ST and I had a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend together.  Lots of food, lots of love, and lots of sitting our asses.  I have yet again f*cked up my left ankle, this time the tendon sheath over the top, and I’m trying to rest it.

We had prepared for the long weekend by purposely holding off on our latest Netflix arrivals (The Lake House and Boondock Saints) as well as finally using up some Blockbuster money I’d had since June (Nacho Libre and Chronicles of Narnia).  But by Sunday afternoon, the movie well was dry. 

We’d just come home from the condo (I’d insisted we make a brief pass over it with a broom and dust rag), I needed to put the ankle up and veg for a bit.  So I popped a Sex in the City DVD in.

ST has never really watched any of the series, and was restless in that Sunday evening way that had him pinging from room to room with little tasks.  But who can resist plot lines where Virgin Mary statues replace vibrators?  Soon he had settled in next to me and we were watching the “Are we sluts?” episode.

When Carrie is all huffed that Aiden is in the bathroom for an hour, and it turned out he was drawing a romantic bath for two, I turned to ST and mummbled and gestured.  It was the type of comment that wasn’t meant to be articulated fully, the gist of it being fully formed on the television set. 

Except…

“What did you just say?”

“I said….why don’t you draw me a bath….with salads…”

“That’s what I thought I heard.”

“But I meant candles!”

“One bath with salad, coming up.”

We were doing the weekly grocery shopping on Sunday when ST spotted a buy-one-get-one-free ad for the generic 2-L soda.

“This is a good deal!”  I agreed that it was, then wondered why he was still standing there.

“So, can we get some?”

This isn’t the first time he’s asked; kowtowed to the crown of grocery shopping I was unaware bestowed upon me.  Oh sure, he may argue on points here or there (organic eggs, for example), but for the most part once we get in the door my list rules supreme.

The point of this story is my answer: Yes.

I often try to figure out or articulate why things work with ST that didn’t work with others.  Why we’re deeper in debt than I was with ex yet we don’t fight about money.  Why I never believed the phrase, “There’s no such thing as bad sex” until him.  How it’s possible with four cats, a dog, a guinea pig, and two forgetful people to (mostly) stay on top of the housework without so much as one raised voice.

 The easy answer is that we both say yes a lot.  Neither of us has gone without a foot or back rub anytime one was requested.  He’s eaten his first tofu dogs, I’ve had my first meal of deer burger.  Whatever our little hearts desire in the rhelm of food and/or entertainment are almost always instantly granted.

But…why?  Why is it so easy to say yes to each other when many people who know us might throw the words prideful and stingy into descriptions they thought would never get back to us?

I can tell you that in other relationships, I haven’t bothered to ask for much because I was afraid of that, “No”.  In other relationships, I’ve used excel spreadsheets to determine who owes who what and what day of the week with what moon phase I might be able to get what’s due.

With him, I am comfortable and content.  I don’t need a list to determine what I get can ask for; if anything I self-police that I’m not getting too much without giving enough in return.

If I could give any advice to anyone in relationship, it would be to ask yourself what’s your yes comfort-level.   

*The title is on a magnet the ex put in the Christmas stocking once. 

There are times I think I can’t do this.

I used to say that maybe it was me.  I meant it.  But what I meant more was, prove me wrong.  Be the one.  The one that changes everything.

He’s the one.  He has changed everything.  And I still have times I think I can’t do this.  It really is me.

And yet…I know that I will.  In part because I know he can read that and understand.  He knows me better than anyone in the world, he knows that too.

Today was one of those days.  Such silly shit.  Chores and money, time tables and to-do lists.  What to have for dinner.  When to take a nap.  How long to study.

But then, I’m taking a break watching TV and he’s already in bed and at the end of the show, I have to go to him.  I have to.  I would feel empty otherwise.

We giggle and stroke, sigh and climax.  He calls me perfect, forgetting that he once told me I could never be perfect (no one could), but that I was perfect for him.

It is these times that I think, how can anyone not do this?

Everyone has certain tricks - wiggling their ears, burping the alphabet, something that makes them unique and strange.

Me?  I talk to sleeping people.

I don’t know if it’s the timbre of my voice, or that I’ve honed the exact right amount of questioning that should go into a conversation, but give me someone in blissful slumber and I can give you an interesting dialogue.

Me:  Honey, is there anything I can get you?

ST:  Money.

Me:  Money?  Why do you want money from me?

ST:  I need fifty cents for milk.

(ST hates drinking milk unless it’s a newly opened carton.  He drinks chocolate or soy.)

Me:  Where do you get milk?

ST:  Everyday.

Me:  No, WHERE?  Do you get milk at work?

ST:  Kindergarten.

(Pause for my laughter.)

Me:  Kindergarten?

ST:  It’s retro.

(Pause for me to try and ascertain if he’s truly asleep or fucking with me.  Asleep.)

Me:  I was thinking of giving you sex, but if you want fifty cents for milk…

ST:  I’ll take the sex.

Me:  Then how will you get your milk?

ST:  Through the Internet.

Me:  How will you get milk through the Internet?

ST:  The INTERNET.

Me:  No, HOW?

ST:  Through a big pipe line.

There you go people.  Internets got milk?

Shortly after this conversation, I yelled at the dog for drinking out of the toilet and ST asked what was going on.  When I explained, he jumped in with this helpful statement, “Little Dog!  You get in here under this license plate!”

Indeed.

Living with ST is amazing, but in some ways un-noteworthy in my mind.  I was pretty convinced we’d get along well otherwise I’d have never made this decision.

I do a lot of the housework right now, since I’m unemployed.  It might become an issue when my schedule tightens up, but I doubt it.

I know he thinks we’re careful and respectful of each other based on our previous experiences living with others.  That might be so, but I also think we’re just getting too old for that shit.  Yes, we’re set in our ways.  But we also are fairly certain of what we have to have, and what we can let go.  Not everything is life or death, a power struggle, or signs of devotion/descent in the ranks.

So far, the biggest problem has been his schedule.  He’s still going into work around 1:30am to try and “manage from the floor”.  (Warehouse floor, receiving starts at 2am.)

This means that anywhere between 6 and 9pm, he turns into a pumpkin.  While I can entertain myself, I’ve known for a long time a huge flaw of mine is wandering.  My mind, my body, my hands…I’ve lived in apartments where I’ve kept exactly one door shut - the front one.  Every other closet, pantry, nook, and cranny must be open and available for multi-tasking at all times.  Today I tried to fold laundry but decided I really had to start cooking the chicken in the middle.  I get thirsty and on the way to kitchen I sweep the bathroom.  Sad that I can’t even blame this on MTV since my parents still to this day do not have cable.

So, I feel a bit like I’ve had a hand tied behind my back with the bedroom door closed for most of the evening.  Not to mention the only working toliet is in there as well.

But ST is also a bit of a romantic.  He doesn’t like to go to bed without me.  This can sometimes mean I go to bed at 6pm, or he falls asleep on the couch refusing to move until I do.  Again, this isn’t so bad now.  But soon (Thursday?), my nights will be needed for studying. 

And it’s quite possible I’ll start to notice the sleep I’m losing when he gets up at 1am - that’s half the reason I’m able to accommadate him now, I’m sleepy myself.

In fact, it’s 9:15 and I’m feeling a bit peaked.  Think I’ll go lie down… 

Heh.  I realized driving home from class that this morning’s post might have spawned a few questions.

About a month ago, ST and I had a conversation that every Rules writer would say is death to a relationship and everyone who knows me personally won’t believe actually took place.

Me:  Can I ask you a question I’m not supposed to ask?

ST:  Yes.

Me:  Do you think we’re going to get married?

ST:  If we continue on this path, yes.  Definitely.

Me:  Me too.

Some follow-up:

1) No, we are not crazy or desparate.  We’re not rushing to get hitched so we won’t die alone.  We’re not rushing period.  We want to live together and talk through A LOT of circumstances before making it official.  It’s just that we know the goal of this relationship.  This ain’t no party.  This ain’t no disco.  This ain’t no fooling around.  (Whoo!  Party-less, disco-less marriage devoid of fooling around!)  Knowing that, it brings all those things I was babbling out to the forefront in my mind so I enter a marriage knowing how I feel about it.

2) Yes, he will make it official.  There will be some knee-bending, some sky-writing, or at the very least a poke in shoulder with, “You know that thing we mentioned?  Wanna make it official?”  Although regardless of whether I take his name or not, he can probably twist the above conversation around so that he follows in the footsteps of many men in my family who claim the women did the asking.

3) While we want a marriage, we have no desire to have a wedding.  Vegas baby.  All.  The.  Way.

This is from my archive folder, written around the end of April.  Three days before ST and I said we loved each other for the first time.

I remember that day, that outfit.  He actually wasn’t quite at my condo when I got home, and I was pissed about that.  I didn’t want to have any time to pace the floors, growing more and more nervous. 

I am amazed that I ever felt this way around him.

I’m wearing the nicest outfit that has graced my cubicle this year.  Black pants that hug my ass and swish the exact amount around my ankles.  Blue button-down shirt that actually fits my body instead of hanging off it.  My favorite black sandals, clicking through the hallways.
 
And all of this is just because someone will be there when I get home today.

I’ll admit, I feel I’m flunking the relationship portion of all of this.  I don’t know what I want, can’t read what he wants.  The minute I label something exclusive and admit somewhere in my dusty brain that I want it to have a future, I become a paranoid, insecure mess.  Which of course is exactly the type of woman people crave to be around. 

I have had a migraine for two days now.  It started in lecture on Thursday.  I drove to ST’s, made it through Target without killing anyone, cleaned up after the dog, and promptly spent my study time moaning in bed.

He came home a few hours later and immediately started tending to my bidding.  Backrub.  No, lighter.  Now brush my hair.  Yes, I was a whiny spoiled brat but damn.  I needed some sort of sensation other than searing pain.

It was raining when we went out to dinner.  Afterwards, I suggested a walk in it.  I wrapped my dress up in one hand, shucked off my shoes, and away we went.

“I wish I’d brought a tape recorder.  We’ve had about five conversations I deemed bloggable.”

“Whatever.  You have perfect memory.”

“Not today.  There was the one where I called you a twat and you resembled that comment…but I’ve forgotten the beginning.”

“Sorry, I didn’t bring the recorder.  I didn’t think you’d be wrong today.”  (A girl just happens to point out that she’s always right and everyone gets up in arms to prove her wrong.  Hurmph.)

Back home, it was back to bed.  Curled up together, it’s right.  It’s where I want to be.

He was up at 3am for work.  When I got up later, I saw the lid to my lunch box was closed.  (With my current schedule, I am working with no fewer than four bags per day.  Almost always my school bag, a clean clothes bag, my sanctuary bag, and a lunch box.)

This was inside:

Everything I want to write is so clichéd.  Except for my surprise.
 
I didn’t expect to feel like this again.
 
My relationships from the past two years have been (mostly) fun.  But they haven’t really been relationships in my mind.  It’s what you call something when fuck buddy gets stuck in your throat.

Emotions were exchanged for pragmatic.  Wants forgotten for needs.  I don’t regret it.  I doubt I’d understand the difference between wants and needs in a relationship so well otherwise.
 
But I had started to wonder if I had somehow broken myself.  Perhaps the record had skipped one too many times.  I am both relieved and annoyed to find that isn’t the case.
 
I’d forgotten how scary it is to give someone my heart.  How exhausting it is to be hurt by little things because I want him to understand me better than that.
 
How wonderful it is when he shows how thankful he is that we met.  How breathtaking it is when he soothes the hurt and makes me better understand myself.

When you interrupt major fooling around with, “I have something important to tell you,” there is a limited amount of acceptable ways to follow it up.  These include:
 
1)       I love you.
2)       I won the lottery and will keep you in school tuition for a dozen Ph.D.s in return for that cute way you scrunch your eyebrows.
3)       It was a false positive.
4)       My parents decided not to visit.
 
I suppose we could think up some more.  But more importantly, there are phrases that are strictly prohibited.  Such as, oh I don’t know, off the top of my head…
 
I didn’t bring any condoms.