Until I Get Bored

I love those silly question lists, and I found this one here, so I thought, "Why not?  It's been a while."  So I'll play until it's not entertaining anymore.

1. Mostly straight.
2. Patience. Sports. Finding Waldo.
3. Luckily, I've got that.  GPOM.  And on weak days, my Momma's.
4.
5. On good days, it feels like I could take on the world. Most days, not really.

OK, bored now.  I'm going to go watch GPOM play Fallout and/or watch the Evil Willow episodes from Buffy.

At Least There's No Tears

I thought I had told you fine people about my crying jags.  Apparently not, as a quick search through the archives of this little masterpiece assures me.

For years upon years upon years, I almost never cried.  Once, maybe twice a year would something strangely wet escape my eye.  I call these the over-medicated years.

Once the meds were gone and the feelings were back, I cried at every damn thing I laid eyes on.  Mark Greene dies on ER?  Hefty sobs.  Those Hallmark commercials at Christmas?  Weeping.  The end of just about any chick flick?  Almost inconsolable.

Finally, I've settled down to my routine, occasional wet eyes.  Except.  Every time I went to Seattle, I would spend at least the first two days in tears.  Not because of anything, but I think because I finally felt safe and free and able to express what I was feeling.  I hold a lot of what I think and feel inside of me, I guess.

(I know, what irony!  And here I write about myself all the time.)

Now that GPOM's been here for a week, and there's only been one time where I welled up unexpectedly, I think we're finally home.  But I'll let you in on one secret shame - I cannot get through a Taylor Swift song without crying.

An Early Morning Conversation

- Are you sure about us?
- Most of the time. Yes. Yes. Are you sure about us?
- Absolutely.
- You’re sure about me?
- Yes.
- You’re a brave man.

This Should've Ended Badly

Thursday morning I awoke to a strange phenomenon in my shower. No hot water! But because it’s approximately nine thousand degrees here (including humidity) the water wasn’t ice cold and more importantly, didn’t feel ice cold. So while I had to teach myself some new yoga poses to wash my hair without getting water on my back, it could’ve been a lot worse. When I left that morning, I asked GPOM to check the water to see if it was hot and to let me know so that I could call maintenance if it was not.


When I got home that night, I asked him about the status of the hot water. “Nope, still cold,” he told me, “but I think the pilot light is out. When it gets cooler, I’ll go relight it.” I didn’t think it was the pilot light – his reasoning was that a strong wind and the ENTIRE CAN OF RAID he used to kill the spider mafia in the HVAC room conspired to cut out the light. I told him that the water was cold in the morning, long before the ENTIRE CAN OF RAID was sprayed. But he was insistent, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight just yet. Later, he went outside with a flashlight and some short matches to try to relight the light. No dice – the matches were too short. So he went back outside with the flashlight and one of those kitchen blowtorches used to burn sugar on crème brulee.

A blowtorch. Yes. A BLOWTORCH.

I knew, with the surety that comes from seeing men with beer and barbeque grills and the ensuing lack of eyelashes, that this was the night I was going to die. GPOM was working off of more vodka than brains, a flashlight, and a blowtorch. And I was going to die a fiery death.

Since I’m writing this, you can be sure that I’m not dead, just as you can be sure I took another, colder, shower this morning. I haven’t decided yet what to name the yoga pose.

And maintenance is at my place right now, restoring the hot water.

D-Day

Barring, well, anything, GPOM should be here no later than Friday evening.  I'm spending today taking donations to the Humane Society (GPOM needs room), going to the post office (demand letters gotta mail), going to the courthouse (please let there be progress on my cases!  My clients are getting nervous), visiting Cita (only nine days left until the baby, assuming he doesn't have earlier plans), and going to Target (I can't afford to eat Steak-Out every night, no matter how much I love it).

I've been so nervous about GPOM's arrival, because my grand tradition is to overthink everything and plan for the worst.  Those must be the traits I have that made him fall in love with me in the first place.  I mean, who isn't attracted to rampant insecurity?

Now I'm feeling better, and stronger, and honestly, I'm going to be so grateful that he's here safely and that I can finally relax and let him carry some of the weight.  I'm a strong woman but I need to collapse the reins sometimes too.  And since he's offered to take care of me, forever, I'd be a damn fool not to take him up on it.

Safe travels, my love.  See you soon.