It’s official.  There’s a ring on my left hand and marriage license paper work in my day planner.

It was very anti-climatic, as we’ve known it was inevitable - just something we needed to get around to doing.  On Monday, he came back from a fishing trip in time to accompany me on some chores and on a whim I looked up antique jewelry and jotted down a store that was on the way home.

(ST told me long ago that I really had to pick the ring out.  I would be the one wearing it, so I should really have the say in what it looked like.  While I get that that might bug some women, I wasn’t upset over the lack of surprise.  I’m very picky with jewelry, left-handed, and do lots of rough work in my day-to-day.  I needed to feel that the ring would hold up to the rigors of my life, and something that didn’t make me barf.)

(And a few weeks ago, I decided I really didn’t want a new ring.  They are, in my opinion, more expensive and with less personality.  Also, ever the recycler, there seems something green and less blood-on-my-hands about older diamonds.)

Anyway, the first store did not pan out but they suggested a few other places to check out.  ST was rather sore from fishing (deep sea), but wanted to soldier on since we’d gotten that far.  The second store and several beautiful pieces, but nothing that fit my lifestyle.

The last store, which it’s possible we walked past on our very first date, was more of a true jewelry store than antique.  But when I mentioned our criteria (not gold-gold and low settings), an estate piece was produced that seemed perfect.  Except the large middle stone had been removed so it was difficult to picture.  After a few fittings of gems (including a blue topaz), we chose a diamond and waited for it to be set.

He gave it to me in the kitchen when we got home.  Kitchens seem to be where I get proposed to.

On a side note, the aforementioned fishing trip meant that I had had the weekend to myself.  I had pleaded off ill from the sanctuary halfway through Saturday, but came home to do a mad cleaning as the realtor had called for a 5pm showing.

That wasn’t great fun, but it let me appreciate the condo again.  And left me with an immaculate home to veg out in for the rest of the weekend.

I enjoyed my time alone - afterall, I purchased this place for ME.  I’ve always felt comfortable, safe and happy here by myself.  And alone meant getting things done when I wanted, where I wanted.  It meant staying up until 11pm (!!).

It meant sleeping alone.  That second night, I tossed and turned.

I may be able to live with out him.  I may even be able to enjoy it.  But I certainly enjoy it a hell of a lot more when he’s here.  For other people, that may not be the greatest criteria for a lifelong relationship.  But for a loner like myself, someone who has never spent extended time with any person and not begged for a time out, it says a lot.

I have little time to write these days.  Twice a week, I’m up at 5:30am to make trapping research.  Two to three times, I’m up at 6am to make volunteering.  Four days a week, I work.  Two of those days, I leave straight from work to more volunteering.

Starting in two weeks, I’ll have two more evenings taken up by a class.  And the free time I use right now to clean litters, walk dogs, do dishes, cook, vacuum, laundry and an occassional shower will be eaten up by studying.  I don’t suggest standing down wind of me until mid-August.

I start a new job tomorrow.  I wasn’t looking, but someone in the same building needed an office assistant and decided she really wanted to work with me.  (Although while not unhappy at my previous position, I was not entirely happy either.)  I’m excited for a few reasons, but most of all to be working with someone who really wants to work with me.  I haven’t felt coveted as an employee since I left the software field.

(I suppose it’s true my previous position coveted me, but not exactly in the same way.)

(And there are no hard feelings - every old boss understands this is a better fit for me.  Good thing, since I will now have to interface with my old co-workers to get building facilities booked for my new employer!)

This past weekend, I worked both days at the sanctuary.  They were hard days for me for some reason.  It felt like nothing was going my way, although the reality very different than perception.  I took a step back and told myself that I was whining while getting to work side by side with tigers.  Really?  I needed to shut the fuck up.

It is an incredible feeling to realize that any complaint you have about your life is entirely unwarrented.  I highly suggest it.

On Fridays, I go straight from trapping to work.  Trapping involves walking through dense vegetation picking up metal boxes that smell strongly of urine.  I am covered in mud, leaves, spiders, and possibly communicable diseases by the end.
 
Usually, I try to be very discrete.  I sneak into the bathroom and use the handicap stall to change.  I use my socks to mop up the sticks and dirt that falls from my body as I shed clothes.  (I have found a key to the grungy-to-office transition is skirts.  Because after waterlogged 50-lbs jeans, my legs need AIR.)
 
But last Firday I was so freaking happy.  We’d seen otters!  I found a trap with a yellow rat snake!  I was also possibly the dirtiest I’ve been so far in this adventure.
 
And I thought about a co-worker who has mentioned more than once lately that I don’t seem happy.  I’ve tried to explain that my passions lie a little on the rural side of a desk job, but he doesn’t seem to get it.  So, I figured I’d run over and surprise him as-is to show him the depth of my depravity and a real true smile on my face.
 
He wasn’t there.  But I had to pass a second co-worker’s office and I caught the look on his face.  That look said I could not just run past him again without explanation.
 
I stopped in his doorway.
 
His jaw dropped open.
 
“Hi!”
 
“What happened?!”
 
“Nothing!”
 
“Were you hit by a truck?”
 
I tried to explain, but it was very obvious I was speaking Chinese.  And no matter how big I smiled, he couldn’t understand happiness came in that sort of package.
 
Jessica in Progress.  Getting hit by trucks since 2007.

You know you are burning the bridge at both ends (or the candle, or the horse, or whatever proper noun you’ve decided emulates your f*cked up must-do-everything life) when you spend the first 24 hours at the beach asleep.

But then!  We got up!  ST’s cousin and wife got there and we went to dinner!  And made the dog chase crabs on the beach at night!  And played Super Scrabble!  And walked!  A lot!  And mixed rum drinks!  A lot!

There was also a sand castle.  I am in love with a 35-year-old man who builds sand castles.  And then whines about his achey legs for two days after.

Oh, and fishing.  I have decided that you fish from a boat or a dock.  What you do not do is fish in the surf.  Do not believe ST when he tells you it is easier if you stand further out, away from the waves.  The waves had Jessica homing beacons and I drank more ocean than I ate fish.

What we did not do, was take pictures.  The sum of our vacation pictures I took in the car on the ride home.

I would share with you a picture of the dog’s head stuck in the window, but I have no idea where the camera cable is. 

That is such a pathetic end to a post that I just spent five minutes looking for the cable.  Never say I don’t do things for you.

(The thing I did was the looking, not the finding.  It’s still MIA.  Sorry!)