WOW, what a weekend!

What's that?  The weekend's just beginning?  Oh.  So it is.  I'm sorry you didn't get to start yours on Wednesday.

We're just home from an amazing night at the swimming pool hotel.  The what, you ask?  The swimming pool hotel.  You know, the one where they have a swimming pool IN your hotel room.  Here, let me show you what I mean:

See?  Our very own pool.

The hotel chain is called Sybaris, and I've been dreaming of spending a night there since I heard of it 4 years ago.  It was totally worth the wait.

I imagine everyone in the world is reading Momastery these days, because that Glennon is one smart cookie.  I found her blog over a year ago, the piece called A Mountain I'm Willing To Die On, and last March she posted Birthdays, wherein she tells the story of her first birthday spent with her husband and how he didn't know what her expectations were and she was so disappointed.  Instead of brushing it under the rug, though, she made the brilliant move to *wait for it* talk to her husband, and explain why birthdays are a big deal for her and that celebrating special occasions is something that makes her feel loved.  That post encouraged me to give my requests to Jimi regarding this year's birthday - and man, did he outdo every one of my expectations.

Wednesday night, he presented me with a smallish package, wrapped in red paper dotted with multicolored Christmas trees, with a card tucked in under the hand-tied pink fabric bow.  He gave it to me early, saying I'd probably want to take it with us for our overnight trip on Thursday.  I thought it was a vibrator - we went to the naughty shop a few weeks back and there was a great display of high-end vibrators that the sales lady claimed came with a 10 year warranty.  Have you ever heard of such a thing?  Turns out the warranty is really only for a year, girlfriend just didn't know her job too good.  Anyhow, I wasn't willing to drop $120 on a vibrator that night, and when we came home we discovered that you could find the same thing on Amazon for $70.  Score!  Except I never did buy it, because, well, do I really NEED a $70 vibrator?  So yeah, I thought that's what was wrapped in the Christmas paper.  It wasn't.  It was a kindle fire.  Holy crap!  A kindle?!  I couldn't believe it.  I spent the next few hours playing with my new toy - ha!  That sounds funny after talking about vibrators.  But yeah, I "bought" some free e-books, discovered our Amazon Prime account allows me one free book rental per month from the online library, ordered a protective cover for the kindle, bought that new First Aid Kit album and uploaded it to my cloud (I have a cloud!), played Angry Birds for the first time.  LOVE.

(And I'm the girl who swore, when e-readers came out, that I'd never own one.  Books are where it's at, I said, and no electronic device can ever be as satisfying as turning the pages on an honest-to-goodness, made-of-paper book.  Um, yeeeaahh...unless that electronic device can also allow you to surf the web, read blogs, stream Pandora...  I often say dumb things.  Let's just leave it at that, shall we?)

For the last few days, Jimi'd been telling me "We're going to Indianapolis and catching a train up to Wisconsin and back.  An overnight train ride!  We've got a room on a sleeper car, and there's a dining car - I think it'll be fun."  "Uh huh" with a side-eye was my response.  I didn't buy it.  I didn't know what he had planned, but I didn't think that was it.  In an effort to get the secret out of him, I told him yesterday morning, "If we're really going to be riding a train all night, I'm just wearing yoga pants and a tank top (no bra) and my grey sweater." (My friend Angie calls this get-up "fat ballerina".  Or maybe that's only when you're wearing leggings, not yoga pants.  Either way, it's my favorite outfit and I always giggle at the idea of me as a fat ballerina when I wear it, which is every day I can possibly manage to leave the house without a bra.)  Jimi just shrugged his shoulders at my comment and said, "So long as you're comfortable."  I sorta expected him to argue - I mean, what about the nice dinner part of my request?  So I sat on the bed to be packed a bra, a nice sweater, some clean jeans, a comfy dress I like to lounge around in - I figured we probably didn't have reservations somewhere with a dress code if he was letting me leave the house dressed like a fat ballerina, but I didn't want to find myself with no options if we did actually end up somewhere that frowns on yoga pants in public.  Jimi comes in, sees my to-be-packed pile and sighs, "What are you going to do with all these clothes?"  "Just in case," I say.  He put aside the sweater and the dress.  "You won't need them.  Trust me." 

He was right.  We were naked within minutes of the above photo being taken.  Actually, he was already naked from the waist down - he saw me starting to take a picture and ran for the bathroom.  Oops!  I'm not used to a wall full of mirrors.

Ten miles outside of Louisville, he told me where we were really going.  At that point, my interest in a fancy sit-down dinner was gone - I wanted to get to that pool as fast as I could.  We got into Indianapolis an hour and a half before our 6 o'clock check-in, so we went to the Wal-Mart down the way for provisions.  There was a Noodles & Company across the street that promised a quick meal, and it was conveniently located in the same shopping center as a liquor store and a naughty shop.  On a whim, I popped into the naughty shop and bought a grab bag of novelties while Jimi bought the booze, and we headed off into the sunset toward our evening in the Den of Sin.  (The grab bag was an awesome impulse buy.  That's all I have to say about that.)

Our suite was amazing.  For starters, you're in your own building, so you don't have to worry about hearing your neighbors gettin' freaky in the middle of the night.  When you walk in, the pool is on your right, and I expected to be hit in the face with an awful chlorine smell, but there's a wall of windows dividing the suite in half and the door opens to the living/bedroom section.  To the left of the door was a massage chair (!!), an electric fireplace, and the entertainment center in the corner.  There were two club chairs and a round table along the side wall, and then the king-sized bed on a light-up platform jutted out at an angle into the room.  A flat-screen TV hung just above the massage chair, and could be turned in any direction for your viewing pleasure.  (Free porn on 3 channels.)  The carpet was plush and freshly vacuumed, and there were two soft robes waiting for us on the bed.  (Available for purchase, $75, buy one get one free!  We didn't come home with robes.)  The mini-kitchen had a small fridge (complete with bag-o-ice in the freezer section), a microwave, coffee-maker, a couple of mugs and champagne flutes.  There was a huge two-person whirlpool tub, his and her sinks, and a bidet!  Have you ever used a bidet?  Me neither, till last night.  I was impressed at the selection of toiletries they offered - toothbrushes and toothpaste, Bath & Body Works shower gels and shampoos and conditioners, cotton balls and Q-tips.  I don't stay at hotels very often, okay?

Then there was the pool.  They've got several different options when planning your stay, and each has a different sized pool.  Ours was 16 feet long, 4 feet deep.  Not enough for diving or actual swimming (though it did have a swim jet, I don't think it was powerful enough to actually swim against; I kept running into the wall.), but plenty big for hanging out naked in the 92 degree water with your honey.  The next time we go, we're hoping to stay in the suite with the second floor loft, with a slide into the 22' pool below.  How awesome would that be?  Really awesome, that's how awesome.  A pipe system hidden by fake ivy rained water into the middle of the pool - we expected it to be cold water, but it was shower-temperature; Jimi loved it, I thought it was a little too hot.

There was a normal shower in the bathroom, but in the pool portion of the suite there was also a glassed-in shower cave that doubled as a sauna.  Jimi liked to sit in the steam for 10 minutes or so, getting real hot and sweaty, then turn on ice cold water full blast through the four overhead shower nozzles and the hand-held sprayer.  "Like the Norwegians," he said.  Yeah, I prefer to go from steam to pool, not steam to ice, but I'm probably just a wimp and doing it wrong.

Remember the kindle he gave me?  Their sound system included a jack to plug into it, so we were able to pipe music throughout the entire space.  They didn't offer free Wi-Fi - I imagine most of their clientele aren't interested in surfing the web much during their stay - but my phone can act as a portable hotspot, so we were able to stream Pandora all night.

Jimi is smart and suggested we sip on a concoction of lemon booze, orange juice, and champagne all night, and it was delicious.  (I would've drunk more champagne, though, if I'd realized he'd paid $35 for the bottle.  I'm more of a $12 champagne girl, and I prefer the sweeter ones over the Brut.)  We also had crackers, and filled the mini-fridge with hummus, cheese, and a tray of fresh-cut fruit with vanilla-bean cream cheese dipping sauce.  And a mini cheesecake, which I somehow completely forgot about until I was packing everything up this morning.  THAT is how awesome our night was - I forgot about cheesecake.

Wednesday night we had dinner with my family for a cousin's 16th birthday, and around the table upon our arrival went choruses of "Nat, you look so good!" and "Nat, you've lost a lot of weight, haven't you?" and "Oh, you look great!"  Always nice to hear, and I'm hearing it more often these days and that's really nice.  But I've not really SEEN the difference yet.  Sure, my clothes fit differently, but I've still not been real sure what all the fuss is about.  I saw it last night, in the full-wall mirrors.  I stood there in the bright lights and saw my naked self.  I see what they mean when they say what they do.  I do look good.  I mean, I'm still carrying some extra baggage, but compared to where I've been, I look great.  I recognize my body, the one I remember loathing when I was 16 and had that ittle bitty pooch and now look back on with longing because my only pooch was little and alone.  I'm not down to just the one yet, but I'll get there.  I can see, now, that I'm making progress, and man, that's great motivation.  I laid on my back last night, on the plush carpet, and put my hands on my hips.  Guys, I have hip bones again.  I can actually see them and feel them.  I was pretty bummed a few years back when I realized they were missing.  Last night, I felt sexy.  I spent something like 18 hours naked in a room full of mirrors, and I felt sexy.  Fuck yes.

We spent hours in the pool, floating, kissing, laughing.  We played silly water games and did handstands.  We talked and talked and talked. We fed each other fruit and took turns sighing over the awesomeness of the chair massage.  We watched some porn reality show on the Playboy channel and laughed at the chick giving a blowjob to the strap-on.  (Seriously, what's the point?)  

I'm just so happy and glad that Jimi took us on this little excursion.  I'm flattered by his attention and generosity.  This one night away, it was like a refresh key for the romance portion of our relationship - there was nothing in the world except the two of us, and we had a comfortable, fun setting where we could relax and wallow in being in love.

On our way home today, we stopped at the outlet malls and I bought myself a new dress.  Jimi says he needs to give me more excuses to dress up, and as he dropped me at the fitting room with an armful of frilly frocks, he headed toward the Tools & More with this: "Don't just try them all on and decide you hate them and give up.  Find a dress.  We'll go out."  Yes sir.  I found a dress, but not until he came back and picked it out for me.  He dresses me so much better than I dress myself - he knows while the dress is on the hanger if it's right for me; I'm doing good if I can make that distinction while I'm wearing it.  Clothes shopping is typically a horrible experience for me, resulting in a complete meltdown of my self-esteem and extra beer and junk food consumption.  Today it was fun, though.  The 14s fit, and I may have been able to get into some 12s if I'd really wanted to push it.  My favorite dress was a gorgeous red number that wasn't in my size, but was in a 10, and so I tried it on anyhow.  The bodice was too tight, but it didn't look as awful as I'd expected and it wasn't uncomfortable and it would've fit well in another few months...I almost bought it.  I sorta wish I had, now that I'm thinking more about it.  I may go see of the local store has my size.  I really loved that dress.

Jimi humored me and let me spend 20 minutes trying on rings in the discount gold and diamond outlet.  I don't dare let myself read into that, or that he said, "I'm glad to get a better idea of your tastes, to know what you like best."   I hate that the rings I like the best are the ones I don't want because for their price, I could nearly build a Sybaris-esque master suite onto my home.  (Which we're seriously considering, by the way.  That's how we're spending the first lottery check.  When we win.)  Honestly, when it comes to rings, all I want is the wedding band, yo. 

And then we drove home and kissed the puppy and the kitty and lived happily ever after the end.

I started this post right after we got home, maybe around 5ish.  It's after 9 now.  Jimi's been sleeping for hours - he says he pulled the bottom fitted sheet off the mattress when he was pulling back the covers on his side of the bed last night, and he never got it back on all the way, so it balled up underneath him all night and was lumpy and so he didn't sleep well.  That's not the hotel's fault, he does that at home too.  Even if he'd slept as soundly as I did, we didn't sleep long enough, there was too much excitement to be had.  I'm probably going to be in bed myself before too long - it was a fantastic night, and I'm appropriately worn out because of it.  My arms and legs and back have that good I-got-a-good-workout stiffness and soreness from so many hours in the water.  I feel relaxed and calm and happy and in love.  I'm content with my world, right here, within these walls.

32 is already better than 31, and it hasn't even officially started yet.  



 

Bouncing up and fucking down.

It's like a weight has been lifted.

Sometimes you just need a good cometoJesus to release your soul, all the pent up sad and crazy and worry.  I thought I was saying the right words before, but maybe I wasn't.  "If we didn't have this talk tonight, if I didn't say these things to you, if you didn't propose within the next year, I would leave."  I said it.  That evil thing that was building in the back of my mind, that poison that was tainting my utopia.  I said the words - the ones that needed to be said, "This is what I have to have to be happy.  This is what I need.  We have needs and wants in relationships, and this is what I need."

We came together, we drifted, we wandered far apart, but in the end, we met in the middle, with love and understanding, and we're back in the place we've always been.  We're good.  We're safe. All is right with the world.

I cried myself to sleep last night, sick in my heart with fear and sad.  Tonight, I'm light like a feather, knowing we're good, having confirmation of that fact I knew in my heart but needed to know with my ears.

Tomorrow I'll spend several hours in the car with my boss.  I'm feeling mighty brave and strong tonight, Friends.  I have my power outfit planned and ready, down to the comfy no-line panties and the bright pink argyle socks.  (Those are just for my particular comfort, for the record.  I'm not planning to show our customers my panties or my socks.  But you never know.  My boss hired me because I showed him my socks during my interview...)

I need a raise.  I've been stewing about it for months, and the time has come where I've just got to ask or I'm going to build up so much resentment that I'll grow to hate my job and I don't want to hate my job because as crazy as it is, I fucking love it there.  I do.  I get pissed off all the time and frustrated as hell, but I love it, and I don't want to go anywhere else.  But I need to be compensated for the work I'm doing, and that's never going to happen if I don't make my needs known.  See, in relationships, all relationships, we have needs, and we have wants.  The fact is, for me to continue my happy relationship with my employer, I need to make more money.  They want to make as much money as possible, I need to make enough money to play well when I'm not there making money for them.

Does any of this even make sense?  I don't really care if it does.  I'm pretty sure I'll understand it when I read it again tomorrow.  A weight has been lifted.  I'm feeling pretty fucking invincible.  I'm going to make an ass out of myself tomorrow and I'll come back here tomorrow night crying about how I thought I had this but I really didn't.

No I won't.

I won't write again for days because I'll be all embarrassed and then I'll write about something totally dumb because I'll want to pretend I never wrote this entry.

And if I'm not engaged this time next year, I'll come back and delete this shit, too.

I read something the other day that said that in ten years we won't need resumes, we'll just use our online profiles when applying for jobs.

Fuck me, I hope I don't have to ever change jobs again. 

I say dumb things. A lot.

A neighbor we hadn't met came over to introduce herself on Halloween night.  I was able to shake her hand, say it was nice to meet her, offer her a seat and a drink, all normal, the way normal people do.  I can handle that much interaction with strangers without putting my foot in my mouth.  Once she sat, though, and our getting-to-know-each-other officially began, that's when my social skills became a trainwreck.

Within moments of her ass hitting the chair, she asked if we had many trick-or-treaters last year.  My response was something like, "We didn't pass out candy last year - we were going to, since it was our first Halloween in the house and all, but I don't like to leave the house much, and I guess picking up candy was just too hard."  What.  The.  Fuck?!  Who says shit like that 45 seconds into a conversation with a stranger who lives across the street?  She sort of nodded like she understood the crazy coming out of my mouth and mercifully moved onto another topic, which I obviously didn't fuck up too horribly, because I don't remember what it was.

I was thrilled to learn she's a Librarian!  A real, live Librarian right across the street from my reading porch.  How awesome is that?  We chatted for probably half an hour, Jimi joining us mid-way to introduce himself and say hello.  I don't think I was too bad after that initial flub, but Jimi insists I shouldn't have referenced "smoking a bowl" when we were talking about things to do when you're floating downriver on a canoe.

A few weeks ago, the weekend of Melinda and Gary's wedding, I went to a housewarming party at the home of some friends.  I was brilliant that night!  I got like 5 high-fives for funny shit I said, and I replayed those snippets of conversation over and over in my head for the next 3 days, congratulating myself for being brilliant and hilarious.  I wanted to tell Jimi about the time we were all talking about the well-known fact that Gingers don't have souls, and someone said, "Well, then what about Ben?  Ben's not a Ginger, but he doesn't have a soul" and I was all, "Yeah, but he's Jewish" and the crowd went wild.  (Ben high-fived me for that one, for the record, so I totally wasn't being a nazi cunt or anything.)  The whole night went that way - someone setting up a punchline that came into my head with perfect timing - that happens to me so rarely!

But that party was full of people who know and love me.  They've known me for at least 5 years, and they invite me to things because they enjoy my company, despite my quirks (like how I rarely show up to things I'm invited to).  I was comfortable there, completely at ease.

(I'll be honest, though, if Steve hadn't been there, my night probably wouldn't have gone quite as swimmingly.  He's like my Jimi surrogate when Jimi's not around - he provides that security and safety that I rely on when I'm not in my home.  I feel like he wouldn't let anything bad happen to me - he'd save me from a rapist, or he'd punk out some asshole that was mean to me...not that either of those situations have ever presented themselves, but I feel confident he would defend me and my honor.  He's like a big brother I never had but always wanted.)

The Tuesday after the housewarming party, Jimi and I went to Lisa's for dinner.  The tentative plan was to order in, catch up (we'd not seen her in over a year!), and then meet up with her fiance' for drinks and fun later.

Before I go further with that, I should give you some background on Lisa and Jimi:  The first night I went to Jimi's apartment in Old Louisville, hanging on the wall in the center of his living room were two large pieces of framed art; cut-outs of a beautiful platinum blonde, staged in all different poses, wearing all sorts of costumes - it was Lisa, and the piece is called Paper Dolls.  It hangs in our living room today.  Then, though, I thought it was proof positive that he had a relationship with this gorgeous woman, and I immediately saw how inadequately I measured up to her in beauty and creativity and all-around awesome.  Of course, they weren't a couple - she is what he refers to as his "Sissy".  Likewise, he is her "Sissy".  They are 3 days apart in age and joke that they are twins.  Lisa is deeply involved in all things ART, and Jimi loves all things ART, and on this level they meld and mesh in a way I will never be able to with him.

Obviously, I'm a bit intimidated by her.  I didn't realize that's what it was or call it that until after Jimi pointed it out to me on Wednesday, when I sent him an email apologizing for being a drunken slore and drinking half a big bottle of wine and half a beer and eating 2 huge slices of pizza and nearly puking in Lisa's bathroom and then falling asleep at Lisa's kitchen table.  His words were, "I told her you're intimidated by her, and that you get a little over-excited and over-indulge, but once you're comfortable with her, you'll norm out."  I wanted to argue, but I couldn't.  He's so perceptive, that man of mine.  I'm terrified that I won't measure up, so I make a fool out of myself to prove it.

I feel like that in most social situations where I'm not well-known and already loved.  I feel awkward and not good enough and strange and uninteresting and uncool, and I throw out the very worst of me to try to disprove these thoughts that probably only live in my head until I say or do something to show it to everyone else.

Thank goodness there's something underlying my crazy that doesn't make all people turn and run in the opposite direction; thank goodness there's something there that says "Wait, maybe she's funny sometimes, and maybe she's the sort that would buy a round, and maybe she's pretty smart when we're not talking about a subject that's way over her head, and maybe she's the type who'd be willing to give me a ride to the airport, and maybe she's one of those people who won't notice that I haven't called for two years when I need a shoulder to cry on."  I have good qualities, I swear!  Maybe they're just not so obvious when you first meet me; maybe that veneer of awkward and strange is just something you just have to look through, like one of those 3-D pictures that you have to stare at for a few seconds before you can see the image.

Is it completely obnoxious to compare my personality to a 3-D picture from the 1990's?  "I am so deep and hard to understand."  Yeah.  Like a fishbowl.

I love Saturday.

Today is the best kind of Saturday; the sort where you have nowhere to be, no commitments to keep, no chores that MUST be completed.  (Of course, there's always laundry and cleaning to be done, but I've been good this week and haven't let my house become a sty, so I can totally put off domestic chores until tomorrow.  After all, isn't that why God made Sundays?  So we can wash our dirty clothes and homes and prepare for the upcoming workweek?)

We've got a costume party scheduled tonight, which, contrary to what I said in that whole first paragraph, means I do have to hunt out my footie pajamas and wash them, and locate the gloves and ears and tail that make up my Max costume.  Jimi's going to be a Wild Thing again - we spent a lot of time and money on those costumes last year, dammit, so yes, we're totally recycling.  Besides, most of our friends never saw the costumes last year - just Karen and Gary and the crowd at the gay bar.  (Speaking of which, remembering the gay bar last Halloween makes me REALLY want to go back.  I wonder if they're open Monday night?  Wanna go with me?)

I got up just after 6 all week long; sleeping in until after 8 today makes me feel spoiled and pampered.  8 is still REALLY early for a Saturday, but I like getting up early on the weekends - I can always take a nap in the middle of the day, for as long as I want, if I start to get yawn-y.  Weekends are awesome.

I bought and downloaded The Sims 3 Pets last night.  Jimi gave me some shit over it, saying it's stupid and dumb and a waste of money.  And it is, but it entertains me and I enjoy it.  And we have separate bank accounts so I can spend my money the way I want to spend it and he can't say shit about it, so maybe we've got a shot at this happily ever after thing.  Cause last night, had our accounts been joint, I probably wouldn't have bought the game.  And I would've been pissed about it.  And I would still be pissed about it.  And it would be all his fault.  But he has his money and I have my money, and well, we're just going to keep it that way because it's safer.  (I haven't played my new game yet, but I'm greatly anticipating diving in after I'm finished with this here blog post.)

I'm trying to take a picture or two every day of things that make me smile (or say WTF?).  I like scrolling through them at the end of the week and remembering the little things that made up my otherwise mundane and routine week.  With that being said...

 Pictures from the Karaoke bar last Friday night:

Think the dude in red was doing "No Diggity".  The lady on the right was gettin' down.

I met Sarah's friend Robbi for the first time, after hearing his name for years.
We got along swimmingly.
I stole the hat from Robbi's friend, but I eventually gave it back.

chicks taking self-portraits in public bathroom mirrors.  WTF?

Oh here, random stranger, hold my phone and do this for us, will you?

And then there was the rest of the week:

This bug just appeared out of nowhere, on the inside of my car.
It's a good thing I was pulling into my driveway, otherwise this surprise could've had tragic consequences. 

Murphy the Office Dog.
Doing his Buckwheat impression.

 I think it was Tuesday when I'd let Finn out back and he started going crazy at the corner of the breezeway.  I walked over to him to see what the fuss was about, and this little guy scurried across the walkway and under my car.  He was hanging out under the back tires first...

But he ran to the front when I tried to shoo him out...

And my next attempt resulted in this:

"I'm just gonna hang on the back of this here tire, and maybe she can't see me and will go away."
That's what I did - I went away and left him alone and he found his home.

.   

The trees in our front yard have been so beautiful this week:

I made fire (and subsequently cut my finger and had to dig rust out of it and decided to get a tetanus shot).

The doctor's visit was cool, though.  My appointment was at 8:15, and at 8:30, the doctor came out from the back with a bowl of cereal, crunching away happily on his breakfast as he chatted with another doctor's patient about their children, who apparently attend the same school.  Fifteen minutes later, a nurse calls me back for intake and puts me in a room.  10 minutes after that, I see the doctor.  

I want to be mad and be all "what the fuck, doc?" because I was missing work and getting behind and all I needed was a needle jabbed in my arm and when it came right down to it, the waiting time was three times as long as the treating time.  But I really like my doctor.  He's good, and he listens, and he takes notes on a computer, which I just really really love.  I don't know, he came to me highly recommended and accepts my insurance and I feel like he's thorough and I like that I can get a same-day appointment if I'm sick as hell.  

Anyhow, so I let him talk me into a flu shot.  I've never had one of those, either, and I told him why: I don't get sick very often, and I haven't had anything that resembled the flu in years and years and years and I don't want to get a shot and get sick.  He told me the flu shot is not for me, it is for those around me with compromised immune systems.  And I thought of Stacy's baby, who's going to be born at the end of January, when everyone's got a runny nose and a cough, and how I want to kiss her new sweet face without worrying I'll give her some awful respiratory funkiness.  He also told me that people don't get sick from the flu shot, and I decided to take his advice and believe him until I have a reason not to and so I let them give me two shots rather than the one I came for.  Knock on wood, I'm 48 hours into it and nary a sniffle or chill has visited me.  

Crossing the tracks to work.
That's downtown Louisville there in the middle, that lit-up building.

Sitting on my back step, with a book and a smoke, this is my view: 

My sink has been this empty all week.  I'm not even lying.  (If you don't know me personally, this is a really big deal.  Huge, even.)  I'm very proud of us for being so responsible and grown-up.

I've probably posted six dozen pictures of the shit that lives in my office at work, but here are some more:

The zombie is coming to get the monkeys.

Pirate duck says fuck your zombies.  And your dusty monitor.

My Chick-fil-A boycott didn't last long.  Their nuggets call to me in my sleep sometimes.

This My Little Pony dates from my childhood.  

Hi Kimmie!

There was frost on the ground this morning.

Winter, I'm going to need you to hold off for a few more weeks, okay?  I'm not ready for serious cold yet.

Happy Weekend!

*sigh*

I'm not going to talk about religion or politics or Mormons or Christians or Occupy Wall Street or the Tea Party or stupid people.

I think we're all basically good people.  I think we just want to live our small little lives with as much happiness as possible.  We want to be able to eat when we're hungry, drink when we're thirsty, sleep when we're tired, laugh when we're happy, cry when we're sad, hug when we love, be spoken to with respect, be heard when we speak.  We want this for ourselves, for those we love, and for the stranger down the street.

Right?  We want the same for others that we want for ourselves, don't we?

This can't be some shit I made up in my head.

Relationships are hard.

Sometimes I feel guilty as hell for having as much happiness as I do.  I'm surrounded by people who are struggling with love - and I wake up every morning next to my version of their dream.  How did I get so lucky?  Why me and not them?  Doesn't everyone deserve their own perfect partner to live their happily ever after with? Life is so fucking hard - at the very least, shouldn't basic companionship be easier and more obtainable?

But it's not.  It's one of the hardest things, the ultimate of goals.  Finding a partner who loves and respects and adores and cares for and helps you - sometimes it seems you'd have better odds picking lottery numbers.  People are so variable - there is no right or wrong or perfect formula for success; what worked for her won't work for you, what worked for you won't work for me, what worked for me would never again work for anyone else.  There are a few things that can be learned, though.  I think we all learn valuable lessons from failed relationships - but mostly, the things we need to know to make relationships work is already within us.

That "treat others as you wish to be treated" may be old school and totally cliche, but it's one of the simplest truths that should apply to every interaction you have with every other person you ever meet ever in your whole entire life.  Bum begging for money on the corner?  How would you want him to treat you if your roles were reversed?  Give the man your dollar.  Husband left the towels on the floor, the hair in the drain, and the shower curtain pulled open for the 984th time even though you've asked repeatedly for him to please hang his towels, remove the  hair, close the curtain no fewer than 659 times?  Would you want him to scream at you and make dirty faces and refuse cunnilingus because you were running late this morning and forgot again, too?  Sigh deeply, pour another glass of wine and then hang up the towels, clean out the drain, and close the curtain yourself.  Again.

Say "thank you".  Often.  This a phrase you hear in our home almost as often as "I love you".  If you're constantly reminding yourself to be thankful for things your partner does, it's harder to focus on the shit that makes you want to strangle them.  (Plus, it's a good training tool - "Thank you for getting the hair out of the drain and closing the shower curtain and hanging up your towels, baby - want a blow job?" will help him remember that completing those chores reaps good rewards.)

Laugh together.  Be silly.  The Bloggess recently gave a talk in Utah wherein she encouraged people to be "furiously happy".  She's brilliant, that Bloggess is.

Remember that your partner, your spouse, your significant other - they're supposed to be your Best Friend Forever - the one who you chose to share your whole entire life with - be nice to them.  If you wouldn't call your co-worker a stupid bitch for forgetting to rinse out the coffee pot, why would you hurl those hateful words at your favorite person, the one you love most in the world?  If you're able to muster the strength to be polite to your boss when you're cramping and in a horribly foul mood, why can't you manage a smile for your beloved?

I'm not trying to preach - please don't get the impression that I don't lose my shit and act like a complete bitch at least three times a week, because I totally do.  I'm not perfect.  Jimi, I think he's perfect - he's a great example of patience and kindness and unconditional love.  He doesn't act like an asshole back, most of the time, when I'm being mean for no apparent reason.  I swear, he's some sort of saint.

Just be nice to each other.  The world would be a much happier place if we all remembered to be especially nice to the ones we love best - can you imagine?  No more bosses being dicks on Monday mornings because he and his wife had a major blowout about couches on Friday night.  No more chick at the McDonald's checkout crying and fucking up your order because her boyfriend was an asshole and wouldn't help get up with the baby in the middle of the night, even though she works the early shift and he doesn't have a job.  Maybe our Representatives could get their thumbs out of their asses and come to a reasonable agreement that won't collapse our economy if their spouses threw them a little extra sumthin' sumthin', just for the fuck of it, just to say "I love you".

Just be nice to each other.  Common courtesy - practice it at home first.  Let the love spread.

Oh, and choose wisely.  That's pretty important, too.

Thoughts formed over Mexican food

What kind of woman actively pursues a married man?  A married man with a child?

What sort of character must you possess to text things like "I'll leave the door unlocked, in case you're able to get away"?

What kind of woman ignores a wife's plea of "I need you to go away, like you promised you would"?



What kind of man actively pursues a woman who is not his wife?  What sort of father hurts the mother of his child in that way?  What is he teaching his daughter about how men should treat their wives?

How deeply flawed must one be to repeatedly lie and cheat?

What kind of man ignores his wife's plea of "If you love me, if you love us, please stop this"?



What kind of woman actively allows herself to be disrespected and demeaned?  What example does she set for her child?

How badly has she been hurt that she accepts that an unfaithful spouse is simply her lot in life, the way of things, nothing that can be helped?

What sort of woman is able to live in a world of instability and insecurity and fear that's been created by the man to whom she's devoted her life?



What kind of friend can listen to a tale such as this and not want to punch the lying cheating bastard in his face?  How could you not want to pull the triflin' bitch's hair from her ugly head?

How much trouble can you really get into for egging someone's car?

What sort of friend could ignore a scorned wife's plea of "Let's just go for a drive - please?"?

They call me Mello Yellow

"You know, your life is pretty awesome." 

Kimmie's words have been playing on a loop in my head all day today.  She's right - but again, hearing it from someone else, someone on the outside looking in, it shocks me every time.  And makes me smile.  

And I wonder, "Why me?  What have I done to deserve so much?  Why do I get to be so fortunate/lucky/blessed?"  

My next words were going to be "not that life's perfect, because it's not..." and then I was going to list all the ways my life isn't perfect.  But I can't, because it really is; I have more than enough of everything - there's nothing I need to make life happier.  

*******************

Seven years ago, I lived in Omaha, Nebraska.  I was married to a pilot who flew in the Dakotas every day - in the 5 months we lived there, he was home for only 10 days.  I didn't have a job - I spent my days in our 500 square foot basement apartment (that had only one window) with our 110 lbs. Labrador Retriever, our Jack Russel/Rat Terrier, and our cat.  I drank a lot of Bud Light - 9 or 10 a day.  I went to the library and read a lot.  I started to make some friends on the internet.  I swam in the apartment complex pool when no one else was out there - it was too small for laps if anyone else shared the space.  I was lonely as fuck.  (But they've got a really nice zoo in Omaha.  You should check it out if you're ever in the neighborhood.)

Six years ago, I lived in El Paso, Texas.  I was married to a pilot who flew in Arizona Monday night through Saturday morning - he was home from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning each week.  I worked in a law office downtown - my work history was in Human Resources, but it turns out no one will give you an HR job in El Paso, TX if you don't speak Spanish - and I liked my job (my boss was a young and brilliant and beautiful man named Ken), but it didn't offer me an opportunity to make friends.  (Well, my boss and I were friends, I guess, and he even let me go out to a club with him and another attorney one night.)  My weeknights were spent drinking beer, making friends on the internet, and talking on the phone.  I was desperately lonely, but I pretended so hard to be happy, thinking if I faked it long enough, I could maybe eventually WILL it into existence.  I cried myself to sleep a lot, especially on nights when I got too drunk and tried to masturbate and couldn't get off.  (Did I mention my husband didn't like sex and wouldn't have sex with me?  Yeah, life was awesome.)  I remember thinking "is this really all there is?  Is this all I'll ever have?  Oh, please don't let this be all of it.", and not just once or twice - those thoughts would haunt me as I stared through bleary eyes at the Sunday morning sunrises that turned the browns of the Franklin Mountains into a colorfully painted landscape, and as I watched the nighttime stars through my drunken haze and wished I could be somewhere, anywhere, where people loved me.  

Five years ago, I lived in my childhood bedroom in my parents' home in Louisville, Kentucky.  I was waiting for my soon-to-be-ex-husband to send Ken $300 to cover the filing fee for the Petition of Divorce that I'd drafted on my next-to-last day of work.  I worked for a company that hired me to do AP and Payroll and had yet to assign me any actual finance work - they had me calling customers to introduce myself.  I was miserable, and only got paid once a month, so by the middle of the month I was broke.  I had a million new friends, though, and I was going out almost every night to party with them.  I felt popular for the first time in my life.  I felt pretty on a semi-regular basis.  I went out on dates with men who weren't 6'6" tall pilots with blond hair, blue eyes and chiseled features.  I found a "friend" - a monogamous friend with benefits who was helping relieve the tension that had built up during 4 years of sexless marriage.  (One of these days, I'm going to tell you ALL about that - it was fucking brilliant.)  I started thinking life was pretty awesome, and that things could only get better.  

Four years ago, I lived in Kimmie's upstairs.  I'd found Jimi, and our love was new and exciting in an old and comfortable sort of way - we were on the verge of signing a lease together.  I worked for a company that sold "Rudy Giuliani for President 2008!" merchandise.  (No shit.  I had to talk to pregnant women who were going to name their babies Rudy.)  (They fired me after 2 months.)  It was my 3rd job since I'd moved back to Kentucky, and I was perpetually poor.  There were weeks when I wouldn't have been able to afford to eat - but Kimmie and Jimi always seemed to know without asking when I needed some help.  I had debt collectors all over my ass.  Life was good most of the time, but there was a constant knot in my stomach - fear of unresolved obligations haunted me day and night.  

Three years ago, I lived in the ghetto with my sweet Jimi.  We were in love and happy.  I'd been with my current company for ten months and had just received a promotion and an eleven thousand dollar pay raise.  My half of the rent was $262.50.  Life was getting better every day.  

Two years ago, we still lived in the ghetto, but we were house-hunting.  Still happy and in love, and with a new addition - Finnegan the Wonder Pup.  Work was stressful and challenging and rewarding and fun.  Life was fan-fucking-tastic.  

One year ago, we'd been here, in this house, for six months.  Happy and in love.  Work was the same.  Life was awesome as always.

Today, my friend said, "Your life is pretty awesome."  And she's so fucking right.  I live here, in this house, with him, that man I love and who loves me.  I have a dog and a cat who usually don't shit on the floor and are pretty well-behaved most of the time.  I have a stable, secure job that compensates me adequately.  I have health insurance.  My car is paid off.  There is food in my pantry, my refrigerator, and my deep freezer.  I have a deep freezer.  I have a big-ass yard and a driveway that can park six cars.  I have a basement.  I can do laundry in my basement while I run naked on my treadmill listening to a webcast of a Broadway musical.  My family is awesome and right down the road and they love me and I love them.  I have friends - real friends who know me and love me despite my flaws; friends who may tease me, but do it in a way that's never intended to hurt or make me cry; friends who keep inviting me to things even though I haven't really left my house to be social more than a handful of times in the last year; friends who celebrate my accomplishments and help pick me up when I falter.  

*****************

My life is pretty awesome.  

I'm not sure what I've done to get here, but I'm so glad I've arrived.  

My only desire now, my only wish, is that I can continue to rejoice and be glad in the small miracles and happy moments life brings every day.   

And if you want to punch me in the face, I completely understand.  

Images from the Upstairs

The room is small, and in desperate need of things to go on the walls (especially to cover the attic access - where the raccoon lives.)  But it's cozy and perfect for our needs.  We probably could use some proper window coverings.  Finn destroyed the blinds the first time we left him home alone with access to this room - he NEEDED to see outside, you see.  NEEDED.  Blinds be damned.  I use that old blue sheet to cover the windows at night - to keep the peepers out.  We don't own curtains, other than the sheers that cover the windows on the front of the house (sheers that were here when we moved in); well, Jimi "made" some light-cancelling drapes for the living room. (By "made", I mean he found some burgundy corduroy and cut it to length and hung it on a curtain rod via those rings that have clips on the bottom.)  Basically, we suck at decorating.  We live in a world of hodgepodge and I love it.

This is Squiggs.  He was Jimi's before we knew each other and he's one of my favorite pieces of art that we own.  He's had a rough go of it (note the flaked paint around his neck, where he's been folded for moving and storage), but I think the marks add character.  

Everybody needs a little Buddha.

 Hobart belonged to my Granny, and I've loved him since I was a small child.  I'm amazed that his ears haven't been destroyed over the years, but Granny was sure to let us know what was and was not appropriate when handling her breakable things.

 Hobart became mine after Granny died - but I wasn't able to take him home to El Paso with me.  For one, I'd flown to Kentucky, and while these were the days when you could still check most bags for free, trying to check a two-foot tall ceramic owl seemed a little intimidating.

And my husband (ex-husband) - he said the owl was ugly, and he didn't want it in his house.  This was all happening, I later learned, about 6 months after he'd decided he didn't want to be married anymore - just over a year before he would tell me his decision.  Looking back on much of the way he was to me during this time period, I can only conclude that he was trying to be as big a dick as possible, in hopes that I'd ask for divorce and save him the trouble.  That's the only reason I can imagine he would've used such mean words with me the day after we'd buried my beloved Granny, in regards to something that would always be cherished and remind me of her.

Jimi, though - Jimi was helping me get the last of my things that were stored at my Momma's house, shortly after we'd signed the lease on our first place together.  I'd shown him the owl sheepishly, apologizing for its appearance, but shyly explaining that it was my Granny's, and that it'd been one of my favorite of her possessions when I was a child.  Could we maybe find a place for it in our new home?  Somewhere out of the way, but a place where I could see it every now and then?

Our rental was a shotgun in the ghetto between Old Louisville and Germantown, and our master bedroom was the living room and held the entryway once-upon-a-time.  As a result, there had originally been no closet in the room, but somewhere along the way, someone built one out into the room - a 6' x 6' x 3' box that took up a corner, with plenty of space on top for storage due to the fact that the house had 12' ceilings.  We'd already piled up there disassembled chairs and boxes of crystal and such that had no place in the small confines of this new abode.

"We'll call him Hobart," Jimi declared.  "Hobart the Hoot Owl.  And he can live on top of the closet in our bedroom, and watch over us while we sleep to keep the bad things away."

This man makes me swoon.

Wimmins is da crazy

I'm sitting here thinking "I haven't written in days, I need to write, but I don't know what to write about...maybe I'll read some other blogs for a few minutes and see if I can get some inspiration" and the first one in my reader is Home, by Glennon at Momastery.  Are you guys getting tired of me linking to her stuff?  I hope not; she's brilliant, and the more I read, the more I love her and admire her and want to be like her.  Go read that link - especially the part toward the end about her girlfriends and how they've watched each other grow and wear different hats through the years.

At the end of her essay, she says this:
How do you feel about female relationships? Do you have them?Do you want them? Are they satisfying? Are you afraid of them because you’ve been hurt? All of the above?

And so now I know what I'm going to write about; I'm officially inspired.

In high school, I felt like I related to boys better than girls.  I had girlfriends, close ones, but there was always a sense of being judged by them - like I needed to measure up to be worthy of their friendship.  In moments of crisis, we'd declare our undying love and devotion to one another, but when the smoke cleared and the dust settled, petty jabs and sly barbs were thrust my way under the guise of "I'm just kidding" and "I'm only joking", delivered in such a way that forced me to either laugh along or look like a crybaby who made a big deal out of nothing.  My guy friends, though, they didn't say mean things to me, ever.  They took me to movies and to the park to swing on the swings at 10 o'clock, or to the 24-hour Wal-Mart or Meijer to walk the aisles because there wasn't anything else for a teenager to do that was free.  They let me drive their parents' cars before I even had a learner's permit and they let me control the radio station and sometimes they paid for my Subway or McDonald's or Krispy Kreme too.  I had a boyfriend, though, so they never tried to kiss me or touch me or made me uncomfortable in any way.  We were just friends, and they liked me just the way I was.  They talked to me about history and philosophy and religion and life; my girlfriends talked about each other and boys.

When I became an adult, I learned I was a serial monogamist; I go from one long term relationship to the next, with an appropriate grieving period between each beau, of course.  And when I'm in a relationship, boy am I in it.  It's all-consuming for me; I live and breathe my man, and put him first in almost all things.  Between that little piece of psychosis and my own personal narcissism, I've never left a lot of time for developing and maintaining relationships with women.  I become a social butterfly when I'm single, and can quickly develop a mixed social network of acquaintances, but I stop nurturing those relationships as soon as I get into a relationship with a man.  I don't cut off all contact or anything, but I stop making plans, or I want to drag the boyfriend out with me everywhere I go, or he isn't feeling well so I need to stay home to take care of him.  I don't make the women in my life enough of a priority.  I wonder if this is because I felt like I wasn't a priority for my girlfriends when I was growing up?  I felt like the guys were there for me, but often felt like an outsider or nuisance for my girlfriends.

I have managed to not completely drive a way a few remarkable women, though.  I wonder a lot why Sarah still bothers with me, or how Maggie can be so sweet to me despite my flightiness.  And Kim puts up with some of the most amazingly vicious moodswings.  Stacy is family and has to love me, but even that blood bond we share doesn't explain how kind and good and supportive she is to me.  And of course, my Momma.  And really, now that I think about it, there are about a dozen or so other women who I know love me, just the way I am, and who even accept the majority of my crazy.  I've got a good network of women in my life, now, somehow, as a 30 year old woman who doesn't often leave the house and will still choose to stay home with a sick boyfriend over going out for wine night.  I'm obviously both the luckiest woman alive and insane.

I have some close male friends, but I wouldn't say that I gravitate toward men more than women these days.  I find it easier to get to know men initially - they, as a sex, seem to never worry about how they're being perceived or worry that there's some aspect of their personality they should keep under cover.  Men will willingly share racist or sexist jokes, expecting to to laugh along with them.  Women keep their cards closer to the vest; they're constantly aware of the image they're presenting, the things they're saying, the personality traits they're willing to allow you to see.  In this way, I guess I've become more of a man, but without the ____-ist jokes.  I am who I am, and knowing I'm loved, just as I am, by some amazing men and women, that gives me the strength to say "love it or leave it" to the rest of the world.

I'm not afraid of women any more.  I was, once, I guess.  I cowed and bent to their will and tried to be what they wanted me to be.  I wasn't happy, though, and for a long time I think part of me believed I could never be completely myself, completely who I am, completely happy if I was going to be a good friend to another woman.  Like part of me had to be what she wanted it be; like I'd always have to hide alway part of who I was, so I could fit the image of what she thought I should be.  I know better now.

My instinct right there, just now, was to say it was Jimi who taught me I can be loved being just who I am, but that's not true. I taught me that; my girlfriends, the ones who love me here, now, as I am, they taught me that.

I felt a little twinge in my heart as I read Glennon's description of the memories that can flood past when she looks at one of her girlfriends she's known since college.  I imagined that my high school girlfriends and I would have those same reminiscent moments over the years, and when I think of what might have been...but it's not to be.  Our paths have long-since forked.  Like everything else in my life, that part didn't turn out the way I'd expected; nothing is as I thought it would be.

The most surprising part of realizing my life is the opposite of what I'd imagined is realizing I like this version better than the one I thought I wanted.

Love, and things like it.

Do most people have fights with their partners that involve yelling, name-calling, screaming, throwing things, breaking things, scratching, choking, hitting, punching, biting?

Is that how most of you handle disagreements in your home?  Is that how you deal with someone not giving up the remote control or refusing to stop drinking or not emptying the dishwasher or lying about a secret fling on the side or spending too much money or not having enough money?

I was in a relationship like that once.  It's soul-crushing.  I blame my willingness to tolerate such horror on my young age and ignorance.  The ignorance plea doesn't fly, though - I was raised in a home with two parents who love and adore each other, and I can count on one hand the number of times I've heard them raise their voices to one another.  Physical abuse?  Forgetaboutit.  My father would rather cut off his own arms, and my mother has far too much class to resort to raising her hands.

But it's everywhere.  It's all around us and we don't even see it.  People are hurt every day by the people they love most in the world.  The one who is supposed to love them unconditionally cuts them down with hateful words and mean glares and cruel actions.  That's not love.

Love is a building up of one another.  Love is support and safety and security.  Love is a mutual give and take that comes from two people being kind, keeping confidences, helping, giving.  Love is rolling your eyes and swallowing the smartass remark when the sink is full of dishes and the dishwasher hasn't been run.  Love is negotiating control of the remote in exchange for use of the laptop.  Love is being so angry you want to scream and yell and throw things and push and hit and say hateful words...but you swallow all of that because you love that person more than anything else in the world and you've promised you'll never do anything to hurt them and so you stomp down the hall and slam a door and when you cool off you say "Okay, let's talk about this".  Love is respect; basic human respect.  Love is never saying anything in anger to your partner that you wouldn't say to your boss or your employee or your best friend.  Love is rising above emotions and remembering the greater, sacred emotion that connects your heart to theirs.

Love is so much more.