inside of the dishwasher, at least once; you never know what you might find. Carry an item, at all times, that smells of your loved ones. Especially their socks. They lose those anyway. Keep only what you can carry in your mouth, for long distances, alone.

Lick your backside, as you may be the only to do it. Do that wherever and whenever you please; no one else seems to mind. Belch when your tummy is upset, vomit only on the rug. It’s kinder on your feet, than the hardwoods.

Explore on your own, knowing that if you’re out there, doing your thing and you get skunked, the pack will always take you back. Even when you smell to high heaven, and then some. Drool. A lot. Over everyone. Leave paw prints on wet pants, wipe your mouth on the white chairs, drop fur on eveything. Then, you’ve loved them as yours.

Snarl when angry, pant when hot, snuggle regardless of the temperature, the location, or, the lack of room on the couch. Hide your pills in peanut butter: there is no better substance on earth. Eat off the floor. Check out the trash, and drink from the toilet - that’s where the coldest water lives.

Greet everyone who comes through your door enthusiastically, unless they smell threatening, and then, just show them your teeth. Kiss everyone you love, even if you can only reach their ass, and that’s all they’ll let you do. In the end, they know you care.

Gaurd your loved ones, your pack, your friends pack. Kiss when you want, even if your breath smells. Someone will think it’s the best ambrosia, and even if they don’t, they’ll still kiss you back. Forget how long they’ve been gone, how far they may have traveled without you - they’ve come back. They smell wonderful. Sniff away.

Laugh. Love. Drool.

It’s all you need.

Well. And peanut butter.

F-ing hot

Want to know hot?

I can tell you all about hot. It's not the dry heat - not that that's not hot, but really, it just cannot compare with 92 degrees, at 11:13am, with 92% humidity. Sweltering leaps to mind as a descriptor, yet, I'm not sure that even does this justice…I feel as though we're attempting to walk amid clam chowder - it's hot, thick, wet, and smells funny.

We've been up to the driving range, (no shade, lest you think we're standing in palpably cooler conditions whilst he whacks little white balls hither and yon) watched a bunch or really old men tee off, so he'd get some lessons on better form - we so know he won't get them from me. My golf….sucks. However. I dressed him appropriately, myself as well, so we at least looked the part of the Avid Golfers, Braving the Heat and Humidity, For The Sport.

I myself, added interest to the golfing outfit, by carrying the black Kate Spade bag onto the green.

Yes. I know. It's. Just. Not. Done.

I got over it. I assume they will too. When they gave me funny looks, I started name dropping, and was welcomed with open arms, as well as plied with questions about “those thar black dogs” I've got lolligagging around on my lawn. I resisted the urge (just barely) to say something along the lines of those were tame, highly specialized black deer (which, there really are, should you be wondering at my sincerity) but that might just invite curious naysayers, lookseers, and whatnot onto the yard, and I'm not that accomodating.

We're going swimming. In Jack's pool. That is, as soon as the burial that's occuring up in the cememtary is finished. Somehow, I think it's totally disrepectful of us to trollup through the underbrush, into the pool, in tiny little suits while the dead are being laid to their eternal reward.

Or, at least to the living, garbed in strict, straight black, who're roasting no doubt, as the temp reaches a scorching 100+ today.

(R)evolutionary Drosophilia, Part II

I remembered this post, written while still residing in My Dream Home after a phone from Mag's to tell me that my fruit fly trap most certainly interested them but failed in its ultimate goal: to catch them. Evidently, they're just a-hanging about the rim on the paper cone I trimmed to size, laced with wine (they do love a good cab - who doesn't, ya know?) and rotting fruit. 

Where have I gone wrong? I could have sworn this worked! I even kept the cap out for Mag's, for easy disposal! So when she called, to tell me they were all just chilling on the edge? I looked this up.

Only to find, I was wrong, and Mag's should NEVER take any drosphilia advice from me, as all I managed to do was create the X-Team of friggin' fruit flies. Sorry Mag's. However, below is how I know I suck at catching the elusive, nasty, invasive and annoying beasts:

Drosophila, a small, rapidly multiplying insect, lives a very short life span. They hatch from eggs, spend the first four hours of their young lives mutating into the full-winged drosopholia shortly before it begins to eat, find a mate, and lay nearly one hundred of it’s own eggs, before lazily hovering around, and then, dropping dead. It’s fascinating, that their entire life span is twenty-four of our hours. Not even dog years. They live One Full Day.

Interestingly, you might note, I seem to know a good deal about the elusive yet much seen drosophilia. I should. We did an expirement in highschool, where each team became a parent host, and we bred them, counting them each day, four times a day, to see how quickly our species was multiplying. And, counting mutations along the way. There were several “retarded” ones - one winged wonders that were never going to fly, or reproduce; ones without heads, or feet; and a running ton that were just fine. Healthy little guys…so long as we didn’t use too much ether to knock them flat while we counted them. Flash back to the homestead:

They’ve taken over my kitchen. They pop up out of the trashcan, when it opens to receive the latest dumping of coffee grounds, or anything else unsuitable to doggie digestion. They’ve been spotted hanging out in the sink drain, and miraculously fyling free before the water hits them - but after it’s turned on. Under the cabinets, they’re hanging like bats, regardless of how much Lysol I spray under there. I think, I’m providing my own laboratory for evolution. They’re getting craftier. And, more of them are left to irritate me.

Granted, it’s summer. Fruit can no longer ripen lovingly on the counters, in big colorful bowls, begging to be added to cereal, ice cream, or eaten in passing on the way out the door. Sliced berries, sugared blueberries, fruit salad - all the trimmings and trappings of a bountiful summer lay hidden in the fridge, safe from mass-producing fruit flies invading their tender, juicy flesh.

I built a trap to catch them. I laced a water bottle with slightly-past-it’s-prime fruit (their favorite!), fitted the mouth with a paper funnel, trimmed down to allow easy access to the fruit in the bottom of the bottle, and kept the cap, for easy disposal. How long would we wait to catch some? I figured, overnight, I’d have turned my less-than appealing kitchen into a bug free zone.

And………………………………………….I would be wrong.

They evidently don’t care for the food once it’s in the bottle. Living off Lysol evidently strengthens both their immune systems, and their resolve. They’re not even investigating the bottle. I think they’re even living longer. And multiplying faster than before.

See? I’m breeding smarter fucking drosophilia.

Now, I wonder: if I trap a man in my kitchen, homosapius stupidus, do you think he’d evolve too?

Part II: Have found man....he has been in my kitchen. Seems to be evolving into someone whose company I enjoy quite rapidly. Not quite drosophilia rapid; but rapidly enough. I've near sprayed him with Lysol, and I'll be damned, he's still here. Hmm. Question is, is he evolving, or, (gasp, dare I say it?) am I?

Maybe both. 

All I'm saying, is while he can stay? I'm so not having 100 of his children.

Debts, with a side order of cheese fries...

Went on a date last night, with someone whom I found marginally boring over the phone, but, with H out of the picture for a bit, and a lack of interesting focal points on the ol’ social calendar, I figured a night spent in anyones company other than my own qualifies as refreshing, daring, and a tad dangerous. Or maybe, it’s my own company that’s dangerous…either way. I showered. Sat on the bed. Shaking. Unable to go any further.

I remembered this day, when I lived in LA, on the beach, when I had a date, with someone, and I thought I wanted to go, til I tried to get dressed. The clothes, on the bed, awaiting a sleek, newly shaved body to slip into them, the brush and blow dryer anxiously ticking away the seconds of freshly dryed hair on the counter, and I, toweled, in tears, unable to even dress.

I called my bestest pal in the world, who’d seen me through the hideous breakup of P, when I doubted I’d ever go on, unloading the whole mess of I Wish I’d Never Accepted This Stupid Date, to I’m Having A Bad Hair Moment, to that final realization, bolted out loud, that I Was Too Scared To Meet Anyone. P didn’t want me, why would anyone else? And she perservered. She talked, and laughed, and basically, over the phone, wiped my nose, helped me dress, and forced me to open the door. Oh, I didn’t date him long, but I went out. Had dinner. Laughed. Got kissed goodnight. Tucked away in the back of my brain, how much indebted to her I am.

Last night, I might as well have been ten years younger, scared witless of a harmless, shy scientist, who’d graciously invited me to dinner; at the time of acceptance, I was thrilled. He seemed fun. I was looking forward to it. Until, naturally, came the witching hour, with the showering and shaving prolonged until the hot water ran out, fingers so shrively that they nearly lost control of the hair dryer and brush. The towel, a different color this time, but tied in the same fashion draping that still maybe sleek enough but newly shaved body. And it starts. The shaking. The crying. The insane fear of dinner.

There, in my bathroom, amid piles of white towels, candles, scented sachets (to allure the house hunters, don’tcha know) I heard her voice again, warm, like honeyed satin, reminding me that it’s Just. Dinner. Whether I spilled my drink (which, wouldn’t you know, I did) or slid food across the table while slicing it (I didn’t) all I had to do was be me. Regardless of what happened, she loved me, and it’d be fine. Dating is hard. It’s scary. But it’s not rocket science. I’m not stuck there. I can leave at any time. I never really thanked her for that - the being there part, holding my hand, when I was so afraid no one would ever want to hold it or me again.

In those moments, covered in nervous goose-bumps, doubting myself, I miss her the most, and curse states like Ohio, and Nebraska, and…um….Nevada that separate her and I. She was right though, it was only dinner. With someone whom I actually enjoyed meeting. We laughed, ate, and I let him kiss me goodnight. He said he’d call; he did. He’s coming up for dinner and a movie tonight, knowing that my house has been hit by Hurricane Hunter, and that we’ll trip over legos, fur,puzzle pieces, and matchbox cars in the playroom, enroute to viewing a movie we’ve yet to select.

Too bad she’s not here. I’d have her and her to-die-for-sweet boyfriend up for moral support. Naturally, I’d have to alter the menu, and include less green items, and more fried chees items, but that’s okay. That’s what you do for best friends. Besides, of course, being there for them, when they need you the most - which in my life? Is fresh from the shower, trembling, wrinkly skinned, and doubtful.

Now, I owe her twice.

Tis that kind of day, today. So blazing is the sun that the puppies can hardly stand to be on the deck; they’d prefer instead, to bask on the cool register in the floor, sucking up the airconditioning prior to it ever reaching the rooms. They are restless, pacing endlessly between upstairs and down, lying first on one register, then another, in a bid for comfort, as well as nearness to moi. Lucy is whining, incessantly over nothing, as she too will depart with this evening amid the general confusion required when getting all four children out of this house in one fell swoop. The dog food’s at the ready, the badmitten set, with it’s birdie preched on the table, next to the board games, go fish card game, ps2, leapster and bee-pack of movies; nearly all of H’s clothes can be washed in just two loads of laundry - which honestly, strikes me as quite odd, as I’m doing so much flipping laundry, it cannot possibly all be mine.

And Gauge? Up. My. Ass.

I’ve yet to turn around and not find him wedged in my backside, his nose firmly pressed to my thighs, his tail wagging, his entire body trembling in his desire to crawl into me, and stay there. Or claw me. Either one. Horace, mopingly in search of The Coolest Register is driving me batty, but for different reasons - he’s managed to lie atop the folded pile of jammies and Whatnot that needs to go (the Maybe Needed Just Barely Fitting Jeans, the Could Be Cold Enough For Sweats with the holes in the knees, the Too Tight Jams That Are Totally Necessry) into the case, but he’s snagged them into a nest, fit just for a king.

Need I mention I just retreived them from the dryer, where they exited fur-free? I suppose not. He’s going to be with his dad, at Fish Camp, so my guess is, they’ll be fur (and heaven only knows what else) covered within minutes of his arrival, and I might as well just keep the new toothbrush and paste. I don’t see it coming home used. But I can hope.

Perhaps, if I put off packing, I can successfully put off H’s departure; I doubt it, but it’s worth a try. Then again, if I do that, then I have to put up with B being here while I finish up.

Perish the thought.