Bewildering the Ick

Chattering with my business partner Thursday afternoon, she casually mentioned that she hasn’t heard me angst even once about Computer Guy. Gone are the normal issues of Betty style romance; when will I see him again, or why hasn’t he called. Gone is the uncertainty of what my weekends will entail or what I will do or with whom will I spend the evening. Gone is the pain of romance.

I’ve had such trouble, of late, getting used to that. I’m used to drama when it comes to love. I’m used to tear studded sadness and melancholy, marked by pockets of exhilaration and euphoria when the phone finally rings, when the car door slams behind him, when the man de jour shows up at my door.

All of that is gone.

Well, ok, not all of that is gone.

In usual Betty style, I fret because I’m so happy. I fret because I worry how long I can sustain this seemingly unending supply of love, passion, generosity of spirit that pervades all of my time in Computer Guy’s company. I worry, if I focus on work, and he goes to a meeting, and I don’t see him for two days, that the love connection will be lost, that somehow in the span of 48 hours, the flower will wilt, in either my heart or in his, and I won’t be able to nurture it back to life.
I gave this thought serious worry on Wednesday, and on Thursday, and on the buildup to Friday, leading to an entire weekend spent at Computer Guy’s house, alone with him. What if too much togetherness drives me crazy? What if he touches me one too many times and the Ick reveals her ugly heart? What if I pull my hand away in frustration from his thumbs ministrations because I just can’t stand the thought of him touching me one more time?

It’s happened so many times before. I meet a guy. I fall in like. I enjoy his time. He enjoys mine. We share a bed. He falls in love and wants to touch me all the time. And the Ick sets in.

I can’t get away from the guy fast enough when that happens.

Usually, it’s the really nice guys that inspire the Ick; the ones obvious in their adoration; the kind hearted, gentle men, interested in my children, interested in my writing, interested in knowing the true Betty. The cowboy types, who love me and leave me, don’t inspire the Ick because they never get close enough to really touch me. The Ick is reserved for men unwary enough to be seduced by the romance I exude, the sexuality I flaunt, the clear headed nature of my loving heart.

Computer Guy is all these things. He is kind, gentle, sensitive to my needs, anxious to please me. He basks in the glow of my passionate ministrations, suckling at the breast of eroticism with the thirst of a new born child. He shows every indication of loving me for exactly who I am, and that’s a dangerous way to love me.

So, I waited expectantly for the Ick. Worried myself about it for two days. Steeled myself against it, almost to the point where I took the Ick for granted, assuming that she would surface in the very natural order of my past attempts at relationship.

But…it seems that the Ick was on hiatus. She did not so much as make a perfunctory appearance inside the cocoon of Computer Guy’s house. Not even a curtain call. In fact, just the opposite happened. I fell even more deeply in love with Computer Guy during the course of the past 48 hours, and I wasn’t sure that was possible. From the dinner out at the hole in the wall Mexican place on Friday, to cuddling and whispering to each other that night, to steamy sex on Saturday morning, and shared secrets Saturday afternoon, and grocery shopping and gourmet dinner making Saturday night, and yet more…and better…and more…and better bedroom antics, from all this laughter and loving and knowing and familiarity and comfort…comes more love. Deeper love. Generous love. Warm hearted, and hot bodied love, like I’ve only ever read about.

The explorations we are making into each other’s hearts, and around each other’s bodies is worthy of a novel in and of itself. How does love happen? How does the seed plant itself, germinate, grow and suckle and live and blossom? How does this happen?

I don’t have an answer. It is indeed a mystery, one I wrestle to the ground on almost a daily basis.

Now, it’s 4:33 on Sunday afternoon. In one hour, I must head for home, and my heart is heavy at the prospect of sleeping alone tonight. Just for one night, though, because Computer Guy’s kids are on spring break vacation in Florida and we have plans for him to travel to Cincinnati this week to spend his nights with me.
I feel kinda sorry for the Ick. I’m sure she is frustrated and stomping her foot for her lack of success in creating drama in my life. The time for the Ick has passed, and she knows it. Game’s over, as far as the Ick is concerned.

And as for me, I am counting my many blessings. I am happy to be rid of the upheaval of beginnings, the heart wrenching sadness of endings that has occupied my heart over the past six years. This weekend, this magical, wonderful, purifying weekend with Computer Guy has removed all doubt in my head.

We watched Sex in the City last night; the episode where Carrie confronts Big before they go on vacation. She confronts him because they’ve been dating for several months and he’s never said that he loves her, never introduced her as a girlfriend, shied away from her even meeting his mother at church. She stands in front of her apartment, packed for vacation, and makes her pitch to him. “I don’t care if you tell your mother, or your friends, or the people with whom you work. I don’t care if you aren’t ready to tell the whole world. But, I want a guy who is ready to tell just me, if need be, just me, that I’m the one for them.”

Computer Guy turns to me, looks deep into my eyes, and says, “You’re the one.” And he kisses me. The choirs sing, the angels rejoice, the devils jump and give up high fives. I kiss him back and say, “And you’re the one for me.”

And the Ick, who I caught, out of the corner of my eye, slinking around outside the house, watching sullenly through the windows in the rain, turned and walked away.

Repetition

The buds are out on the trees; a shimmer of dark red glows from their branches as the leaf buds swell, filled with pale green leaflets. The branches all appear pregnant with baby bumps covering every limb. We’ve all seen spring birthing itself in March, and now, we watch the earth repeating herself once again.

I have been spending a lot of time with Computer Guy. We are falling into a rhythm of togetherness that is as sweet as it is comforting. He left this morning in the wee hours of the morning so that he could be in the audience of his children’s church for their sunrise service, which the youth group lead. I had spent the prior thirteen hours with him, but when the door quietly closed behind him at 5:00am, I was momentarily bereft. I had not had enough time with him, it was too soon for him to be leaving. I wanted to lounge and snuggle under the covers with steaming coffee resting on the nightstand. I wanted to call out to him that eggs and toast were ready for him when he got out of the shower. I wanted to share the paper with him, and read to him from Post Secret. I wanted more time.

We have been together so much in the past few weeks, that normal is now when he is next to me, and sleeping alone feels unnatural. It happened so fast, in the big scheme of things, but we’ve both been waiting so long for it, once it happened, the planks just fell into place, and we nailed them in with kisses.

I got up a few hours after he left and went to an African American church that I am auditing to observe their service, and to document their internal controls over cash collections. I mused, as I drove to church, that I hadn’t told him that I loved him before he left, and that he hadn’t said them to me since…the day before. We have freely expressed deep sentiments many times to each other in the past few weeks. Granted, sometimes the words are moaned in moments of passion, when all those other body parts besides the vocal chords are clamoring for communication. I wondered, as I drove, how one keeps the meaning in those words, when they bear the burden of such repetition.

At the church, I marveled at the music of the Southern Baptist tradition. They didn’t use any hymnals; there were no screens with music or lyrics glaring therewith. Yet, everyone knew the words, everyone, even the children, sang the notes with clarity and volume. After a few minutes, even I could sing along, because in that church, they kept things simple. They simply took an important phrase, and repeated it…and repeated it…and repeated it. “Praise the Lord” was articulated twelve times. “Jesus is keeping me alive” was sung fifteen times. “I worship you because of who you are” was joyfully expressed a whopping seventeen times. No matter how many times they sang the words, they were still as powerful as the first time, because the people singing them, felt them, from the bottoms of their hearts.

And so it is with the words I fondle and caress when I think of Computer Guy. I am certain, that no matter how many times I say them, as long as my heart lights up at the sound of his voice, as long as my heart skips a beat when he kisses me, as long as the nights with him are magical, then I needn’t worry about keeping the meaning in romantic words.

As I type this, he caresses my back, rubs his feet along my thighs, tempts me into distraction. I’ll close now, with a soft and quiet wish that those who are lonely tonight are not lonely for long, and those who are blessed with companionship, cherish their hours, and recognize the fleeting nature of life and love.

Spring is here, but summer looms and fall is merely a matter of months away.

Good Friday

And it was, for all intents and purposes, a good Friday. I stayed home to watch over my boys, intending to get all kinds of work done, but instead I did the following:

Took Scott to the Doctor
Reviewed one audit
Had lunch with one of my dearest friends
Bought groceries
Visited my mother
Had dinner with some neighbors
Drank two glasses of merlot.

I'm going to bed now, so that I can get up early, make pasta sauce in preparation for the lasagna I'm making for my sweetie tomorrow evening. I'll work at home tomorrow while the sauce bubbles-and perhaps make up for the lack of productivity today.

How Do I Love Thee

SONNET #43, FROM THE PORTUGUESE
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints!---I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!---and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

I am hoping to write everyday about the feeling of falling in love. Bear with me, please, as I let loose the torrents of emotion onto the page, because when I’m done, when I’ve tip tapped all I can, when I can write no more about the workings of my mind and my heart and my body, I want to compress those writings into a poem. A love poem. I want to write a poem that captures my experience as eloquently as Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem.

This is scary stuff, this falling in love, this nakedness of body and soul, this opening up, this unbarriered being. He chisels at the wall of my defenses, one kind act at a time, one loving touch, one tender kiss, one gentle reminder that he loves me, one clever phrase that reminds me why I love him. The wall will collapse, in time, and I will be barren before him. Trust is so hard, can I trust him to hold my battered and broken heart safely?

I was on my way to the gym, had pulled into the parking lot, when the words for this post started coming. Quickly, I turned the car around, headed back to the house, thought of the Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem as the garage door curled into its fittings in the ceiling. Those thoughts are flickering in the recesses of my mind, torturing me, teasing me, tempting me to sit until they reach my fingertips.

I have not loved someone who loved me back in such a long time that I am sometimes at a loss as to how to handle the feelings. I am a loving person, and I have loved deeply over the past eight years since my divorce, but always l have loved someone who could not return the intensity of my feelings. Unrequited love is a powerful thing, it teaches you humility. It gives you compassion for those who love you, and whose love you cannot return. It tortures your soul in a very particular way, and not necessarily a bad way, because when is love ever wrong? I am a firm believer that love is the most powerful force on our planet, and even if love is not returned, it is still a reverential feeling, an honor to hold in your heart.

But this kind of love, this love born and bred and reproducing in volumes before my very eyes is a new and novel and breathtaking experience. He stretched out on my bed, fully clothed, before he had ever seen me naked, and told me that he was falling for me, that he had read the words that I wrote and he was falling for what was “inside Betty’s head”. He loved my soul before he ever even touched my body.

How could I not love him back?

Tuesday, I sat with him at the movie theatre. We were sitting by ourselves in the fourth row. We got there late because I was finishing a project and my printer was acting up and it is oh so hard for me to leave a project unfinished. We watched a documentary about African children living in a war zone in Uganda; a compelling story of triumph and tragedy. We shared a tub of popcorn and after I had put it on the floor, he held my hand. Towards the end of the movie, when it became a little more difficult to pay attention to the action on the screen, when the scent of him, who I hadn’t seen for two days and two nights, began a slow seduction, he rubbed his thumb across the palm of my hand.

I’m glad I’m not a guy, at times like that. I’m glad that my arousal is private and personal and not on display for anyone who might glance down at my lap in a dark and crowded movie theatre.

My breathing quickened and my heart pounded in my chest. I looked away from the screen, my eyes drooped, my lips parted in passion and I caught his eye. His hand tightened on mine and he leaned his head over to oh so gently caress my lips with his, a quiet acquiescence to our mutual need and gentle homage to what would come later.

I breathed deeply and promised myself to not forget the moment, the quickening, and to write it out as soon as I could. But I did. I did forget. Until right now, and it all comes back to me.

For the first time in my life, though, I am in the throes of love that did not begin between bed sheets, that began, instead, between the meeting of two minds and two hearts. I fell in love before I made love.

I fell in love before I made love.

And now, I wonder if I will ever get enough of either the loving or the making.

I don’t think I will, and that’s a good thing.

Perfect Timing

Timing is everything. In so many things, when something happens determines the trajectory of what happens next. I look back at my life, at the timing of things, and I see coincidences that changed the path of my life forever. I was attacked in my apartment right after I finished school, boomeranging me to Dayton, Ohio and into the arms of Rexford, my future husband. The timing was right for both of us. We were at an age when we were ready to settle down, to try for the Norman Rockwell golden ring of existence in suburban America.

After I quit my job at a local accounting firm, I fumbled around for two days trying to decide what to do next, came across a fellow gardener who had died with his boots on, and found the will and determination to start my own business. The fork in the road loomed before me and I took the path less traveled, not really risking much except my pride, as Rexford was a well established lawyer by that time. But it changed my life dramatically, going from employee to employer.

I sought sanctuary with a church after my marriage disintegrated and found Cuban Guy, singing in the choir, waiting to distract me from my pain. The timing was right for him, too. He was looking for a wife, though I’m not sure he knew it at the time, and I was looking for a big strong man to make me feel whole again. Perhaps he didn’t get what he was looking for, and perhaps I still felt a little broken afterwards, but the trajectory of my life was changed, nonetheless, for having known him. I learned powerful lessons from him, as I think, he did from me.

Now I’m at a different crossroad. Actually, I’m past the crossroad. I made a turn, took a chance, followed my heart, my head, my instincts, and I’m on a trajectory of companionship. Companionship seems like such a lame term, belying the passion, the urgency, the raw sexual energy that rises like mist and permeates our interactions. But the passion is secondary to the comfort, the connectedness, the companionship, at least for me.

Were the timing not right, this couldn’t work. Were I not at a place where I had laid a few more (not all of course, I’ll always be a little nutty) of my demons to rest, were he not at a place where he’d had enough of lonely nights, were our children not at a place where a new partner is cause for celebration, not jealousy, this would not be happening.

But it is, and we are happening.

And to think, the trajectory of his life began on the other side of the world. Our pathways etched their way, one day at a time, to this place, this moment, this person.

And the timing is perfect.

Final Frogging

I’m sitting at Computer Guy’s dining room table. I worked for a couple hours while he went to a gaming event that he monitors at a hobby store a few miles away. I’ve just spent the past 19 hours with him. He got home about 15 minutes ago, and IM’d me from his computer….10 feet away from mine. Now he is strumming his guitar, trying to pick out the chords to Falling Slowly; our song, the song we just sang together as it played from my computer.

We are finding our way into each other’s lives. We are unpacking boxes of unfinished business, clearing spaces in our closets and our cabinets to stores the niceties of each other. We are learning each other’s habits and washing each other’s backs. I’ve let him see me without makeup, which as all women know, is a much bigger step than letting him see me without clothes.

I think…wait…I know this is real. This is right. After all the searching, all the first dates, all the beginnings and endings and excuses I’ve made over the past six years, finally, finally…as he says, finally, I’ve kissed my last frog.
And as it turns out, I’ve found myself a prince.

I laugh to myself. I promised that I’d finish “Diary of a Middle Aged Sex Goddess” without a fairy tale happy ending. And here I am, although of course, this is far from an ending. I haven’t met his children, he hasn’t really gotten to know mine. We are still in the rose colored glasses blush of new love, but the flower of familiarity is blossoming before us and its scent is beautifully sweet.

Awful Day

I had one of those days today. One of those days that begins so beautifully, with all sorts of hopes and passions and sweet memories, and takes a right hand curve into trauma and despair. Fear not, Computer Guy and I are savoring the sweetness of new love, new explorations, new beginnings, but my oldest son and I are rehashing age old issues. They've come to a head and I put my strongest foot down. We'll see what the end game is...but what ever it is, it's painful.

Projects out the door, just a few left to go. That side of my life is bright.

Plan B

I wanted so much to write yesterday, to write about the euphoria of falling in love with someone who’s falling in love with you. I wanted to write about the tender moments we have spent together, just staring into each other’s eyes; eyes filled with warmth and wonder. I wanted to write about the surge in my heart, lying there next to him, when I put my hand on his chest, sliding up around his neck, touching the back of his head, looking deeply into his eyes as I melted back into my pillow, saying, “I love you, baby.” And he said back to me, “I love you, more.”

We have still not shared that ultimate expression of love…yet. We are waiting for our tenth date, which is Saturday. We are waiting, although I’m not sure exactly what we are waiting for, except perhaps for nature’s timing to be a little better, and perhaps we are waiting for more time and privacy, and I know I was waiting for my heart to let go of Chemistry Guy so that I could more fully commit to Computer Guy. I do know that when I opened the door to him on Tuesday, after having had the closure conversation with Chemistry Guy on Monday, I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I had made the right decision.

And now I am a hopeless puddle of doubt. Not about my feelings for Computer Guy, but those insecure feelings of women everywhere who find themselves grappling with choosing between two men. After the game is over, is the quarry still interesting? Still desirable? I mean, how interesting can I be now that I’ve stopped running, turned around, and stared at him straight in the eye and there’s no chasing to make his heart beat faster?

Are those my thoughts, or his?

I didn’t have to chase Computer Guy. He chased me. Not in a bad way, of course, but with honor and dignity and respect. He chased me in the very best way possible. He chased me so well that I reversed a decision I’d made, before I’d gotten too close to him. He showed me his beautiful heart and soul without losing a drop of self respect. That’s hard to do. That required a certain amount of confidence and self control and humble appreciation of one’s self. I am still in awe.

Today, I feel like throwing up. I am so fucking afraid that I will mess this up, that I’ll hover too close, snuff the life out of the little love seed growing. I’m afraid I’ll let my heart love too much, like I sometimes do, and he’ll run screaming for the woods to escape being suffocated. I’m afraid that familiarity will breed contempt. I’m afraid that I will end up alone and lonely again, and so will he, and wouldn’t that be a tragedy.

I’ve thought about plan B. I’ve thought about Chemistry Guy, but you know? No matter which angle I look at it from, Chemistry Guy just wasn’t the guy for me. He was too particular about dust, he didn’t want my sons (he didn’t want my sons!!), he wanted me to look perfect all the time and wear a garter belt and truth be told, I tried one on and those things are damned uncomfortable! No, Chemistry Guy is not Plan B, regardless of how much attention he’s paying to me now. Too little, too late, big guy.

I have twelve unviewed matches on E-Harmony. I have a subscription until the end of October. Do I do what I usually do and go check them out just to see what I might be missing? Or do I trust, just this once, that I’ve already found the one the universe intended for me to find? Do I allow myself just a tiny ounce of confidence that it’s me that he’s fallen in love with, not the chase, not the process, not the fairytale beginning that is always too good to be true?

I just unsubscribed to EHarmony, gave them my blog site to tell them my story, gave up Plan B.

I don’t need a Plan B.

I just need to walk carefully, mindfully, thoughtfully, just plain fully, on the path of Plan A. I just need to trust.

(She shudders, sighs, looks purposefully ahead)

I just need to trust.

In Bruges

Computer Guy went with my movie group to see In Bruges tonight. I love Colin Ferrel, he reminds me of Rexford when he was young. Rexford, not Colin Ferrel. Colin Ferrel is still young. Rexford is...well, older than I am.

Which brings me to Computer Guy. He's younger than me, by about four and one half years. I'm dating a younger man. Yes, of course I'm with Computer Guy. I'm with the man who loves me, who needs and wants me. It's amazing how appealing it is to be needed and wanted, instead of being the one always wanting and needing. I like it.

Funny thing is, I need and want him, too.

And that's a good thing.

Closure

Tough evening, tonight. Closure is necessary, is needed, is so fucking painful. Regardless of how right the decision feels, regardless of all the reasons in favor, looking into the eyes of someone you care for, giving them bad news, watching kind and gentle eyes well in sympathy to the tears streaming down your face, is never easy.

Don't get me wrong. I KNOW it's the right decision. I would have done it much sooner than tonight, but the snowstorm kept me home on Friday, and I was delightfully busy on Saturday.

God bless those with broken hearts. Each and every one of us.

I Had Forgotten

I had forgotten
How a man acts
When he is in love with a woman.

I had forgotten
How he braves the elements
For a few hours of his beloved’s time;
how he magically appears
in his pajamas
to sweep the snow
from his woman's windshield.

I had forgotten
The look in his eyes
As he gazes at her face
Cupping her chin,
Tracing the hairline around her ear
Before kissing her.

I had forgotten
The tokens he brings her
That she might find of interest,
That might melt in her mouth,
That might ease her day,
That tell her how often he thinks of her
Without any words.

I had forgotten
How a man touches
The bare skin
Of the woman he loves
As she slumbers slightly beside him;
How his reverent touches
With featherlight fingertips
Glide down the curve of her hips,
The hollow of her abdomen,
The rising incline of her ribcage.

I had forgotten.

But now I remember.

Snow Advisory

It snowed about 10 inches last night…Friday night, so no snow day for my boys. I’d gone to the grocery store on Thursday. We were stocked for food and drink. We have movies on demand, so entertainment wasn’t an issue. Early yesterday, I visited my mother, so she wouldn’t feel neglected, then I hightailed it to the office to load up on work. I made it home with only about 10 minutes longer than my usual commute. I set up my computer, cleared off my desk, organized my work, and cranked for the next 10 hours. I listened to Apollo’s Army practice in the back ground, and I listened to Kevin’s shrieks of delight as he rolled victoriously over his opponent in Halo 3. I listened to laughter and light conversation between my boys and the plethora of friends that made it safely to my house instead of their own homes.

The grocery store adventure was interesting. I stood in line for about 45 minutes…a line that stretched all the way across the store, into the alcoholic beverage aisle. I spend 10 minutes staring at Dutch Chocolate Almond ice cream, in a gallon container, even going so far as to read the calorie count on the side of the box before sighing and closing the freezer door.

It is not possible for me to be in close proximity to strangers for that long of time without trying to make them not such strangers. The man standing across from me was holding a carton of eggs, a pound of cheddar cheese and a bouquet of purple flowers. I asked him what he’d done to feel so guilty. He laughed and said he was simply bringing his wife flowers because it was Thursday.

“I bring her flowers for no reason, or just because it’s Thursday.”

I laughed. “Hmm. I bet the payoff is better, too.”

“After thirty five years, I’ve learned a little bit during that time.”

There were three cashiers at work, two for 15 items or less, and the one I was in, for full grocery carts. A woman approached, her eyes wide in astonishment.

“Is this the line?!” she gasped.

“Afraid so, unless you only have 15 items. That one isn’t so bad.”

I pointed to the back of the man with the flowers who was now placing his items on the conveyer belt. I looked at her shopping cart. She had at least fifteen bottles of generic soda and another dozen assorted bags of chips.

I looked up at her and she smirked. “Hey, I figure all I’m gonna do for the next two days is watch movies.”

I laughed. “This was just my regular grocery run.” Wryly cocking my head towards my loaded cart.

She manuveured her cart behind mine and started surveying the scene. She was accompanied by a girlfriend, who put her cart behind her, snaking the line down into the toothpaste aisle.

“This is crazy. Watch my cart for me, would you?” she said to her girl friend, who nodded her assent.

Making her way up the line, she stopped and surveyed the contents of grocery carts, nodding a few of them towards the near empty 15 items or less line.

“Hey, would you take someone who has more than 15 items?” she hollered to the cashier.

“Sure”, the cashier replied, hurriedly adding, as she saw several loaded carts turning their wheels towards her, “but only if they are not much over 15 items.”

Sighing audibly, all but three carts turned back to the original line, which was now significantly shorter. I pulled my cart up to the little bookstand displaying John Grisham’s new novel, Sue Grafton’s latest alphabet mystery and Janet Evanovich’s holiday addition to her Stephanie Plum series. I had passed on the ice cream, but I was out of reading material for my time on Larry the Elliptical. I placed two of the books in my cart.

“Do you think Kroger has a hotline to God, maybe pays him as a marketing consultant?” I queried the woman in front of me. “I mean, every time there’s a whisper of a winter storm, everyone rushes here and Kroger has a banner week of sales. I wonder if maybe it’s all really just a marketing ploy to get us to buy more groceries.”

The woman looked at me, then looked at her teenage daughter, then inched her cart a little closer to the person in front of her, looking furtively over her shoulder at the crazy woman blaspheming God, and not three weeks before Easter! She didn’t want to be anywhere close when a lightning bolt taught that woman a well deserved lesson.

I chuckled to myself, muttering under my breath, “well, I thought it was funny…”

I got home. It was well past 9:00pm. I was exhausted and I still had dinner to make. The sink was full of dirty dishes, my counters were streaked with the remnants of sandwiches and soup and crackers. A glass of juice lay on it’s side, the sticky residue of it’s former contents splayed before it.

The boys had stirred when they heard the door and had carried in the groceries while I changed out of my work clothes. By the time I walked back into the kitchen, they were back to their respective places on the couch, flipping channels and arguing over which television program to watch next.

“Hey! I need some help out here!” I hollered into the family room.

I have always unpacked the groceries, so I know where stuff is. I have always loaded and unloaded the dishwasher, so that stuff gets clean and so that it gets put away in its rightful place. And, because of my gender, I suppose, I’ve always been the cook. I cannot remember one single meal that any child has ever made for me.
No one had responded to my call for help. They had done their job of bringing in the groceries and piling them on the counter for my perusal and disposal, and that is all that was ordinarily asked of them.

“I’m serious! I’ve worked 12 hours today, it’s 9:00pm, I’m tired, and I need some help. I’ll cook, but you guys can help me put away groceries, unload the dishwasher, refill it with the stuff in the sink, and wipe off these counters!”

Greg and his girlfriend sheepishly started helping. I’d had a “Come to Mama” talk with the boys not a week earlier about helping me more over the next month of busy season. I didn’t have to say another word, and by the time the sweet potatoes were soft, the hamburgers snugly fit between whole wheat halves of a bun and the pear slices aligned on their plates, the groceries were put away, the counters were clean, the sink was empty and the dishwasher was humming merrily.

We chattered about our plans for the winter hibernation, around bites of burger and pear. I reflected on how full my life was, how interesting, how vibrant, how fortunate.

The snow can pile white and deep, but there is always warmth in my family room.

Cold Hearted Workspace

My writing desk is in my bedroom which is cold in the winter, hot in the summer. My nose is cold, even as we speak, and the place where the skin cracked on my thumb is bothering me every time I use the space bar. Funny, the space bar is the only thing my right thumb has to type. The other nine fingers do all of the rest of the work. There are more spaces though, than any other letter, so my thumb does more than its fair share of work.

That’s all for today, what with my sore thumb and all. I hope it feels better tomorrow.

I went to the grocery store after work today. It was packed. The checkout line snaked all the way down to the toothpaste aisle. Everyone seemed to be in a good humor though, despite the 45 minute wait to scan our groceries. We joked about the free marketing mother nature provides to Kroger every time there’s a weather alert for a snow storm. No other kind of storm inspires the grocery shopping that a good three inches of white stuff does.

I will pack all of my audits up to take home with me tomorrow. My weekend will be productive even if I have to do it homebound.

Now if I could just figure out how to warm up this bedroom.

Falling Slowly

From the movie, Once, which I can't get out of my head.

Glen Hansard - Falling Slowly

I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You've made it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You've made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing along

Beginnings Lead to Endings Lead to Beginnings

Otherwise known as a circle.

Life is turning in circles, as she is wont to do. All around me, beginnings, endings, pain involved with both. New clients, new beginnings. New love, sprouting tender, fragile shoots, sinking gossamer threads of weblike roots into the soil. Old loves gasping for breath, crying out in the agony of detachment.

It’s like that for my friends, too. My empathetic heart grieves for them, feels the pain, wants to shake them all down to their toes. Do they not remember shivering alone in the early light of dawn? I want to slap them up alongside the head…all while I cower, shaking in a corner, as I turn from one…to another…wanting with every breath of my being for this to be the last time I turn.

There is no such thing as perfection. There is only very close, and very close is as elusive as the whirr of a hummingbird's wings.

Pleasant Valley Monday

Nothing to say today. Went to Kevin’s choir concert tonight…it was the best Jr. High choral concert I’ve ever been to. Good director.

Movie tomorrow, with Computer Guy. He’s a sweetie.

I’m struggling with the food thing again. I think it’s hormonal. Just checked the calendar. Yep, it is. Whew. That means I just need to get through the next few days.

Once

I saw Once last night with Computer Guy. We snuggled on the couch with the older boys ducking in and out, trying to stay out of the way of Mom and her PB (potential boyfriend). Nothing is more grotesque to teenage boys than the thought of their Mom on the couch with a PB, doing Goddess knows what, so for the most part, they just kept to themselves.

A beautiful movie, Once was. Simply beautiful. SAHD-Guy insisted that I see it, telling me that he was jealous that I got to see it for the first time this weekend. I know the feeling. I felt the same way for each of the 14 people that I gave a copy of Water for Elephants to for Christmas. I’m listening to the soundtrack as I type, and I listened to it three times this afternoon while I worked on an audit. The song, Falling Slowly won the Oscar for Best Song.

The movie was melancholy, and had a bittersweet ending. The two characters upon which the love story is based and with whom the audience falls in love and cheers for, do not end up together, but they both end up where they should be. Sometimes life is like that. The two of them never even kiss, but one could feel the genuine love and passion they shared.

So, I guess some of you are wondering why I was watching a movie with Computer Guy instead of Chemistry Guy. I wondered that myself. I had spent over an hour writing to Computer Guy last week, explaining to him that I was going to focus on my relationship with Chemistry Guy, and that we would need to pursue a friendship. And ever since then, after spending an evening with him seeing Lucy Kaplansky, after sharing dinner on Tuesday, after spending the second Saturday in a row with him, I spend much more time thinking about him than about Chemistry Guy. I see him more, I talk on the phone with him more, I email him more.

Sometimes it takes seeing something in print on your computer screen to really understand the language being spoken.