There are six animals in my house. 

Some think other animals are food options.  (Busch looks longingly at Cocoa (dog/guinea pig))

Some think Mom has betrayed them by letting STRANGERS near their precious litter box.

Some think everyone needs to shut the fuck up and take a nap.  (Nap is Sheba’s answer to any problem.)

ST is in Alabama for the week.  He left Friday.  Let’s not discuss the fact that I miss him.  Instead, I will sum up missing him with this dialog snippet:

Me:  I miss you.  I think we need to break up.  This is icky.

Him: It feels weird doesn’t it?  Like something’s not right.

Me:  I…I just can’t take it.  What the hell is this feeling??

Him: I don’t know babe.  I just don’t know.

On top of the dog, ST has a small black cat.  She and I have a strange relationship in that I named her.  Before we met, he just called her “cat”.  I just couldn’t do that.  Pets have names, and she needed one.  It felt extremely presumptuous, but I asked if I could call her by a real name.  I started calling her Celeste.  That’s her name now, and she answers to it.  She’s become much more social since her christening.

In the beginning, it was a relief to date another pet owner.  And when I let Busch fall asleep on my lap after date #4?  I knew I was golden.

But my place?  WAY TOO FUCKING SMALL for all these animals.  I’ve coped by margarita for the weekend, but a girl has to be sober for class.  And I’m out of tequila.

ST would prefer, “If you’re going to get wet, might as well go swimming.” But that’s too complacent for me. I’m not about accepting fate and going along for the ride. The wet I’ve been getting these days is all sweat. It feels gritty and ionic. But it’s what gets the job done and I’m not here to go half-assed. I feel like I’ve done that all my life. Even last night, driving home from meeting his cousins, I thought about how I have no one specific talent I’ve cultivated to perfection. That’s why I’ve returned to school. Returned to the sanctuary. I’m good at many things; I want to be great at something.

This morning, at 3:30am, he curled up around him and whispered, “I asked you something…”

Even in my stupor, even though it was possible he had asked me a dozen things since, I knew.

“You asked me to not over load myself.”

“Mmm hmm. You never promised.”

Damn. He noticed that, huh? I wanted to argue; just last week he made it sound like he thought I was pussy for complaining about my revolving front door and living out of my car. In truth, I’m scheduled less than a 40-hour work week.

“I’m scheduled less than a 40-hour work week.” I knew this wasn’t going to fly.

“It’s not that I don’t trust your judgment. I just worry. Please promise me.”

Promise to cut down on the very character trait that attracts you to me? The one I’ve tried to cut down on for two years?

I wanted to mention the fact that I’d told GM I probably would take next Tuesday off. That I’d be cutting my hours short today. That I’m trying. I really am. It’s just hard, because he shouldn’t trust my judgment. I don’t know when to go home. Going big is programmed into my skin. I can’t stop it no more than I can stop the sweat. I’m only toying with next Tuesday off because I know I don’t know. Preventative measures – that’s the best I can do.

But I’ve had this argument before. And yesterday morning I woke up with a TMJ flare-up. My left ear hurts right now; the muscles in my jaw tighten and push against the drum. So maybe I do know. Maybe previously I’ve felt the stress of going home – giving up, defeated – is worse than the consequences of going big.

I want to be my best. For him. With him. He takes care of me so much already. I need to be able to reciprocate.

“I promise.”

Go big or go home? That’s easy. Figuring out how my big encompasses me, him, friends, family? Much harder. I hope I’m up to the challenge.

Uttered by ST while fixing things around my house…

“If I had known you had a DeWalt, I’d have gotten serious much sooner!…Oh wait.  It’s only 12-volt.  Never mind.”