I should have ended it when he called his mother to pick him up after a car accident.  At the time I was just relieved I didn’t have to actually do anything but coo sympathetically on the phone.  And a part of me was a bit excited that this meant his mother would find out about us (the accident location left no room for doubt that he was returning from an overnight rendezvous).  It wasn’t that I really wanted his family to know; I just knew that they usually didn’t know about his romantic life and I like pushing the envelope period in relationships.  I wasn’t comfortable in a relationship unless it was uncomfortable.  But seriously?  His mom?  That’s who he called? 

I should have ended things in any other way than him finding out via this blog.  I was looking at the step forward, with another man, and had my blinders on.  I never really considered he’d care that we were over – there were other women in his life, other dates, other opportunities.  He didn’t love me, and from those words on I pretty much decided he wouldn’t give a damn what happened between us.  But of course that’s crap.  I always gushed, and still do, over how well he treated me.  I felt cherished despite the other dates, other women.  He was exactly what I needed when I needed it.  I wish I had let him know in a kinder, gentler, more cherished way, that I no longer needed him.

Why didn’t we leave things the way they were?  Why has goodbye been shredded from our lips again and again?  Never getting it right, of course.  Fire and fury and entitlement fuel us towards each other over and over.  I miss my friend very much.  I knew after the last that we couldn’t try to repair anything until we were both in more stable romantic situations.  Here I am, so fucking happily married that I cannot believe it.  Where are you?  Can we say hello again, even if it’s just to get the goodbye right for once?

Apparently July is the month I tease about stories and never actually post them.  Last year it was Costa Rica.  (I’d link to the story, but, you know, I never wrote it.)  This year, it is the wedding.
 
So…the wedding that wasn’t.  There were no pictures.  No people.  I wore a blue sundress I bought at Target three years prior and he put on a clean polo when he got home from work.  We went down to the court house and after a brief crisis where I did not have my photo ID (they accepted my signature match on a Homestead Exemption Tax document that Tom had slipped into my glove compartment a few weeks prior, on the day we decided to get our butts in gear and we bought my rings actually…), we were hitched.  We used a silver ring of mine during the ceremony, and found him his ring after the fact at an antique store 3 minutes before they closed.

 
Marriage hasn’t changed us one bit, which is how we wanted it.  Of course, I have insurance now.   Both families are very happy for us. 
 
That is the exact copy I’ve sent in several emails this week, finally getting back to friends who responded to the e-card that was our “official” announcement.  (OK, the real copy had a smiley face inserted somewhere.  But I do not believe my blog and smiley faces should mix.)
 
When we played around with the idea of that Friday, neither of us had realized it was the 13^th.  Once I figured it out, I really wanted to make it happen.  So of course, we had no AC, Tom was super late from work, and I left my picture ID in my workbag.
 
Yet, here we are!  Whee!
 
I will admit that right after we got my rings, I toyed around with some of the more traditional wedding ideas.  Not an actual wedding mind you.  But…a new dress?  A small bouquet?  A little party?  Some wine at least?
 
In the end, I’m glad I nixed all of that.  We got to focus on the important things – like getting ST Chinese food for dinner.
 
And it probably doesn’t need saying here, but when I say nothing’s changed?  I mean my name as well.  I cannot describe how awesome it is for me to not go through that bullshit again.  ST has already been called “Mr. In Progress” by a telemarketer.  HA!
 
I haven’t written because life has been busy and wonderful and difficult.  Much of this week’s stress revolved around getting shit done before we leave town tomorrow.  We’ll be at the farm, then the cabin, then round off the vacation with a day of Chicago site-seeing.
 
I’ll have the laptop with me, and now that I can check my work email from wherever I will probably make a point to grab some Internet here and there.  I have definitely felt some tension that I think writing would help, so perhaps I’ll get back on the ball of regular posts. 
 
If not, see you in September!

First, someone placed a voodoo curse on my internet connection.  Then, I had a what-am-I-going-to-do-with-myself crisis.

As one does on July 4th.  Or when they agree to forever link their life with another.

OK.  The scoop on the wedding:  There won’t be one!  TG, I was so looking forward to seeing you in a cape.  And Vegas will definitely happen sometime, so please keep practicing your lip curl.  But, we’re broke.  And both of us want a marriage – not the party that is so ingrained along with it.

(Not that I think there is anything wrong with fancy-schamcy weddings.   For you.  Please, have one and invite me!  Be sure it includes an open bar so ST will dance.)

In fact, you guys, sanctuary people because they are like family and would kill me if I kept it a secret, and my grandmother because she was having a really rough night and I was wracking my brain with gossip to occupy her, are the only ones that know about the ring.

We got the marriage license today.  If we get out of work early enough on Friday, we might pop down to the court then.

Truly, this is a marriage built on love, not romance.  Love and booze.  Love, booze, and the shared enjoyment of dirt and dirt-like substances.  Oh yeah, and animals.  I can’t believe how many freakin’ animals.  We might have to have kids just so the bipeds have a fair chance.

(No, we’re not having kids.  NO KIDS.)

So…if Friday happens, I’ll let you know.  Otherwise, it will be the next day we both have off.  His mom visits in two weeks, we’re visiting my family in a month.  It would be nice to have it done with so people won’t get any sort of party-planning-pants.

As soon as we made this all official, I had quite a meltdown about my life status.

I used school as an impetus to leave my old career.  And I have enjoyed it, but I’ve pretty much decided I would rather look for job in the field than apply to grad school.  At least see what’s out there.

But.  The whole no-condo-sale has put a big wrench things.  (Why is that a bad thing?  Wrenches are tools, isn’t that good?)

Financially, I haven’t been as stable as I planned.  Which now means ST is less financially stable than he planned.

It also has tied me to this area, which puts a big crimp in job searching.

To top everything off, I was supposed to take a class starting last week that I decided to drop.  I scanned the book, attended the first lecture, and knew in my heart of hearts it wasn’t related enough to field work to be worth the money.

This started me really doubting if staying in school was the right thing either.  Is aimlessly taking a class here and there really going to help things?

Well, I’ve decided for now the answer is yes.  A selective class here or there will help prepare me.  But there is no reason to take classes for the sake of a tuition bill and an A.  I’ll stick with the true ecology stuff, work more hours, and focus on the sanctuary.  I’ll also continue with the research – the hands-on stuff is probably my best resume stuffer.

Once the condo sells, the plan will be that I go straight into job-hunting mode.  If that doesn’t pan out, it’s back to being a poor graduate student.

And what does ST think of all this?  He thinks it’s great.  But of course, you know he was insane when he wanted to marry me.

I am very lucky in that ST met me right before the big changes in my life took place.  Our second date occurred the day I returned to the sanctuary.  Within two months, I was jobless and had two International plane tickets in my hand.

He has been prepared for this roller coaster since the beginning.  And he makes me feel I was too.

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.

Maybe the pock-mark wasn’t on his left sideburn.  Maybe it was on his nose.

But I’m almost positive it was from measles.  Right?  Measles?

How is it that things I obsessed over are now no more valid than fiction?

I once kept a draft post in my email account for over a year.  It was to a boy, of course.  I believe one I wanted more from and wasn’t getting it.  I remember feeling so scared and free when I finally deleted it.  But now I could not tell you a single word it contained.  Or even who it was for with 100% certainty.

This weekend, I was contacted by the past.  My very first real boyfriend from when I was in the 7th grade.

It was through a site set up for people to connect like that, although I’ve never had anyone do that.

He’s suggested we catch up.  In offering direct email communication, he used the word “addy”.

I don’t remember him that way.  I don’t remember him in words at all.  I remember smells and touch.  I remember light brown eyes.  A jean jacket that I would rest my head on.  His digital calculator watch that I wore that summer.

I used to be the kind of person who hung on to everyone and everything in my life.  In that, I am tempted to catch up.

But I’m also scared.  Not about the present, but about how direct contact would abscure the past.  How much of what I remember is completely wrong?  How many memories will get re-written?

ST and I were on the Busch Gardens tram, heading into the park.  I looked to my right, and there he was.  NB.  It had to be.  That gelled hair.  The pock-mark under his left side-burn.

So I smiled, at first to myself as he was with a beautiful and skinny blond.  Then I smiled at him after poking him in the shoulder.

He looked at me as if I was a stranger.

I took the sun glasses off.  “NB?”

“No.  Sorry.”

“Oops!”

On reflection, the hair was too blond.  And he did not walk with the right stance when I saw him leave the tram.  But that pock-mark sure had me going.

ST slung an arm around my back, “Sorry dear.  But you can’t have dated them all!”

I was perusing a myspace account of an old fling. I don’t know why. He was also a long-time friend, but the aftermath of the fling probably makes that verb-tense just. I’d just seen two other very close long-time mutual friends. Maybe that’s what put me in the mind to check in on him.

His profile says he’s single. And in his description (or one of those random thingies you put on myspace), he said he was getting over a crappy relationship. I’m either happy or ashamed that I have no idea if this relationship was the one I knew him last to be in, or if there have been others between. As a friend, definitely ashamed. As someone glad to not have more twists and turns in her life than she has road maps, I suppose it’s a little nice to know I’ve managed to let this one slip off the radar.

But, that’s not at all my point. Which of course you knew that if you knew me and understand exactly how many paragraphs I require in order to actually say anything.

A crappy relationship. It struck me because with him in particular, well, he’s the type of guy who is always getting over a crappy relationship. Except for the time when he’s in the relationship with someone who could be “the one”. It seems that once they’re over, all his relationships were crappy. Myself included, I’m well aware. Of course there were things to make it crappy. After all, we’re not still together anymore. He’s not still with this new ex-dame. If there were no downhill, there’d be no crap. But it puzzles me. Am I the only one who doesn’t hold grudges against exes? Am I alone in the thought that hey, we weren’t made for each other but that doesn’t make you a monster?

Yes. Some relationships were definite crap. Got birthday scars and memories of rocking on the kitchen floor while the phone was ringing to prove it to myself. But for the most part, I believe it’s just two cool people coming together who turned out to be not-quite right for each other. I mean, if I were to slander all my exes and call them scum, what does that say about my taste? I heart scum?

Why do so many people love to hate the ones they once loved?

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?