For lack of anything better or more creative, his name is ST.
 
He was given the chance to name himself, as well as the chance to tell me not to write about him.  He declined both, saying I could call him whatever I wanted and write whatever I wanted.
 
“I think it was Caesar who was known for saying, “Better to be hated than never remembered at all.”*  It’s not EXACTLY what I’m shooting for, but the sentiment behind the statement is the same.  Memorable is a good start.  So if you write something that isn’t complimentary about me, I’ll simply accept it as part of the deal and get on with it.”
 
*The closest I’ve come to this was, “It’s better to be hated than ignored.”  And it was attributed to Hunter S. Thompson.  I am going to have to school this boy in literature.
 
He’s not reading here yet.  But I suspect he will soon.  I know I’m of a different opinion than a lot of people in this arena.  Perhaps it’s because I’m so closed off in real life.  This is one way I can safely open up a bit.  I mean, I let strangers judge me based on my writing, why not the men in my life?
 
ST and I met over a month ago.  He is the charming southern accent I got to know that Sunday afternoon.
 
I had no real high hopes for the date, except we seemed to be on the same wavelength in how it should play out.  Meet up for an activity early enough to do more, but don’t plan anything else.  I’ve been lucky in trusting my gut and the first dates I’ve had in the past year has been at the most a bit of awkward silence.  I’ve definitely had dates that I didn’t want to extend, but none I absolutely felt I must cut short.
 
The first thing I noticed was that he is cuter than his picture.  (What else is the first thing I notice supposed to be?  I did not bring along my X-ray goggles (heh.  I wrote googles.) so that my first impression could be of his great bone density.) 
 
He’s thinner than my usual type, which amuses him because he says he’s overweight.  He needed a haircut, which meant he had little curls corkscrewing through the back.  I liked it.  I haven’t seen it that long since.  And evidently I am over dating tall guys.  I don’t think I’ve had a date with someone over 5’9” since the new boy.
 
I thought the museum would be a good idea.  It definitely was fun and interesting, but I hated how we couldn’t really talk.  I forget it’s not the Art Institute where the shear size and volume of people allows you to at least murmur without the entire room overhearing.
 
There is a courtyard/garden area (I saw the Chihuly exhibit there) and we took a break at one point to sit out there and talk.
 
My only interest was the Aperture at 50 exhibit, but he wanted to see the whole museum.  It was a little cute and a little annoying.  On the one hand, wasn’t he supposed to pay attention to me, not the art?  On the other, it was fun to see him really enjoy himself.  And nice that he didn’t just *say* he was interested in the museum to agree with me.
 
(Again, for myself, I do not really go to the museum except for special exhibits.  Growing up in Chicago has made me a bit of a museum snob; not just the Art Institute but also the Field Museum and MOSI.)
 
I almost kissed him in the room of Pre-Columbia art.  But he’s not as extroverted as most guys I date and that makes me shyer around him.  I’m forever concerned about saying the wrong thing, coming off too rough and demanding, etc. when the other person is quieter than me.  He keeps saying he’s been holding back to be polite, but I don’t think he used the word Fuck in front of me until just last week. 
 
(We’d been watching The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and it turned into making out on the couch.  When he chastised me that I was missing the movie, I promptly turned back to the TV.  “Um, I was fucking with you.”  “Uh huh.  And now I’m fucking with you.”  I kept my eyes on the TV until I started to drift off to sleep.  I believe he learned a lesson.)
 
I was glad he wanted to extend that first date, and we walked for an hour or so around the neighborhood.
 
As he walked me to my car I could feel the heat in my face.  Here’s the thing.  I hate a first kiss to be at the end of a date.  HATE it.  It’s why I consider kissing someone in the B section of Barnes and Noble, during an opportune moment of audience participation at Howl at the Moon, or in the Pre-Columbia art room.
 
I don’t know why.  I like to be the one who initiates the first kiss.  It just sets the tone that I’m going to be the one calling the shots physically.  Also, I like to get an idea of how someone kisses as soon as possible and in a non-serious setting.  It takes the pressure off and you have some time to decide if you’d like to work more kissing into the rest of the evening.
 
So I was a bit relieved when he didn’t kiss me.  He’d been sick, and it didn’t to pass it on.  But he made a point of saying that he would have kissed me.  Somehow, that was the perfect ending.
 
We can only see each other about once a week.  It’s slow, harder to get to know him.  More than once I’ve contemplated whether there’s any point.  I don’t mind casual relationships but if that’s what I’m going for, I’m looking for something easier than an hour commute.
 
And if it grows into something more?  Well, all the problems still exist.  I’m putting a little trust into the idea that once I am a student it might be different.  And he swears up and down his work schedule will lighten up in the next two months.
 
(I am not holding my breath.  I have resigned myself to the fact that many of my problems in relationships stem specifically from personality traits (such as workaholic) that I find attractive.)
 
He’s…different.  Usually when I say that I mean, “I really want to like him, I really should like him, but I just don’t like him.”  I definitely do like him.  He’s a different different. 
 
It is unnerving how well he observes and reads people.  Just last night I mentioned in passing how I am clumsy and sort of bump into things unconsciously and move on.  He replied, “Yeah, I’ve noticed that twice.”  I wanted to ask, “What two times?  What was I doing?  Did I look stupid?”  It is weird to feel someone else is more aware of me than myself.
 
 Other things he notices both calm me and confuse me.
 
 “On some levels you seem to be emotionally closed off.”
 
Well, yes.  Circle gets the square.  It’s nice someone cares enough to notice.  But once noticed, what the fuck do I do about it?  I AM emotionally closed off.  That and a quarter will buy you a newspaper.  I am really not up to any huge improvement projects in my psyche.  I think I’ve learned a lot about myself and come to pretty stable and happy point.  I have no desire to go mucking up in that. 
 
I wonder though… I wonder if the thing “different” about him is simply how two people usually get to know each other.  I wonder if I chose these situations so that I don’t have to open up…I wonder if that will change…

I just booked tickets for Ireland.

It’s now 5:24am and I’m up, so why not elaborate?

My last day at my job is April 28th.  Summer classes at USF start May 15th.  A two week gap.

I’ll need the first week to square things away (measles vaccinations…anyone remember me ranting about them?).  But, it was always my hope that I’d finally, FINALLY get on a damn plane and hop the pond.

I never mentioned it here (I don’t think), but Costa Rica was not my first choice in programs.  I really, really wanted to go Africa.  Hey, I’ll take what I can get.  And the upside is that plane tickets to Costa Rica are over a thousand dollars less than plane tickets to Namibia.

I was looking on Orbtiz and saw the perfect flight – a connection at O’Hare with a 10-hour layover on the outbound flight.  I quickly called Mom, had her pencil me into their schedule, and hit “Purchase” before I could talk myself out of it.

Mom, btw, was kinda sad because she hadn’t realized I had kept Ireland on the table.  She had gotten as far as getting her real birth certificate for a passport.  She made me promise we would do some sort of road trip together, perhaps in August.  Ireland would have been cool with her, but I have talked myself out of tickets before trying to collaborate with potential traveling partners.

Anyway, I get into Dublin around 8am Monday morning.  My flight leaves there around 2:30pm Thursday.  I figure I will see the city Monday and Thursday, and take day trips to other parts of Ireland at least one if not both days in between.  Any suggestions on locations, hotels, day-trip companies, etc. would be most welcome.

I completely freaked out after making the decision.  I mean, dude.  I have a lot on my plate right now.  My income is about to go to zero.  WTF?

But, let’s face it, I’ll be freaking out even more once it actually happens.  Won’t it be nice to do so with a constant supply of Guinness on hand?

(And for anyone who remembers this post…well, I don’t have a bike.  I’m due to donate blood again.  The roof is still suspect until the next big rain.  And I have yet to sign up for any classes period.  But 6 out of 10?  I’ll take it.)

Once upon a time, I had a fantasy about how I would quit my job.

I would come into my manager’s office on a Monday morning.  Torn jeans.  T-shirt.  Heavy make-up.  Hair in pigtails.  Brand new ring jutting from my left eyebrow.

I would sit there and giggle at his discomfort until I finally informed him I was leaving.  I would smile and soften and be nice but firm as he questioned my reasoning and begged me to stay.

I came in this morning and found a meeting request waiting for me.  My manager wanted to do my 2006 goal-planning.

There was no time to get pierced (I walk at lunch on Mondays).  I was wearing one of my two good pair of jeans and wasn’t about it rip them.  My hair was down, and I estimate 83% brushed.

As I got serious about quitting, I no longer cared about this fantasy anyway.  The reality was all in the timing, not the staging.

Part of me really didn’t want to give more than two weeks.  For the simple fact that it lessened the amount of time gossip could circulate.  It also would cut short the number of days I would worry about the company preemptively firing me.

But there were several reasons for me to consider giving more time.  Schedule.  Upcoming bids and projects.  Planning promotions and raises.  It seemed selfish and bad business to not give them a month.

This meeting solved my dilemma.  My manager was surprised, but supportive.  He requested I get a letter in sometime this week so he could officially arrange for my promotion to go to someone else.  (They are only allowed to give out so many a year.)  He seemed genuinely interested in my plans, and sorry to see me go.  I had read his summary of my 2005 accomplishments.  It was quite complimentary.

I ended up giving them roughly five weeks.  Technically a month by calendar dates, when I turn in my letter tomorrow.  April 28th will be my last day of work.

It all feels very surreal.  I don’t really know what else to say right now.  Except that I will not be getting a brow pierce.  No need to introduce extra infection sight possibilities when I’m about to lose my insurance.

Aunt Jessi did double duty today.

First it was the baptism of P & D’s 9-month-old boy.  A difficult baby from the get-go, he handled it with minimal fuss and even let me hold him for feeding afterwards.  P’s mom had me pose for some pictures with family and baby, which was very sweet.  I am so lucky to feel welcome in so many families.

I went straight from church to NT’s and the birthday party of my favorite nine-year-old.  NT’s mom acknowledged that any baby-holding time (baby’s one-year-old birthday is next week) should be rescinded to me since I don’t get him that much.  The just-over-one-year-old cousin (with me still?) is walking quite well now, very bright, and has the sunniest disposition.

I drove home with that good tired feeling.  Not too exhuasted.  Nothing pressing on me to do.  (That I can remember.  I’m sure I’ll be kicking myself tomorrow at 9am when my brain cells start functioning again.)  Nothing left but crawl into comfortable clothes, consume leftover wine and baba ganoush, and appreciate life.

Him:  So the trail by the rapids is right here.
Me:  A third of a mile??  (Thinking:  this date is going to be over in ten minutes!)
Him:  That’s the shortest.
Me:  When I said I wouldn’t be up for much?  I was thinking less than five miles.
Him:  Oh.

(Thank goodness we only did about three so I didn’t wimp out.)

Later…

Him:  I’m never going live that down, am I?
Me:  Nope.  We HAVE to get married now.  And have a big family so the grand kids can gather round to hear the story of how Grandpa turned down Grandma’s offer to get him a hooker.

(Also?  I informed this gentleman that my bark is worse than my bite.  Evidently I am a fifth grade gym teacher now…)

Edited on 3/27/12 to add that in re-reading this for major site revision I’ve categorized this in “Take A Hike”  How cool is it that Tom and my fourth date was a hike?

Four (4) wires.

Two (2) screw drivers.

One (1) call to “Henry”.

Five (5) curse words.

Zero (0) Fatalities.

One (1) new programmable, digital thermostat installed completely by moi.

Excuse me.  I must now go turn it off since I’m going to the gym and don’t trust it not to burn the house down while I’m gone.  These relationships take time…

Or it was.

I turned thirty one with little to do but much love and well wishes.  Just how I like it.

I had planned to take the day off from work and indulge in some spa treatments, but I’ve been too busy to get my act together and, you know, dial seven digits.  Instead I will playing hooky on Friday to get my hair cut, nails done, and muscles relaxed.  Always great to stretch out the celebration.

C & H called with birthday wishes and to make sure I had plans.  They were going to run right down if I was alone.

But I wasn’t.  TG took me to Carmelita’s, where I devoured every slurp of the Vegetarian combo.  His present to me was Season One of House.  Because, “What better gift for a woman than the man of her dreams?”

Two years ago, I was distraught that my birthday had come and my divorce was not final.

Last year, my birthday marked the date when I decided I needed to do something about how unhappy I was in my job.

And now here I am.  For the first time in a long while, I feel I’m living up to the name.

First off, thank you everyone for your comments and kind words.  It means a lot to me. 

Before the awesome news of Costa Rica Monday, I was feeling a little worn around the edges.

I’ve been going full tilt, sleep is for the weak, free time what’s that, for over a week.  And even when it’s good stuff, it begans to get a little much.

Then, while completely and totally stoked about this opportunity, it meant kicking things into even more high gear as I have to get paper work done by X date, shopping to plan for (do not tell my parents – I need to buy snake gaiters.  Dad was already concerned about poison tree frogs (like I would ever let a frog get near me!), let’s not give them another specie to worry about), and all the planning one needs to do when one leaves her house and life for more than a few days.  (Since USF STILL WON’T LET ME APPLY UNTIL APRIL, I am just crossing my fingers whatever Biology professor I get sees what an awesome opportunity this is.)

Then Bernie died.  And then work started sucking majorly.  People not understanding code I’d written and going around it sucking.  Me not understanding the significance of something and breaking the initializing of a machine sucking.  (No one blames me for that; it wasn’t some huge glaring error or anything.  But still.  Is there anything worse than being on a tight schedule, thinking you’re done with a part, and then realizing not so much?)

So for the past two days I’ve been laying low.  Short emails.  No eye contact in the hallways.  Directly telling my best friend and my grandmother I am not in the mood and hanging up on them.  Not answering the phone for anyone else.

There’s no point to this.  Just telling you what I’m up to and hoping some of that writing mojo will work its way to seeing that I have a good day where nothing dies, nothing breaks, and people do not piss me off.

ps.  Anyone know of a WordPress plugin for spell check?   

The irony is that Bernie was named after the movie Weekend at Bernie’s.  Because like the movie Bernie, he was supposed to already be dead.

(People who know me in real life?  SO sick of that joke.)

I had never really liked rodents.  But the truth is, Bernie had an awesome personality.  He was spunky and loving all at the same time.  He was fearless around the cats and our dog.

(The cats and dog basically looked at him with amused interest.  He was big enough to not be an immediate dinner option and I’ve been lucky to raise my animals with a high tolerance for other species.)

He felt Sheba was his girlfriend, and would sit as close as possible to her on the couch, leaning in lovelorn.

After we gave in to the inevitable that we were now cavy owners, we started doing some research.  For one, almost all store-bought cages are too small.  Many people do not understand the importance of a continuous supply of timothy hay.  And, most important, guinea pigs are social animals and can die from depression.

It was clear to us from the very beginning that Bernie was incredibly social.  He loved attention from anyone or thing in the house.  So on top of creating a big open cage out of Rubbermaid wreath containers, we started looking into a second guinea pig.

(Not only was the bigger cage good for his health, but also it allowed more interaction with humans walking by.)

I saw Bernie and Cocoa as more my ex-husband’s pets than mine.  But when we split, he didn’t want them.  We already had to give up the dog and it killed me.  I couldn’t abandon more animals.  So Bernie and Cocoa came with me.

I particularly enjoyed it when I moved into the condo, because the floor is mostly tile and the rug is short, stiff fibers.  Very easy to clean up after them.

Bernie was over four-years-old.  Getting up there but definitely not geriatric. I found him dead but still warm this morning.

Besides noticing just yesterday afternoon that the food dish and water bottle seemed a bit too full, I had no other warning.  After that observation, I handed out timothy hay and parsley before heading to the sanctuary.  Bernie partook of at least the parsley.  He hadn’t lost any weight that I could tell or showed any other symptoms of an issue.  He had never needed teeth trimming in the four years I’d owned him.  I should have checked, but it isn’t anything I’ve ever had an inclination would be a problem with him.

And even with all that said, I can’t be sure what really happened.  That’s frustrating.  I am teaching all the other pets to write so they can leave me goodbye notes and be specific on what I should feel guilty about.

I am sad that he is gone.  He was a chipper, demanding little guy who made me laugh.  I am sadder for Cocoa though.  They were a good pair.  Cocoa is not taking this well; just laying there right now.

I’m not quite sure what I will do now.  I might try letting Cocoa live free-range so that he has the company of the cats full time.  But he has always been more skittish of them than Bernie.  I really can’t see myself getting another guinea pig.  And Cocoa’s age and health (tumor) don’t make him a great candidate for adoption.

This was definitely an unpleasant way to start my day.  And yes, I can’t help but think about karma and jinxes and such.  But the funny thing about that is, last night was the first time in a long while that TG spent the night.  We’ve both been so busy; away on trips and having to be places early even on weekends.  And the last couple of times we did spend the night together was at his (cat-hair-free, big-screen-TV) place.

Just having him there, someone to talk to about it, rub my back, sympathize that picking up dead pet is just not a good morning activity, was a real help.  So while the world might like to let me know I am not above life’s icky parts, at least it didn’t kick me in the teeth after throwing me to the ground.

Originally, all I was going to coo over tonight was the fact that I was going to hear someone from the Snow Leopard Trust speak and that besides doing that, all I wanted to do was see TG and thank him for these:

But then?  I got something in the mail.

I hinted a while ago that I was working on essays for an application.  Something I wanted so badly I wouldn’t speak of it in case I jinxed it.

Today, I received my acceptance letter for Earth Expeditions: Costa Rica.

And not only that?  But I sent out a mass email to friends and family.  I’ve been receiving emails and phone calls all evening – including my father who said first thing he and Mom wanted to foot the bill.

I probably won’t let them – not entirely.  I have strong feelings over being a grown-ass woman and accepting large amounts of financial help from the parental units.  But the point is regardless, they kick so much ass for being supportive and positive over this whole crazy mess I’m throwing myself into.

And TG emailed too.  He’s coming over in a bit to help me celebrate.

I’m starting to get scared.  This luck can’t hold out.  I’m going to fall down the stairs tomorrow morning or get a speeding ticket or accidently yell FUCK in front of the president of the company.  Something.  Anything.

But until then?  Life is so damn sweet.