I Hear They're Small

The boy and I are discussing kids, the state of our upcoming marriage, laughing, making out, being happy.

Well, we were, but now I'm here, writing to you, and he's in the living room talking to his upstairs neighbor.

All I know is this - it's raining softly, I've got my music, and my boy is apparently convincing his neighbor that he matters.  Damn holiday depression.

Regardless of all, I want you to know that I appreciate you taking the seconds to read my foolishness, and occasionally telling me your thoughts, and I look forward to another year of telling you about my life.

Kisses.  I love you.  Be well.

Dinner At Tim's

If you've never had the privilege of eating at Tim's Cajun Kitchen, do yourself a favor and get the hell down here right now and eat delicious Cajun food.

(Yes, I've been spending a lot of time with the boy.  That should explain my channeling his speech pattern in the previous sentence.)

A while back, I was telling the boy about my buddy Ward and just what a cool friend Ward is.  The boy, never prone to jealousy in words, told me that this was one of my friends that he never wanted to meet.  I never really understood why - I could only assume that he doesn't like me talking too much about my guy friends.

Last night, Ward and I decided to meet for dinner with a few of his friends.  "Are you gonna bring your fella?" he asked me, in his inimitable Southern accent.  "I don't know; I'll ask him," I said.

Telling the boy that I was meeting old college friends for dinner, I asked if he'd like to join us.  "Hell YA!" was his response, since he's fallen in love with Tim's after I took him there last summer.

So the boy and Ward finally met.  And, (unsurprisingly to anyone who's not me) they got along pretty well.  They got each other's esoteric literary and vocabularic (is that a word?) references.  There were no hugs, but the boy's, "Good to meet you, man!" was true.

Ring The Alarm

A few days ago, the boy told me that the ring he intended to get for me that was a family heirloom was just not...good.  The conversation went something like this:

Him:  I saw the rings today.
Me:  Yeah?
Him: Mmmmm.....
Me:  Yeah?
Him:  Not what I thought...
Me:  Yeah?
Him:  It's dented and well...
Me:  Yeah?
Him:  I don't think it's a real diamond.
Me:  Oh.

So there's some truth for you - diamonds matter.  They do.  To me.

I know we don't have a lot of money, so when Cita texted to ask me about my bling, I told her that I didn't think I was getting any.  It's OK, I told her.

Uh-huh.  We both know me, right?  But of course I love the boy more than I love jewelry.

Mostly.

Last night, I told the boy that the ring I currently wear, Momma's engagement ring, was not given to her when she got engaged, but was given a few years after my folks got married.  It's true, and I didn't want the boy to feel badly for not giving me the ring.

He told me to look for a present that he had hidden for me - it was under the couch.  It was a bottle of wine we had on our date, called Dulce Cristina.  I was amazed and so happy.

I turned with it in my hand, to thank him, and then I saw something sparkly.  And then I noticed that he was on one knee.  And then he asked me again to marry him, and he put the ring on my finger.



And I love it.  And I love him.

Later I told him that he must like it, 'cos he put a ring on it.

Want Witty? Look To Your Left

The other night I spent forever on the phone with my sister and my sister-in-law.  Who apparently loathe each other.  That was fun.

I spent tonight on the phone with my soon-to-be-inlaws and family.  So, does this mean I'm in?

The boy tells me that the ring he's planned for me is sub-par.  I hope this means that he's saving for one for US, because as I love my Momma's ring, I want one that's ours.

I spoke with the boy's Momma, his niece, his brother-in-law, and him tonight.  Good, but to be honest, sometimes a lot.

Plans for tomorrow include removing the chapstick on the mirror, vacuuming, dusting, shopping for pseudo-niece, then picking up said to finish my shopping.  Then getting the boy after all and perhaps collapsing.

Next day is Christmas Eve.

Blah Blah Patience Blah Blah

I'm sitting here, waiting for enough time to go by so I can get into the shower and get ready to get the boy from the airport.  Waiting for American Airlines to get off its tucus and get the plane in the air.  The plane that, the boy told me, drove in circles a few times on the runway before finally deigning to come to the gate.  The warm, welcoming gate where passengers can disembark and the boy can finally get on his and come home.

American Airlines - you and I need to have a conversation.  It was bad enough that you messed up my trip to Seattle last summer and made me lose a day with the boy.  Because of you, I may never go to Houston again (sorry Wade!).  But to make the boy miss a flight that was delayed by thirty minutes because his train broke down and he was fifteen minutes late to the gate and you told him that he had to check in thirty minutes early is just cruel.  Let's do some quick math, k?  Fifteen minutes plus thirty minutes equals forty-five minutes, which falls well into your thirty-minute-before-flight-check-in policy.

Even worse, you made him claim his luggage at O'Hare and spend the night in the airport with his luggage, outside the security gate, because you refused to let him re-check him bag until 4:30am.  So he was stuck with all his valuables in an unguarded area overnight.

Aside:  One of few useful things about the TSA is that at least the boy would have been safe.

Now, he's finally sitting on a tarmac in a puddle-jumper at O'Hare and I JUST WANT HIM HOME ALREADY.

And for what it's worth, I like United better anyway.

Intro To Parenting

On Friday I took Biggs over to my folks' place, in readiness for PaintFest 2010.  He can't help but be curious, and he'd follow around people and brushes and he'd try to mark the paint.  Biggs has a strong, strong habit of rubbing his little cat-lips against corners.  Can you imagine how much paint he would've ingested?  I believe I'm mentioned before that Biggs is gorgeous, but not that smart.  Not smart enough to stay away from delicious wet paint.

Momma told me Saturday that Biggs was having a glorious time, and that he and Bridget (Momma's cat) were getting on just fine.  I was only just beginning to feel the pangs of loneliness.

Yesterday Momma told me that he's not pulling out and eating his fur, that he's taken over Bridget's bed, and that he's generally enjoying the rock-star life of a fifteen-year-old cat.

You know, each time I go away, my folks keep him, and he always has fun.  So much fun that he runs from me when I come to pick him up.  So I've wondered if it would be in his best interest to just live over there.

I want what's best for the Gato Mas Fino, and I know that my bad habits and occasional bad mood are not creating the best environment for him.  I know he deserves more than me, and I agreed to let him stay with my folks until Saturday.

But I miss my little face like crazy.  I miss him so much it hurts.  I keep looking down for him.  I don't like coming home from work because there's no-one here to greet me.  I cried to the boy yesterday about this.  I don't know what to do.  I want him with me.  I want to be a better cat-friend to him.  But I know me and I am weak and I am not ready to change all my bad habits.

So what do I do?

Reminder

For the past few days weeks months, I've been lost in finding my direction.  I've been reactive, for sure, you've all seen that.  But today I had a luncheon about tax repercussions for the various ways lawyers incorporate themselves, and that really helped.

What helped much more, though, was time I spent with Jamie.  (She said I could use her name!)  Despite the ways we got to this place, we're in the same one, finding out how to actually practice law.

Talking with her, feeling comfortable about all the things we discussed, reminded me of why I do what I do and kinda gave me the ass-kicking I needed to refocus.

Also, spending a few hours around colleagues helps as well.  That time spent makes me put on my best game face.

Time around Jamie lets me feel free to explore it.

Schmaltz

You didn't think you'd get more than a post or two away from another story about the boy, did you?  Thank goodness, because I didn't want to raise your hopes much.

PS - Feel free to read this while listening to Rush - just so you can have the whole writer experience as well.  Thank goodness you won't know exactly when to pause and sing out loud.

Last night I was explaining to the boy about my (perchance monthly) desire to overload in chocolate.  "I crave something sweet," I explained.  He said, "If you need something sweet, call me."

Awwww...  I mean really....awwww....

He sensed that, and backtracked like any normal man would.  "Umm...you know what I mean...I'm not..."

Yes, dear.  Yes, I know. 

This lead into a conversation about change and expectations, and sheesh, kid, I've known you for more than twenty years.  Do you think I'd ever want to change you?  (I mean, except for the coaster thing.)

Today I checked my email and saw that he emailed me his Christmas list.  The last item on his list?  8.  You!

Awwww... I mean really....awwww....

It's That Time Again

Ever year I post my Christmas present list.  So here we go - it being after Thanksgiving and all:

1.  Digital camera.  It needs to have image stabilization, due to my damneded shaky hands.
2.  Socks.  I love love love these socks.  Remember when we were kids and hated getting these as gifts?  I guess this is glory of getting older.
3.  Sheets.  I only have two sets, and apparently a very strong EB - Bubbles II, Electric Bugaloo.  So a new set would be lovely.
4.  Amazon.com gift card.  If only because I can hear my IP professor in my head, telling that that "acquiring" music is very very wrong.
5.  Target gift card.  C'mon; a girl's gotta eat!
6.  Cosmedicine.  No-one can afford the Kinerase that my sister got me, and this brand has also been a godsend.
7.  Makeup brushes.  I forgot my blush brush while I was in Seattle and used a paint brush of the boy's while I was there.  80s makeup much?  We looked in Sephora for a new brush, and sweet-holy-anything-unholy were they pricey there.
8.  O Magazine renewal.  Last year Amazon offered a subscription for a year for five dollars.  I got addicted to the positivity of the magazine, but can't afford the renewal.
9.  House clothes.  By which I mean, yoga pants, fun T-shirts - things I'd never leave the house wearing, but wear around the house like crazy.

An addendum to this year's list - this is the boy's list, for those of you who might care:

1.  The Thai - I tell you, the boy can cook.
2.  Anthony Bourdain books - see #1 above.  (I think he'd prefer the newer ones.)
3.  Glen Goldberg recordings, preferably the more recent Bach.
4.  10" nonstick skillet - I was kinda surprised by this one, if only because he tends to be a purist who uses cast-iron cookware.  But you know what?  Sometimes making breakfast with more modern cookware just makes life easier.

Merry Christmas!  May all of our money trees bloom and bloom and bloom.

We've Had This Conversation Before

I miss writing.  I wonder how much I should say, like how annoyed I am at the boy's "illness", or even more, how annoyed at I am Momma.

OK - let's go.

About twenty years ago, I had a best friend named Christina.  I got a call one morning that Christina had been in a very serious car accident, and that the doctors weren't sure she would make it.  Would I come, her sister asked me.

Where the hell else would I be?  I got up and grabbed Momma's car keys (I didn't own one at the time) and got ready to go the hospital, full of fear.  Momma said to me, "You don't need to go.  This is something for her family, and they'll let you know."

Man, I got hot.  I felt betrayed by Momma - did she even have any friends?  Did she not know that my soulmate, the woman with whom I fought and loved more than many couples ever do, was maybe-no-ohsweetchrist - in surgery?

I just looked at her and got out the door.  I'm so glad I did, although the sight of my friend with a head swollen to double its normal size eventually brought me to my knees.

(I'm shortening this story - it's a tough one to tell - so please bear with me.)

I like to think I was an integral part of Christina's recovery.  While she was in the coma, the only voice she'd respond to was mine.  When she awoke, she would only do physical therapy exercises if I were in the room.

So when another close friend had a crisis a bit ago, and I had to shorten (I didn't really shorten it) a visit to my folk's place so I could take care of her, my Momma said, "Doesn't she have a mother?"

This friend is family.  I don't care the reason.  I don't care that she didn't need me after all.  But I am there, any time, every time.

Good news - both friends are fine, as far as I know (Christina and I no longer keep in touch).

Thanksgiving

It took a lot, but I managed to pull myself out of my place at about 10:30, after the Will & Grace marathon ended.  Yeah, I still watch that show.  I go through phases, however - sometimes I think it's incredibly funny and sometimes it gets old.

I made it to the folks' place, and we sat and read through the black Friday ads and debated the merits of my mood when I wake up (bad) and the deals at Wal-Mart tomorrow morning.  Pro:  TVs are incredibly cheap.  Pro:  My very very very bad mood would make me able to hip-check anyone who gets in my way.  Con:  Limited quantities.  Con:  Lack of joust.

Momma had already set the table:

We started cooking a while later:

Our menu was lasagna, Yukon Gold potatoes with fresh green beans, real cranberry sauce (go Momma!), stuffing (out of a box, and never ever the wet kind), spring salad, and cranberry bread.

Wanna see?

Dinner was delicious - just enough food to not get overtired or cranky, and Momma let me raid the pantry for cookies, dried apricots, and leftovers.

But four hours was enough time.  By the time I had loaded the car with remnants of my adolescence, an extra Christmas tree, lights, and decorations, we were all starting to snipe at each other.

So I'll put this holiday squarely in the win column.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

Keep This Up, And I'll Have A Tree Up Next Year By Halloween

So the boy and I have decided to host Christmas dinner for my folks and his at my parents' place.  My parents have a house that was born for entertaining - it was pretty much my Momma's dream house, and she waited years upon years to have such a place.  This is a good excuse for Momma to harass my dad into doing more housework as well.

(She got him a vacuum for his birthday, and apparently things are looking up over there.)

I'm looking forward for my folks to see what an amazing cook the boy is.  He did promise me that I'd be recruited into helping, and I'm totally down with that.  Even if he is, as he puts it, a complete Nazi in the kitchen.

So this will be the first gift we give as a couple (a poor, poor broke couple) - a delicious meal for both of our parents.  I'm so looking forward to this that I'm almost excited for Christmas this year.

My plans for the holidays are to have my own tree, to force us out of the bed at some gawdawful hour on Christmas morning so we can get to his niece and nephews' place to open presents, to have some family time, to celebrate the "us", and, most importantly, have the boy and me home by seven-ish so we can enjoy some quality time dreaming under the tree.

Bet you thought I was going to say some kind of different quality time.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Don't Tell Anyone

Yes, I am an attorney.  No, I don't often write about it.  Yes, I have very strong opinions.  Yes, there's a very good chance that I'll kick your ass in a debate.

I do get annoyed at people who ask me for legal advice as if they deserve it.  It's almost like they think, "Hey!  I knew her back in the day, so clearly she can answer all my questions!"

I cannot.  I have a couple of specialities, which aren't making me as much money as I'd like, but hope springs eternal. 

Still, the questions I get are 1) so far out of my range of practice and 2) so clearly not winners.

No-one will take your case without money.  MONEY, people.  The practice of law is certainly a business.  You think I was giddy to be a quarter of a million of dollars in debt?

So, I will introduce a new rule:  You get two questions.  That's two, with a capital 2.

So, anyone need some help?

Trust Me When I Tell You It'll Get Worse

So now my entire family knows that the boy and I are engaged.  My brother was (more than) a bit upset at being the last to know in the immediate family.  The thing is, he and I were so close, and then the war of 2007 happened, and it's been hard to get as close again.

Telling him made me so happy.  And I guarantee to keep my promise to him, that the very first invite I address will be to my brother and his family.

I saw the boy's parents today while I picked up pseudo-niece and they seemed so pleased.  Not excited, so much, but calm.  Like they already know my presence and know that the boy and I are well-matched.  I find this amazing and exciting and fun and ...honestly, I can't think of another adjective.

This year the boy and I are combining presents and cards and all that holiday stuff.  Do you know what this means to me?

It means that it's real, and he's in as 100% as I am.

Ready For More Cheese?

Things I will never tire of hearing:

1.  I love you.
2.  No, I really, really love you.
3.  I'm in love with you.
4.  Saying "wedding" is scary.
5.  I don't want to get used to this feeling.
6.  I miss you.
7.  I cannot wait to see you again.
8.  I thought of you when...
9.  I told my parents, and they're so excited.
10.  You're getting your own ring.
11.  Wife.

So it's true, I've got wedding-itis.  But I need help with all of this.  Help, please?

OK, OK, I'm In The Mood

Because I got a comment on my last post, and because the boy just called me, and oh, yeah, I promised, here's the photographic proof of my trip to Seattle...

I do love the overpriced cupcake place - even though they refused to ship me cupcakes:

Lavender, triple threat chocolate, salted caramel, and Kate.  Yes, Kate.  I'm guessing it was for breast cancer research.  And this is what I call breakfast.

We also went to Alki, which is right on the bay, and had fabulous foods and drinks.  Because it was such a lovely day, and because I love sticking an appendage of mine into the water:

It was COLD!  But the tide was coming in, and it danced around us, and I couldn't resist.  We walked down the shore, hand in hand, looking for sea lions and seals:

Of course we used our eyes, but we thought we might have a cheat.  And we might have, had this telescope not been broken.  That would've been nice to know before I dropped a quarter into it (laundry!).
After scoping out the real estate, and dreaming of a bay-side condo that only cost $1600/month (including parking!) we decided to take the water taxi home.

If I didn't tell you how much I love water, you know now.

The shipping yard.  Substantially more astounding in person - there are crates the size of fields, all labelled with Chinese characters. 

On the opposite side of the shipping yard, here's the view of Seattle - and the Needle - and quite possibly, the Real World house.  I might have annoyed the heck of out the boy as I tried to figure out which quay was the house of stupidity.

On the ceiling of the taxi, there was safety first!  Considering it was only a twenty-minute ride, I wasn't too nervous.  Also, the taxi conductors were having cocktails, so I kept getting more and more relaxed.

Ready for more personal shots?  Me too!

My supplies stay behind his, so we can sort them out by touch when we're up early.  Also, he's quite tidy.

Half-off glass-drawing pen?  Don't mind if he does!  I don't think he meant the outline to really be Conan, but it's how it seemed to me.  You?

Finally, a bit of cuteness:

Going back, hopefully, over our birthdays (in March).

So This Is How He Did It

Two Sundays past, I was sitting with the boy in his bathroom.  I know, romantic.  But convenient, as that is the only place where we smoke.  (Ewww!  Lungs!  Badness!!  Pictures on cigarette packs!!)  We were talking about everything and nothing.  The boy asked me again for my ring...

I wear my mother's engagement ring on my ring finger, and have for a few years now.

In trips past, the boy has occasionally asked for it and tried it on.  I figured he was 1) weirded out that I wore such a thing and 2) sizing my ring finger.

He asked for it, and I handed it over.  This time, he slipped down onto one knee, looked up at me, and said, "Christine, will you be my wife?"  I said, "Yes," and he put the ring on my finger.  Then we both looked at each other.  And then I said, "Do it again!"

So he took back the ring and asked, "Will you marry me?"  I replied, "I'd be honored," and he put the ring on my finger again.  We left the bathroom.

Sitting near his computer, I asked him to do it again.  This time, he merely put the ring on my finger.  We watched each other.

I know, right?

And in the time-honored tradition of couples everywhere, once we decided to marry each other, we watched porn.

By Now You Think I'm A Big Ol' Liar

I just got home last night, and while I was wired for sound, I couldn't make myself write.  Mostly because I knew I'd be up for hours writing you stories about just how fabulous a time the boy and I had together.

Preview:  There was kneeling.

I do have pictures, many, from this trip, and I cannot wait to show them to you.  So if I don't get my sweet self in gear and get them posted by Friday night, I give you pure permission to troll my site.

(Please don't be a troll.)

Water taxis.  Views of the bay that would make you cry (if you love water like I do).  Delicious food.  A first date for the boy and me (yes, we've known each other twenty-one years, but we had a first official date).  Irish pubs with football.  Bookstores.  Shopping. 

And if you're all nice to me, and I feel brave, I just might post a photo of me kissing the boy.

Caution: Euphemisms Ahead

The boy lives in a complex which has friendly neighbors, and is seemingly a place where everyone’s involved in the well-being of the whole place. This complex, you should know, also has exceedingly thin walls.

I think you can tell where this story is headed.

Since my arrival, the boy and I have been getting “reacquainted”. Often. With varying degrees of vocal self-modulation. This bit of information should come as no surprise to any of you, say, over the age of sixteen.

So the other morning we were relaxing on the futon and there was a knock on his door.

Background: The boy has a neighbor here who is from one of the former Soviet republics, and she certainly dresses and acts the part. She is impeccably groomed and has that look about her – do you know that look? The one that says, “Yes, I am friendly woman. Now hand me your cash.” I’ve met her in passing a couple of times, and while she will greet me with words, she will never look at me. She’s actually invited the boy out for coffee and a “chat” while I’m standing next to him. Needless to say, this invite did not extend to me.

I bet you can imagine how much I like this woman.

Background aside: Last night I told the boy that the reason I don’t like her is because she’s predatory. Her predatory nature brings out my possessive side. While I have no doubt she could maim me pretty badly, everything in me wants to shove her four-inch heels down the stairwell, while screaming at her, “BACK OFF! HE’S NOT FOR YOU!”

Back to the story: Said neighbor was knocking, and wanted to discuss with the boy something related to the care and upkeep of the complex. He politely pointed out that he was not “prepared to welcome guests”. “That’s OK,” she said, with a tone that I took to mean that she was planning to come in anyway. I wrapped myself up in a comforter and prepared for the onslaught, but the boy managed to send her away with half-hearted promises to call her later. (I swear to Christmas, she asked for a time for “later”.)

Walking back to the boy’s door earlier in the evening last night, I noticed another door next to his which I had not noticed before. “I didn’t know that someone lived next to you,” I remarked. “Oh, yeah,” he replied. “That’s where [Former Soviet Republic Woman] lives.”

Squee!! I could not be happier to inflict on this woman pure, absolute knowledge that the boy is with ME.

I Wouldn't Call It A *Test*

The vacation begins Thursday.  I'll be in not-so-sunny Seattle for eleven days, and I plan to have a fantastic time.  There are lots of things we'll be doing, the boy and me, that actually involve leaving the house!  (Not like that, people.  We're really pretty homebodies is all.)

But there's a niggling in my head, a little noise that makes me wonder how we're doing in our little relationship.  For example, I had a really bad Sunday last Sunday, the kind that makes me reconsider my decision to stop taking antidepressants.  Those days, unless someone is Superperson, I can be pretty darn intolerable.  So I yelled at the boy and hung up on him.  A few hours later, feeling a bit more stable, I tried to call.  No answer.  Yup, that's how I know I'm in trouble.  When we finally did talk the next night, he told me that he doesn't know how to handle me when I'm that emotional.  It may make me shallow, he said, but if you act like that while you're here, I'm going to kick you out.

Last night he mentioned again about my emotions and how he's shallow and can't handle them.  I asked him, "What's going to happen when someone important to me dies?  You're going to ruin this because of that."  He said that that would be different because it's real.

Guess what, kid.  My moods are real.  My occasional bout of soul-crushing depression is real.  Your lack of support during those times is real.

So another thing I'll be doing on this trip is watching him closely; watching us both closely.  Because as abjectly terrifying it would be to lose him, I can't (and won't) be on my best behavior forever.

Sign Of The Times

Today as I was packing my trunk full of delicious goodies for the week and justthen remembering that I forgot cat water and those Crystal Light packets that make water tolerable, a man approached me.  He told me his name, and went through quite a story about being new to the area, not at all lazy, and then asked me for money.  I told him I didn't have any cash, he apologized for bothering me, and we both went on our way.

While waiting at the red light, I started to feel badly for this man.  How hard is it to dress nicely (he was - polo and slacks) and come up to strangers in a parking lot to beg?  I mean, we've all eaten our fair share of ick in this world, but we have not yet had to ask strangers for money.  It's got to be excruciating and humiliating to do such a thing.

Even worse, I did have a couple of dollars I could have given him.  Really, if I can afford some of the things I buy, I can afford to help out a stranger here and there.  So since I can't make it up to this guy, I'd decided that while I'm in Seattle, I'm going to convert a twenty into dollar bills and help out some of the homeless up there.

Two Weeks And Counting

It's been a really tough week.  Lots of me working my ass off, and lots of changes for the boy.  Sometimes I wonder how we'll survive, because I know how ugly looks on him, and I can only imagine his visualization of my stress level.

Still, tonight, he's been calling with ideas for plans for us.  I kinda nixed the forty-dollars-each tickets to a weird play.  People, while I'm down with avant-garde art, I'm not down with paying my Southern version of Broadway prices for it.  So he found us a film festival, a few art museums with interesting installations, and a restaurant or two we should try.  This certainly suits my fancy.

Maybe I should tell Momma about the impending trip?  (Until I do, keep quiet, k?)

I Didn't Actually Eat Her

Last weekend was Lucy's first birthday.  First.  How can someone get so old so fast?  And even more delicious?  Seriously, the time does fly.

I got to the party about thirty minutes late.  (Tardy for the party?)  Luckily, that meant that all the spread was laid out and I got unbelievably delicious food while I watched baby Lucy explore the goods.

Wow.  Apparently there are many people who love to spoil Lucy.  My gift you can't see, because it was more for her folks than for her.  Next year I intend to teach her what spoiled really means.  (Don't tell her folks.)

She's getting quite good at walking, which means that in the next six months, she will no longer be delicious in a crock pot:

Instead, she knows that her nickname is LAMB - which is her initials...I'm sure she won't give her folks crap for that at fourteen...

Instead, she found another small child, who clearly needed exploring:

Maybe one or two adults told her that poking an infant was a bit rude.  Lucy (sorta) listened and then we got to the good part:

Mom and Dad are going to show me the glory of presents?  Now?  Really?  Dad, let's open...and Mom, I promise to enjoy every moment of this...

It's more than a girl can take.  It's amazing, but I'm small...

So now I'll nap.  And I will explore everything.  Soon.

Update - Finally!

I still have unreliable internet access.  There's an external wiring problem, and while I may never again pay Comcast, I may lose the clients I have that are relying on email for communication.

I'm struggling with buying my vacation tickets, and it's because I'm rather broke and worried about everything under the sun.  I really want to go, and I guess I'm waiting for some kind of sign.

Could you send me a sign, please?  I just need to wake up safely for a few days, and being around the boy is the only way I'm able to do that.

Nightmares about break-ins, one night of almost-sleep before the shower caddy un-suctioned itself from the wall...I need a break.

But the money part worries me, and knowing that Momma will be PISSED when I tell her I'm going (I mentioned the money part, right?) freezes my ability to buy tickets.

Again, please, soon - sign?

Grrr. Hiss. Spit.

I've not been writing lately not because I don't love you, but because Comcast has afforded me approximately two minutes of internet a day, and really, who doesn't consider Facebook more important than blogging?

Even now, I'm hoping this will post.  The tech comes out NEXT TUESDAY.  Until then, I'll try my best, and also make contorted faces every time I pass the office and cannot use the most important device in the office.

Balancing

I've been a little lost in translation because I've been trying to figure out what makes me feel like this...

The boy has joined a group that is, for lack of a better (or more current) word, a community organizing group.  He loves it.  He does, he does, he tells me at length every night about the group's plans and decisions, and he tells me about meeting all these new people who really seem to get him.

This, I think, is wonderful.  Too much time spent with ourselves is a bit soul-destroying.  I'm so happy, and dare I say, proud of him, for making this choice and being so happy.

The downside for me is that when he tells me his stories, it reminds me of times in my life when I had that sort of support.  I got my M.Ed. in counseling and in order to do that, I had to take a class in group therapy.  Until then, I had been been completely adverse to group therapy.  How could I trust a circle of strangers when I still make my friends jump through hoops before I could trust them?  But this class, and this mini-group therapy really helped.  I trusted that group.  It also reminds me of being the president of an animal rights group in law school, and how those meetings really inspired me.

I want the boy to do his damnded best in these groups.  And I think I need more interactions.

An Interruption In Service

Lost in thought, the kind that I've not decided tht I'll share.

Back soon.

Energy on HIGH

Just got home, and after working on some much-neglected emails and billing, the phone rang.  The boy!  Yay!  I chattered at him about my day.  He told me he woke up an hour ago.  I helpfully suggested that maybe a bender would put him to sleep.  He wisely shot down that idea.

What?  A bender doesn't seem like a good idea?  What is this world coming to?  What are we, nearing 40 years....

Damn.

Anyhoo, I guess that he should not be the first person I talk to when I get home, because I'm chock-full of news and stories and fun tidbits and plans for the rest of the week and ideas about fork-stabbings and much mocking of a singing cat.  The boy asks, "Are you manic?"  No, I tell him, this is actually my normal energy level after a full night of sleep and some good news at the courthouse. 

Needless to say, less than five minutes passed before he decided he needed to go brush his teeth.  (Bringing the sexy in this relationship, I tell ya!)

I think I need to go find a treadmill to dance on or a boxing man to slap around.  I'll be calmer later when you call back, baby.

Forgive Me?

I'm concerned because it's a billing cycle and my assistant isn't feeling well enough to do the work needed.  By work needed, I mean sending me the list of billable hours.

Also, honestly, I miss my boy.  I should think that by now I'd be over it, but I'm not.  I don't want to go there; he certainly doesn't want to come here, but I'm tired every morning of waking up, rolling over, and finding that I'm in bed alone again.

So tomorrow I will do everything in my power to distract myself:  work for clients, bill clients, file paperwork, harass Momma, and then come home and take a deep breath.

PS - Momma and Dad's anniversary is Thursday.  Forty-nine years.  Wow.

Photos

I'm currently looking through slideshows of the most recent pictures of the boy's kid.  I know I've not mentioned the kid before, because of privacy concerns and my ongoing desire to tread lightly around this subject.

I don't want to meet the boy's son until the boy and I have something permanent planned, but I love seeing his son grow up and become a child.  Not an infant, not a toddler, but an actual child.

Spooky.

As he gets older, he looks more and more like the boy.  I can see a whole lot of ladies with broken hearts in the future, and therefore I hope the kid has the same values as the boy.  OK, OK, not all of them, but the fundamental ones I do wish for him.

So, It's Monday

...and I owe you a post, so in between writing emails to opposing counsel and researching new laptops, let me tell you about my day.

Aside:  When I went shopping with pseudo-niece last week, I opened the doors for her to go in first.  This is important only because it meant that the shopkeepers saw a teenaged girl enter their stores, and the disappointment on their faces were clearly visible.  Until I walked in, looking to the world like her mother.

Aside aside:  Sweet holy evil!  I am legitimately old enough to be her mother.  This seriously skeeves me out.

Back to the initial aside:  The relief on the shopkeepers' faces was amazing to watch when I entered the stores.  Like, "Here's the money lady!"  I guess I never noticed when I was a teenager that the clerks were never happy to see me alone or with friends.

Anyhoo:  I'm thinking about what opposing counsel's going to say to my client's requests.  I'm thinking about how fun it will be to have a new laptop, and what a royal pain it will be to transfer data from TWO machines to the new one.  I'm thinking that maybe Momma will buy me an external hard drive to make this easier and faster.  I'm thinking about a wireless router so I can be online while I watch TV.

I'm thinking I need to take a shower and take the garbage out.  Yes, another day in the life of a high-powered attorney.

Shopping With Girls

Today I went out with the boy's niece.  She's sixteen, sweet, more innocent than I was at her age, and very, very funny.  She feels a need to explain herself, which is an instinct I remember from when I was her age.  (And that need hasn't ended for me, clearly.  Hush.)

We wandered around an open-air mall in this horrific heat and humidity, and explored all the stores.  We went to the standards, you know, Old Navy and J. Crew, and some speciality stores.  We went to a bookstore and explained why we love the books we love.

Aside - I love that she reads.  I follow my Momma's truth there, where I believe that it doesn't matter what you read, so long as you read.

I'm afraid, however, of attaching too much to her.  Why would I worry such?  Because the boy and I are just now working on the ins and outs of our relationship, and the closer we get to actually (finally!) creating a life together, the more he backs toward and against where we are.

Honestly?  I do too.  Working on divorce cases will do that to a person (and especially this person).

I don't want this fabulous girl to lose a friend.  I don't know quite yet how to be a friend to a teenager.

But in the meantime, is it bad that I enjoy her company, and let's be honest, that little bit of adoration?

Greedy

I miss the boy and I'm not getting the attention I feel I deserve.  Mind you, I feel that I deserve it, not that it's something I should have.  He's certainly free to get what he wants.

I like it better when he's here - when I can read him.

Sweet Christmas, ain't I something? 

Ladies?

Airport

So, my one-day reprieve is over.  I took the boy to his parents' house, and he seemed surprised that I didn't come in.  Well, honey, I had a meeting at noon, plus I've not showered, am wearing no makeup, and the outfit I have on is yesterday's.  Plus, there's a very active four-year-old boy in there.  So thanks, as much I want to be around you FOREVER AND EVER, I will not be joining you in your folks' house.

In an hour I'm leaving to go to the airport to say goodbye to the boy.  I absolutely do not want to do this.  This is because once I see him leave, he's gone, and I won't see him again for months.  I don't want him to go.  He doesn't want to go.  We've had such a good time together.  We ate out a lot.  We stayed in a lot and watched TV.

He is now addicted to Teen Mom.  See what I do?

So we drank and ate and laughed and talked and laughed and talked and laughed and talked.  And once he's gone, how will I fill the time?  I've gotten used to seeing him three or four times a week.  I've gotten him used to being, at the furthest, four-and-a-half miles from me.

I better go take a shower.

I don't think my mascara's waterproof.

A One-Day Reprieve

The boy was scheduled to leave today, but in the time-honored tradition of me missing my flight to DC in June because I apparently can't read an itinerary, he missed his flight.

Darn.

Although it costs a fortune to change a ticket, I'm so glad to get him for one more night.  The tears I cried this morning have dried and hopefully I'll feel a little stronger tomorrow so I don't have to go through them again.

A First

Apologies.  I know I've been neglecting our discourse.  When the boy is around, everything else falls to the wayside, including my telling you stories.  He's leaving on Wednesday and I'll be a better writer once I get done with the sobbing.

Today the boy and I went to Cita's place, because she and I have been texting about a visit for a while now.  Schedules have been crazy, and the boy likes NEVER HAVING PLANS while in town, so this was a delicate balance, but I'm glad it's happened.

Aside:  One of the boy's favorite things to say is that he's never go to Iraq for any amount of money.  But after seeing Cita's place, he reconsidered.  So cute.

I was so happy to see Cita's husband, back from Iraq, home safely.  He might have been a little taken aback when I hugged him, but is there a better time to hug someone than when he returned safely from a war?  He'll be all right.

Cita, her husband, the boy, and I got on famously.  I'm so glad to introduce him to the important people in my life.  I got to see Cita and her husband joke and play, and they got to see the boy and I interact.  I loved this afternoon.

Afterwards, the boy and I went out to dinner and, like you do, discussed our afternoon with them.  "I like them, they're good people," the boy told me.  (Well, yeah!)  Then we discussed how our relationship is and should be.  It was a good conversation.

Tonight I texted Cita to thank her for having us over, and that WE had a great time.

This was my first WE.

Family Fun

The theme of this visit has been family.  When I was in Seattle last, the theme was OW! because I couldn't seem to stop injuring myself. 

His parents invited me out to dinner on Thursday, we ate delicious Mexican food, and I discovered that the boy's mother and I share a mutual hatred of screeching children and a mutual love of Project Runway.  She's got that splash of bitterness that I recognize in me and and in my own Momma.  Boy Momma and I are going to be just fine.  The boy's father is a very sweet man, who loves old comedy and the occasional esoteric reference.  I can see where the boy gets many of his habits and inclinations. 

Sunday we went to meet my Momma for brunch.  Momma had met the boy before, but it was about twenty years ago and I'd like to think we'd all grown up some.  I believe that she thinks he was too "fast" for me back then and she's always been a little reticent about the boy's and my relationship.  I asked her to have an open mind, and I think she tried.  At least, she thawed throughout the meal.  It was tense at first, but it is also approaching one million degrees (without the heat index) and that shortens tempers.  Still, she smiled at the boy a few times and when I came back from a visit to the ladies', they were having a friendly conversation.

So we'll see.  I'd like my family to like the boy, at least the way his family likes me.  But if they decide not to, well, there's not a lot I can do about that.

Romance Bubble

Wow, it's been days since we've talked.  And in those days, I have luxuriated in time with the boy.  Time we don't often get.  We watched movies.  We took walks in the rain.  We ate enough food that even Biggs got a snack.  We held hands while we were in bed - you'll get nothing else from me!

It's so easy for us to get lost and comfortable and...kinda free.  There's nothing better for me than curling up next to him.  We are touchers - even on opposite sides of the couch, we hold hands.

I know I sound like a dope but I had such a good time with him, and I look forward to many more.

As long as he remembers to use a coaster.

Let's Talk About Wax, Baby

Yesterday, Momma and I went for mani/pedi/waxes.  Well, let's be honest - Momma went for a pedi, and I went for the total package.

A chair or so down from me was a girl about ten years old.  She looked over when one of the ladies brought the wax to my table and worked my brows back into submission.  (Fellas?)  Her mom laughed, in a way that only ladies who have been waxed can laughed, and asked her daughter, "Do you want your brows done?"  The girl hesitated and watched.

This reminded me of the very first time I got my brows done.  They're not bad naturally (fellas?) but a little but of sculpting goes a long way.  Thankfully I had armrests the first time.  The wax doesn't feel bad when it's applied, but once the ripping strip is on, you know this isn't going to be fun enjoyable sexual pleasant. 

I'll tell you, the rip made me almost jump out of the chair.  That shit HURTS, people!  And then I had to endure more.  Once the lady ripped out the hair from the eye side of my brows, I was in tears.  And then there was another eye.  Once you know true pain, you cannot believe you have to endure it on your opposite side.

But I got through it, again and again, and then went back and have now had this "beauty" treatment done more times that I can count.  It's not so bad now, although I think what gets to me is the anticipation.  I now longer jump, or have to hold a stress ball (although I might still when I get a blood draw).

Still, my reaction, and the subsequent pinkness around my brows which lasts for about ten minutes, made this little girl tell her mom, "No!  I do not want to be waxed!"

Godspeed, girl.  Your day is coming soon enough.

Guest Post

The other day, a friend of mine told me a story so funny, I snorted. Ugh. But I did, and then I insisted that she write it out so I could share it with you. She's feeling a little shy about this one, but she shouldn't! I can only imagine how many mommies this has happened to:

The other day I was sitting at my computer checking email when my 2 boys exclaimed that they were hungry. So as I get up from my chair I find I have a Charlie-horse-like cramp in my hip /butt area. It continues into the night when, laying in bed with my husband, I ask nicely, "Would you please massage my butt?" To which he laughed and asked why. I tell him about the pain, and while he is cackling he says alright.

Once he started massaging my backside, I of course start moaning (from pain and from relief). After around 5 minutes of me moaning, my oldest son comes running into our bedroom and starts hitting his father due to the fact that he thinks his dad is hurting me.

At this time I am laughing so hard I am crying. I try explaining this to my son, and he says, "Huh," and leaves. After a little prodding I again get my husband to continue massaging my butt, because it is helping.

Not even 5 minutes later our youngest son, who is 3, comes in and starts beating up his father, announcing, "Don't you hurt our mother, that's my mommy!!" Again I am laughing hysterically; this time at the fact that even after a day of yelling at my kids to clean their rooms and share their toys, I know that they do indeed love me no matter what.

Moms? How many times have you had this experience?

Because I'm In An Odd Place

Good things that happened today: I got to talk with Lucy's mother, with whom I've not spoken for far too long. FAR TOO LONG, Lucy's mother! We did our version of The View, laughed, reminisced, and talked about plans for me to eat the baby.

Hush. The baby is too pretty to not devour.

Next I talked with Wade, quite possibly one of the most awesome women I know. We compared conspiracy theories. What? You don't have those paranoid beliefs? Then you are a better person than we are.

Momma and I moved the cleaning date to Saturday.

The boy is probably on the ground now, and I bet his Momma is in tears, so happy to see him again. (Jealous? Me? Never!)

I have three calls to return tomorrow, two of which might be clients. Yay, clients!

I'm lost in odd thoughts today - today is one of those where I want to inflict my randomness on the world. Luckily for you, I only have this small space where I can annoy you.

And no attention span, clearly.

Tidy

Momma and I spent the last two days doing belated spring cleaning. It still counts as spring cleaning if you do it in July, right?

People, I have the bravest Momma ever. She went out on my deck in the sweltering heat armed only with a broom and destroyed the encroaching spider army. See, where I live, landscaping is the priority, and that means a turnover of all the grounds about every six weeks. The spiders get displaced and try to find a quiet place to live, which they surely did on my porch. I was getting afraid to go outside to give Biggs his water because it was getting so bad.

Now? I can go out, wander around, and know for a fact that Momma + Palmolive + water = no spider eggs. Plus, the heat! It's hotter than Hades here and has humidity to match, but Momma is tough and got it done.

The windows and glass were done with vinegar water. The shredder overheated five times in two days. (I thought I was a paper hoarder, but it turns out that I'm just lazy.) The bleach I used in the bathrooms almost melted my eyebrows off. The Pine-Sol smell is amazing. The vacuum made my carpet look almost new.

Suddenly I want to clean everything, all the time. But no, before you ask, I won't come over and fix your place.

My Timing Is Off

A few days (weeks, whatever) my friend Jamie commented on my blog and reminded me that she's about to take the bar. This made me search all over this blog to find the insane rantings I wrote before I took that muthascratchin' test. And talk to friends. And then some more friends. And then some other friends who really deserve pieces of my bar card because they didn't kill me before I took the test.

But something occured to me the other day. I discussed it with Wade. Should we tell Jamie about my thought, or should we not? We decided that I should, but because I am an awful narcisstic person, I only remembered tonight. Tonight is far too late to send Jamie a Facebook message. She's about a week away from the terror.

But if you read this, Jamie...there's a good chance that there will be a question on the Alabama essay part of the exam that deals with the oil spill. I say this because I took this bar in 2008, right after a few hurricanes affecting Mobile and its islands, and there was a question about the insurance liabilities involved.

I didn't know jack about the question, so I wrote a public policy answer. And I passed. So don't feel like you have to suddenly study maritime law, international law, corporate law, every freaking kind of law which affects the situation.

I just don't want you to go in blindsighted. And if you want me to remove your name, let me know.

You'll be awesome. I know that doesn't help right now. I know nothing helps. But you've got all of my, Wade's, and a girl you've never met, good wishes on your side.

I Hate Cleaning

It's true, folks, I really do hate to clean. I almost bankrupted myself when I lived in Cleveland for a housekeeper, and she was amazing! She could run a vacuum and talk on her cell. She taught the lazy secret of tossing toilet cleaner into the toilet, waiting, flushing, and calling it done. She had NINE, count 'em, 9 children.

Since then, all the work has had to be done myself. The irony is that I can clean the heck out of someone else's place, but getting me to take care of my own place requires cocktails, good conversations, and a Webster.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that my place is nasty or filthy, but more likely dusty and full of piles of shredding. Still. I've been talking myself into an uber-clean since about March, and am now required to get it in perfect shape.

1. The boy will be in town on the 21st.
2. I really love a tidy, gorgeous place.
3. Who knows how much longer I'll live here, and it needs to be lovely if I break the lease.

I did intend to get started on Monday, but now it's Friday and nothing has been done. (Except the dusting of the little table near my deck.) I talked to Momma the other night and she asked if she should still come over Monday to help me sort. (Please see the first sentence.) I asked her to come over on Wednesday, so tomorrow I really will, I promise, I swear, work on the master bathroom and bedroom tomorrow.

Success breeds success, right?

A Message From Biggs

Hi. Biggs here. Or as the two-legger often calls me, Nose. Please don't call me Nose. I hate it. I glare at her whenever she calls me that, but it hasn't stopped her yet. She keeps it up and I might reveal one of her nicknames. (Psst - HB.)

She left me with her parents while she went away for a week, and on Friday, I had a terrible, awful, not good, very bad day. I knew I should have hid when the V word was mentioned. But the old man who feeds me more often than my two-legger, and who scoops my box at each addition, had never done anything mean to me so I didn't worry.

Friday morning there was a car ride (I hate car rides) to the V office, where a strange woman put WATER ON ME and some kind of soap, and scrubbed and scrubbed and it hurt. I am 15 years old! Be gentle! I have sharp teeth! Then there was a brush and comb and scissors and nail clippers. Then there was a blow-dryer. I hate blow-dryers. The two-legger likes to harass me with hers - payback is hell, two-legger! Then, there was a car ride home.

My two-legger is annoying and refuses to learn Cat although I understand English pretty well, but when she came over to the old peoples' house Saturday to get me, I willingly rode with her home. In her lap. I do this because it makes it harder for her to use the pedals and the wheel.

Evil. :-)

The Problem Is Leaving

I've been promising an account about my last two plane trips, and now that I'm home, safely, here we go...

I took a 5pm flight from my hometown, through Dallas, to Seattle. Not a flight change, just a stopover. I thought. As we flew around some weather yet still made it on time to Dallas, there were changes afoot. The flight crew decided to "retire" the plane for the evening, so I was to change to another plane, one that would get me into my boy's arms.

HAH!

The flight landed, but there was no gate attendant (gate attendant? How fucking hard is it to open the door from the plane's walkway?) to let us off the plane. At the time, I still wasn't sure what was happening, but I did see a guy who was in the front of the line, looking longfully at his connecting flight (literally, watching the plane on the left) as it closed its doors and left him behind. He was on his way to a tournament, and I can only imagine how much money he lost.

Well done, American Airlines.

Yes, I'm going to call out each airline.

So, I finally realize I will be changing flights, so I get my gear and walk like an old woman in an air-conditioned mall to the tram to get to my next flight. Flight? You mean the flight that just left? With the two passangers who ruined their children's college funds to sit in business/first class to get to said new flight on time? Yeah? How late was I? Oh, American Airlines literally just closed the doors as I arrived?

AARRGGHH!!

Did I mention the other passenger who had the cojones to sit in coach way ahead of me get left behind as well? No? Well, she did, and from that minute on, we were BUDDIES.

So, as the AMERICAN AIRLINES representatives...

Lost my train of thought, but I promise to finish the story. I mean, I got interrupted by the boy telling me about how there was an altercation between his neighbor and him.

I Owe You One

I know I owe you news, so here's the highlights: I think I might be a cursed flyer, I made it back from DC safely (with a minimum of tears - I really do love that place, even when it's 97 degrees), and I have just arrived in Kentucky and am about to spend three days with Momma and her best friend, discussing important things.

And don't you wonder, like me, why the cheaper hotels have the free wifi and the quite-expensive ones charge $12.95 a day for it? I mean, isn't $300 a night enough to allow me access to the webs?

Sheesh. And plane stories to come.

Do Whatcha Gotta

Today while out and about, I decided to go visit D., a lady I used to work with. We became suprisingly fast friends after a period of thinking we had nothing in common. Ironic, ain't it? We moved from work friends to work-and-lunch friends to work-and-lunch-and phone call friends, but when I transferred departments, we didn't talk as much. You know how that works: it's easier to stay close when you're physically close to someone.

So I went to her cube (gawd, those things suck), she clocked out for lunch, and we caught up for an hour. She learned all about my trips to Seattle and Atlanta; I learned about office gossip (juicy!) and how this has been a tough few weeks for her.

The funniest thing is that she's driving to Baltimore tonight and I'm flying to DC tomorrow, and I'll bet you $1,000,000 that we won't meet up there. Too bad - that would be fun, but I bet our respective stories are going to be pretty good.

The important thing you should take away from this? I'M GOING TO DC TOMORROW AND I WILL CRY AS THE PLANE LANDS AT REAGAN BECAUSE IT FEELS LIKE COMING HOME AND I AM SO EXCITED THAT I COULD SPILT IN TWO.

Also, I got a new purse.

Wimbledon!

It's my favorite tennis season ever this year. I love this sport, I love this Grand Slam tournament, I might kinda love Roger Federer (shhh...) and I love chattering my friends' heads off about how much I love all of this.

So, what I guess I'm saying is that I acknowledge and understand why my phone won't be ringing for the next two weeks. But I'm trying (Wade)! I'm trying to keep the blathering to less than ten minutes. Still, what can I do? As I type this, there is a match between relative newcomers Isner and Mahut that is in its fifth set and the score is 53-52.

Did you see those numbers? 53! 52!

This is because at Wimbledon there is no fifth-set tie break. They'll play it out. Remember last year's Federer (sigh...) v. Roddick epic battle? Same thing, although the points did not get nearly as high.

So while I intend to go to meetings while I'm in DC this weekend, there's a strong chance I'll be holed up in my hotel room, watching tennis. And when I'm in Kentucky next week, I'll be in another hotel room, watching tennis.

It's what I do.

Father's Day

This morning I dragged myself out of bed at 8am to go over to the folks'.  I think we all know what a sacrifice that was; my Sundays are generally sancrosect and devoted to the lazy.  But I did it, and when I got there, I made brunch for my dad.  Egg scrambler with red bell peppers, onions, and cheddar, and homemade diced fried potatoes (for some reason I can't think of what they're called).

Afterwards, Momma spoiled me with a trip to Sam's and Barnes and Noble.  Somebody's a lucky girl!  We discussed the potential move into Date's house, and she's much less freaked about the idea.

Honestly, given the option between Date's house and my folks' house, I think I made the more emotionally secure choice.

After, I showed Momma the glory of street view on Google maps, and then headed to Cita's birthday party.

Her mom had the most amazing Mexican spread, and soon after, Cita's little sister had the margaritas flowing.  I love her sister's bartending style; high on taste, low on alcohol.  Who wants to feel loaded at 3:30?  I had a great time visiting with Cita and her friends.  The most fun I had was with Cita's sister, who adores bad reality television as much as I do.  When the conversation moved around to Hoarders (quite possibly the best show on TV), I knew I would love her forever.  I even channeled the most recent Kathy Griffin special.

Getting my ill-gotten gains from Sam's into my house during the wall of heat and humidity kinda sucked, but I did it.  And now I am enjoying a tasty adult beverage and plotting my tomorrow.

Concrete Blonde - Atlanta

The concert was AMAZING. Over-the-top, leave-me-alone, can't-you-see-I'm-crying-to- I Don't Need A Hero-good.

I have loved this band since 1987, when I first heard God Is A Bullet on KROQ. I was 14, the world made no sense but was viscerally dangerous, and this voice of anger and reason came to me. I'm sure I didn't get the lyrics right, but there was so much righteous indignation when Johnette sang about being physically small but big enough to get a badge and a gun. Now, that was some truth to a girl who was trying to hide the hurt of not getting picked for drill team by becoming a goth.

When Concrete Blonde traveled down from Los Angeles to south Orange County, where I lived, I begged my mother over and over again to let me see them. She refused; she heard the rock-and-roll anger in the music and thought that I was too young to be exposed to such things. I seethed, but obeyed, in what is possibly one the dumber moves I made as a teenager.

So when the boy mentioned that the band was touring again to mark the twentieth anniversary of Bloodletting, I screamed like a little girl. We wanted to go together, but Concrete Blonde plays next week (I think) in Seattle. But they played Wednesday night in Atlanta. I waited twenty-three years to see this band.

It was worth it. Johnette is strong and powerful and her bass playing was fantastic. The band was tight; the venue was intimate enough. On the way there, Date and College Friend and I wondered aloud if we could just slip her requests. Turns out, there was no need. Here's the setlist:

Via:

1. Bloodletting
2. Joey
3. I Don’t Need A Hero
4. Days and Days
5. Lullabye
6. Scene of A Perfect Crime
7. Ghost of a Texas Ladies Man
8. Someday
9. Everybody Knows
10. Caroline
11. When I Was A Fool
12. God Is A Bullet
13. Run Run Run
14. Little Wing
15. Heal It Up
16. Your Haunted Head

First Encore
17. Mexican Moon
18. Happy Birthday
19. True
20. Tomorrow, Wendy

Second Encore
21. Still in Hollywood

She might as well have read my mind. The only other song I would have wanted to hear would have been Darkening Of The Light, but since that's a duet of Johnette and herself, I understand why she didn't play it. Besides, had she played it, College Friend and I would probably be in jail from crushing the other patrons in our need to get next to each other (it is our song).

I watched the show from about two-thirds of the way from the stage, as I am an old woman and I wanted to sit. College Friend went up front to dance with the other revelers, and Date moved back and forth between us to keep an eye on us. For me, this was perfect: the show was almost a religious experience for me, and I really wanted to be alone to absorb the music and remember the feelings and situations that Johnette so perfectly describes.

These pictures, then, are from Date's phone when he went up front.

I think this one is loaded backwards.  Johnette played from stage right.

Look at those legs!  I should be so lucky.

Each time Date went down to get closer, there were more people there.

So if you've not yet seen Concrete Blonde, go. I'm already regretting missing PiL.

A Tinge Better

As you might have noticed, it's been a tough couple of days as I try to readjust to my current reality and determine my next. Today was the first time in a long while that I was able to feel more like me, and for that, I most thoroughly thank Cita, who invited me out to lunch and treated me to fabulous steak and herself to fabulous shrimp.

That's the thing, isn't it? When you're fighting your own head, sometimes the only thing you need is to get out of the house for a while. Normally, as you know, I can flirt with a tree so long as it has a good sway, but leaving Seattle and the changes here have really made me - OK, let's be hones - annoying.

So remember to get good cards for your good friends for their birthdays.

I also had a conversation with someone who controls far more of my next few weeks than I ever intended to tell her. All morning, I really just wanted to tear a new hole into her. Instead, I decided to be a grown up (fucking grown-ups!) and figure this out.

We did, are on much better terms, and I managed not to say, "Bitch, don't get between me and my money." I should tell you, that's one of my many mantras. Although it generally doesn't involve the word bitch.

So things are on a more even keel, tomorrow I'm going to Atlanta to see Concrete Blonde, and after two days, imagine what I can do.

Resignation

One of the big bickers that the boy and I had while I was on vacation was about the status of our relationship. We've been together almost two years, and trying to figure everything out.

Just let me tell you - I started the fight. Let's be true; I have the ovaries and the desire to know and understand. He, however, is much more relaxed. He likes the way we are, where nothing is really true.

I don't.

I go by some rules, and I want us to be on the same page. We argued for days on days, and I think you'll like that I hollered at him.

We have yet to figure out what we're doing. I told him that I would hate for him to lose something really good because he was afraid - He told me that he was scared to define what we have. He then said that he's not sure - again! - and I pointed out that we've been doing this for damn near two years.

Turns out that he told one of his neighbors that I wasn't his girlfriend.

This hurts.

However, I'm not good at issuing ultimatives. Especially since I don't want us to be over. Not now, not ever. Still, exactly how much am I to endure?

Please wish us luck.

Better!

You know, it definitely helps when Cary Tennis is back and working. His words explain so much in a few phrases. He makes me remember that I am capable and maybe even amazing.

I know I've harrassed you about it previously, but you really should read his column on salon.com. If nothing else, you'll get a better read on me.

If you want to.

Quotes:

"No one prescription heals the infinite variety of emotional wounds."

"Meanwhile, though it sounds a little silly, thinking good thoughts about the one we resent, wishing them good fortune, blowing positive breath toward them, praying for them -- these odd and counterintuitive actions sometimes have surprising effects."

"We have never done enough. There is no such thing as enough. There is always more to do."

Indeed.

Truth - It's A Bit Scary

So I'm moving into Date's house. I have lost my job and safety net, and he's willing to help me. For the next month, I'll need to scrub and scrub and scrub, and not only the walls. I'l be selling off most of my furniture.

This hurts. I wish I didn't have to. I mean, Date and I get on quite well, but it's strange to get rid of the few things I've loved and the many more items I've been given.

Still, this is the way it goes when someone starts over, right?

I told the boy about it and he's OK with the move. Momma, however, is a bit more freaked out.

As am I. I cannot wait to get everything in order.

BACK!

I have so many stories to tell you. I can't do it all tonight, so please forgive the jumps in time. I had a lovely time in Seattle. I made some new friends, I explored areas I had never seen, and I loved more than anything that I knew the basic way to most places.

Ummmm...Seattle? Exactly how many mentally ill homeless people do you need on your bus system? I'm not judging; just curious. I think you folks might agree with me when I say it's a bit intimidating to have fellow passengers scream and holler about their demons when all you want is to get to the grocery store.

Limited highlights to come: I ate Vietnamese food for the first time. I ate salmon for the first time. The boy bought me flowers for the first time. I went to a super-sized Japanese grocery for the first time.

Oh, and we're so going to have a conversation with American Airlines for my outward journey. Sweet crackers, that was ridiculous.

Last: It's hard to be back and get used to not having someone near me to talk with. I'm getting rather lonely.

Two Days Out

In two days, I will not only be on my way to seeing the boy but actually in his place. For this I am nervous to the point that I can't sleep (really. I'm working on about six hours for the weekend.) and in equal parts excited. We had a good talk last night about some things that have been worrying me (and aren't I always the one who worries? Honestly, even Biggs has mentioned it on occasion). I felt heard, he suggested solutions, and although I couldn't sleep, I could rest.

Last night's Lost finale was something else. I do think it could have ended at the two-hour mark (if only to save me from more tears) but I enjoyed the denouement. Speaking of tears, I must have cried three or four separate times. I am a sucker for a good love story. And don't you think the actors have improved over the years? Well, Michael Emerson and Terry O'Quinn are consumate actors, true, but the others have really developed. Or at least learned how to do the smize and the anti-smize. (Tyra, you're welcome.)

There's some hope on hand, professionally speaking, and if there's something professional that I need right now, it's hope. So please keep your fingers crossed that I won't have to play Worst Case Scenario: Moving Back In With The Folks anytime soon.

And wish the boy and I a fabulous time together.

PM Asides

The AM asides are in the post below. I wasn’t sure how much I’d write, so creating a morning and afternoon version of this seemed prudent.

12:38pm: How come one person’s bad mood always takes precedence over another person’s good mood? There’s no particular story here. It just seems that gravitas matters more than frivolity, like the darker emotion is necessarily deeper. Does it have to be that way? Can the good cheer be more fundamental?

1:11pm: Just discovered that I can play Pac-Man on Google’s home page. I think we all know what I’ll be doing for the rest of the day.

1:35pm: Horrified to learn that I’ve been missing the French Open. Much cheered to learn that Alabama is the #12 most corrupt state in the country, according to the Daily Beast. That’s better than being #2 in the Crushing Free Speech Protection competition.

2:19pm: Just spent ten minutes explaining to my boss why I shouldn’t watch horror movies and how my cat can predict weather.

2:52pm: More food coma. Perhaps I should just give up eating? Glanced at a couple of pictures the boy has sent me recently. Smile at the flower shots.

2:58pm: Scary email from coworker. I hope she doesn’t make a mistake. The fear helps shake off the food coma.

3:26pm: More questions from another coworker with more seniority. Egads. I think they’re missing the forest for the trees.

3:49pm: Tootsie Rolls are addictive. My tummy hurts.

4:34pm: Every so often, I curse Robert Shapiro’s name for creating legalzoom. The desire to save money is ridiculous when it comes to legal affairs. Remember, you get what you pay for!

4:40pm: Just a quick game of Pac-Man. I’d forgotten how heavy-handed I am when I play video games. I was slamming the arrow keys just now.

4:56pm: Ow ow ow Tootsie Rolls. Why must you be so delicious?

5:00pm: Clean up desk. Use bathroom. Go home. Pet cat and post deep thoughts.

AM Asides

So it’s 8:37am CDT, and I’m going to update all day with what’s on my mind.

8:37am: I am glad to have made it to work when I did, as it’s now raining pretty hard and I don’t like (or own) umbrellas.

8:38am: I am reading a slate.com article on A Separate Peace. This is the book, which when taught to me in 10th grade, made me HATE looking for Deep Hidden Meaning in literature. This legacy carries over to Lost, which I watch only because I like the story, not because I’m trying to find a truth or an obscure philosophical reference.

9:17am: I’m fighting off unholy food coma, because I got myself a Chik-Fil-A biscuit and I got to bed late and awoke at 3am. Also, it’s grey with rain and the office is surprisingly quiet.

9:19am: Dear slate.com, can you please be more like nytimes.com, which only offers a “single page” option if there’s more than one page? Kthxbai.

9:30am: I’m reading the Wikipedia article on borderline personality disorder and suffering from a little medical student’s disease.

9:32am: Further down the article and feeling much better now. Does it seem to you as well that all psychiatric disorders are merely marks on a spectrum?

9:47: Dear HR/Marketing departments at work, Two things: First, having employees pay a little for the privilege of wearing jeans on a Friday is a fine tradition. Having employees pay approximately $180 over the course of a year to wear jeans ONE DAY during the year is either Machiavellianly brilliant, or just plain awful. Not sure which. Second, an employee appreciation day email that has prominently featured on the invite, NO EARLY ARRIVALS, just doesn’t sound very welcoming, now does it?

9:54am: “Natty” is an underused word, don’t you think?

10:12am: wsj.com welcomes my thoughtful comments. Can’t you hear Tim Gunn’s voice when you read that sentence?

10:30am: Reading atl.com article on studying for the LSAT. I’d forgotten about how much time it took to study for that test. Something about that time pales in relation to studying for the bar; however, it was not an insignificant amount of time. I lived with my mother when I took it and I’m now having flashbacks of, “Shouldn’t you be studying?”

11:14am: Break in the lunchroom. Just had a long conversation about the wonder that is reality TV. One of my coworkers has a picture of himself with Kynt & Vyxsin. I think I’m in love.

11:57am: Wondering if the boy would ever read all the texts in my phone. Wondering if I would ever read his. For the record, I would not read his.

12:00pm: Time for a new post.

Just A Little Awww...

As I was leaving work today, it occured to me:

One week from today, when I wake up, it will be next to the man I love.

I Blame Oprah

Tonight I watched the episode of Oprah that had Bret Michaels. One, he looked fantastic. I've heard of how bad his headaches are as he recovers, and I'm amazed that he managed through his segment.

Mostly, it inspired me to say: I love you, each and every one of you. The friends of mine who read this site and tolerate me are amazing. Those whom I write about and who don't read this - I completely get it. Occasionally there is a lot of my version of the truth here.

Bret is only 47! As much as I don't like to think of it, it'll happen to me as well. I will get older, and I will need my friends and viewers and everyone else whom I've ever influenced to know about me.

It's messy, my world. But I want every minute of it, every worry, every laugh, every desire and dream, every minute that you share with me.

Snark to resume soon.

Reaction

Because none of you comment on my blog (I understand, it's not like I'm ATL or Dooce), I will tell you about the comment I got from the last blog about my movie choices.

I stand by my choices, and I completely understand why I didn't choose any chick movies, of which I adore. C'mon, we have to be fair, and when the boy asked if I wanted to see SATC 2, I told him FREAKING ABSOLUTELY. Then I mentioned that I wouldn't drag him to see it with me because he really needs his man-parts.

Reaction: Good on you for asking for you want! It's true, I don't always show every little bit of my personality to the boy, if only because he is an ACTOOOOOR and needs endless attention. But he's learning, and last night I forced him to discuss the most recent SCOTUS rulings. Tee-hee! I make him talk about ideas without any reference points. Occasionally I am evil.