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I stumbled to the front bathroom upon waking, my commode being out of commission for now. Head filled with wool, all I could think, inexplicably, was "Pinch and punch, first of the month, rabbit-rabbit."
Inexplicable because I am not given to such superstitions and these two do not number among those superstitions to which I have been exposed in my circles, until recently.
The advent of social networking means I now see what other people do. That includes the utterances above, meant to what? Bring good luck for the month?
Mostly, why would I now start saying them?
Insanity, they say, is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome.
What is it when you rail against things over which you have no control, again and again?
A coworker frets as she ages and, in her perception, gets uglier. She has that shallow streak, yes, and is a victim of the beauty myth. Her reaction is to lash out against those who are younger and who mostly conform to the so-called standards of beauty.
She becomes embittered, vindictive. She eats herself up with envy and anger.
Is that a different sort of insanity?
He's done it. He made the transition.
The interesting part is how I act. I accept death. I'll get emotional when I pick up on other's emotions, and I have my moments of feeling loss, but when it comes to people dying my way of processing it goes more toward relief that the end has come
People don't understand this. They think my way of handling the death of a loved one is cold. They cry and don't understand why I do not.
We expected it. His dying was a trial. His death should be a relief.
I'll miss him.
Pink time. The man picked this phrase to mark a time of day and the introspective mood accompanying it, to remind him to think about the people he loves. It's his phrase for a deliberate, prayerful, reflective, outwardly focused period.
I thought about the Temple, time spent reflecting, not on myself, but on those few others who have needs that exceed my ability to provide. Where all I could do was offer my thoughts, my wishes for more peace along their trails.
Perhaps incorporating a bit of the Temple, a Pink Time, into my daily life would be good.
He has a 19 year old son with Asperger's. I get the impression they live together. Don't know where the mother is, but I'll learn that in time.
I knew a family with an Aspy - five at the time. I related well with the boy. We connected. I seemed to grasp his particular patterns, and fit neatly into his world. We spoke of butterflies and trains, his obsessions. He enjoyed teaching me. I find I am awkward around other people's children, but not this one.
This man loves his son. I wonder if he's had difficulty dating because of him.
I remember. Dimly, vaguely, half-shadowed. I think it was college, the early years. I tended toward the defensive, protecting myself, my honor, against unwanted flirtations by being overly snarky and rude.
I remember a particular young man who, in retrospect, probably found me attractive. His way of demonstrating this was to tease -- in that little boy fashion. I recall he had bad acne, which to me was off-putting. I remember him smacking me, hard, on the ass. Because it was funny.
I think I may have just set up a date with that man, 34 years later.
Back to my old schedule and it feels comfortable. Like coming home. I had to stop going to the gym following surgery for two weeks. I took advantage of that break to sleep later in the morning. When I resumed going, I decided to try going in the afternoons. I'd read it would improve sleep. So for two more weeks, I tried that new schedule.
Not only was my sleep not improved, but I found myself missing going to the gym. Too many interruptions after work that kept me from going.
Back to the morning schedule, then. Yay!
The company still sends flowers. Or makes a donation in memorium of the deceased. Which is nice. There is a church service, but no funeral home, no laying out of the body, and I'm pretty sure his wife wouldn't care if there were flowers from some massive corporation sitting in the church and needing disposal later. The donation is cool. She had colon cancer; I'll bet he would have approved of a donation to cancer research. He died after letting himself fail while struggling with pulmonary issues. I don't think there's a foundation for just letting go.
Is it too much to ask that the people who man IT Help desks understand the technology better than their customers do?
It usually takes me a dozen exchanges to get the team member in Hyderabad to grasp the problem, avoid telling me the problem is on my end, and then actually resolving it.
I gave them a simple request: change a setting by following these explicit directions. Instead of doing that, they told me they checked my settings and it looks fine, please check again.
Maybe it is a language problem, but I think it's that they're stupid.
There is a bridge; the air around it is gray and the water beneath it is gray -- the bridge a mottled gray. I see it in the photos, I see it in my mind's eye, memories that are anything but gray.
It is misty and chill. We drink hot mochas, then walk by colorful chickens pecking past freely, across a wooden bridge, pausing to look out across at the mottled gray one.
You pose for a snapshot, all self conscious grin. Your hair, you say, is wrong. I laugh, and I kiss you.
The sun opens wide in my heart.
There is a type of weariness that comes, not from exertion nor even lack of sleep, but rather from enduring emotional stress for too long a period. This that I am presently feeling is like that, yet cannot be blamed on that, as i have not truly undergone any emotional distress. Not yet. Not any worse than usual. It is, rather, a weariness born of anticipation. Knowing I will be in for a day of travel, listening to him kvetch, hearing his grousing, his contemplation of the inheritance he will receive. I should not dwell on this. Can't help it.
They had been best friends since childhood. John ended up falling in love with and marrying his friend's little sister. Through the years, they had seen one another through the best and the worst of times. When John fell ill, they joked about who would go first. They had a small bet. Seventy years after they had met, John, in his motorized scooter, oxygen bottle across his lap, wept as the man carefully lifted the container full of gray dust, lovingly pouring it into the hole dug in the garden. John wheeled forward, tossing a worn silver dollar in after.
And now it's done. This one. Some time, not too far away, there'll be another. It's what happens. Nothing we can do about it. Nothing we should do about it, anyway.
I was not a good daughter. I wasn't a terrible one, but I wasn't a good one, either. He would call me. "This is your father," would be his hello. I can hear it. "Something Stupid" played on the radio in the van on the way home. Yeah. Saying "I love you," should've been me, to dad, more than actually happened.
But. It's over.
The eyes are very blue. Not that gray blue that you see, but a fairly striking blue. No contact lenses, he swears. Thoughtful, careful in choosing the word he wants to use as he talks, I quickly grew used to the pauses in his speaking, and waited rather than trying to prompt him with the word I knew he wanted. He's smart. Widely read. A bit down on himself because he feels he's odd, and at odds with the world. That should be interesting to pry out.
His kisses are thoughtful and tender, too.
"Look at it! Ew!"
"It's been hurt. Do you think its mom knows?"
"I think a cat got it."
"Nah, a cat woulda eaten it, 'cept for the guts. Wonder how it got hurt?"
"I don't like it being hurt like that."
"What're you gonna do, fix it?"
"No. Gonna shoot it."
"Uh oh, don't let dad see you!"
"It'll be okay. It's only a b-b gun. Dad said it was okay to use it."
"Yow! Little guy screamed! That b-b just made it worse!"
"Dang. Shoot. Poor l'il ... Hey, hand me that rock!"
He's got to understand that he blew his chance with me. I've given him I don't know how many and when we got together this last time, as he assured me he was all better and had a handle on his meds, I told him this was it. If he blew this one, we were really done.
He blew it, back in July. I told him that was it. He was sad, but adjusted.
Except now, even while acknowledging we're not lovers and I owe him nothing, he mopes about how I don't send him chatty e-mails. Manipulating again.
We connect. That's so important. He's truly a nice person. He's quite smitten. Actually I think I'm getting used to men becoming smitten with me, even though that sounds like bragging. I'm just so choosy that when I do interact with them, they're already more than halfway smiteable.
There is, however, something I cannot put my finger on yet, that has me thinking this will end up being a pleasant, enjoyable, more-casual-than-intense relationship.
The difficulty I foresee is that he wants a "primary." I've already started salting that road; I'm not a "primary" kind of girl.
What I absolutely do not want is someone takes up more of my time than I am willing to give. If D2 shows up on my doorstep, shipping crate on a dolly behind him, I want to be able to pull him and his crate into the house and hug him to pieces without worrying about someone else feeling miffed.
'k, D1 would probably feel miffed and I'd worry about that, but that's a different thing to handle.
E may find it disappointing, but my heart is owned by the Ds. I don't think he'll move up into that category.
"I've been married for 39 years," said Mike, "but I tell everyone it feels like 40. My wife's got a sense of humor, too. When I toasted a groom at a wedding, I told him I hope his wife finds marriage as pleasurable as mine does, and my wife said 'oh no, I hope it's way better than that!'"
Being married didn't stop Mike from being a flirt, and we passed a pleasant 4 and a half hours swapping life stories. Sometimes I wish I had that magical ability to just start talking and making friends.
She cried out in the morning. We laughed with delight, hearing her. It was a bit arousing, in fact. There was an interesting pattern: Two loud cries, followed by a small whimper, pause, then repeat. We did not hear the rhythmic sounds we expected to accompany it. We did not hear a man's vocalizations. We also did not hear anything kinky, and I was a little disappointed with that, although I cannot tell you why. Last evening, she cried out again. Lucky girl! This time we heard the man as well. When they finished, we applauded. Hope they heard us!
I keep remembering why I don't come here that often. The company is terrific. The state, however? Humid. Flat. Buggy. Smells funny.
In spite of that, there are some gorgeous and amazing things to see. A tiny dark brown lizard with a dark pink throat thingie that he'd pop down and then back up again.
A big-ass mama 'gator and a dozen tiny baby gators.
A thin, long black snake.
Warped trees with long hanging tendrils, waxen flowers floating on water, and hilarious people for mocking
Still, I wonder what genius thought this was a good place to settle.
There's a special kind of peace that fills you when you're with a loved one and just kind of hanging out, doing nothing special, but thoroughly enjoying one another's company. It's especially wonderful when you are of like minds and don't have to work hard to communicate. You can sit quietly with one another, comfortable in the silence, and pleased with the conversation that does flow. I used to watch the old couples with envy, the handholding ones who seemed content with one another, just sitting quietly. Nothing frantic. No anger between them. It pleases me to know two such loves.
There's been so much change in the past year. I spent this holiday last year with my dad, knowing I had best spend some time with him before he left this world. He had not been ill, but the day before I was to arrive he was suddenly hospitalized with a heart failure. The beginning of his end. He never really recovered. I had just spent my customary time in the Keys, and it had been your first real taste of what it was like to share a love. Now my father is gone, and you are experiencing many loves.
"Blue Bloods" is not a show I watch, but he does. He has it on VHS -- no DVR here. It was the Thanksgiving episode and the elderly father has a heart attack. Don't want to spoil it if anyone watches it so stop reading now.
No worries, the dad pulls through and at the end as they're sitting down to dinner the son says he's glad his dad could make it and I started crying. Didn't think mine would, and he didn't. Didn't think it would bother me, but it hit me and so I cried.
I used to have to hide when I communicated with my lover, because just seeing me email made the ex unhappy. I grew used to the stealth. Last year my lover taught me that I don't have to hide. What peace and happiness it brings me to be fully open, fully honest! I learned, as well, that I need not feel guilty when I find myself thinking of you even though he is sitting just over there. I did think of you, your journey, your happiness. I thought of us, too, a lot. I am eager to be with you.
Travel day. In the past, I would spend 10 days which included 2 travel, but found myself chafing and wanting to go home again before the 10 days were over. This time it was 8. I could feel the very fringes of the eagerness to get home. I know he felt regret at my leaving, but I did not. I was happy. Contented. Sated.
It was a good time - perhaps the best aside from the initial "honeymoon" visit. Perhaps it helped that we had seen more of one another throughout the year than in previous years.
For a day of rest, it was a purely busy one. The note of interest is the degree of eagerness E had to see me. Picked me up at the airport (I cancelled the shuttle reservation) and while I was pleased to see him, and even invited him in, I made my tiredness clear. No worries, as I indicated the days I'd be available to see him again this coming week. He chose today, and we bicycled in the desert, setting a good pace, riding 10 miles round trip, with a break between. We went to dinner. The talk was good.
He's deep into NRE. I am not quite so much, although I enjoy his company, hearing his thoughts. I enjoy his obvious adoration, emphasized by repeated exclamations of admiration.
He is practical, rational, and unburdened by baggage. He has vast experience with a variety of women. I suspect that if I am unable to meet his emotional needs in the long run, he will be able to move on with very little drama.
Already, however, he is anticipating feelings of jealousy when you come to visit, although he felt none such when I was in Florida.
Serenity fills me to overflowing. I pause to acknowledge just how amazingly blessed -- or if the word "blessing" conjures up bad connotations for you, then use "fortunate" -- my life has been.
I strive, in my small ways, to reach outward with what I feel deep inside of me, and share some of it. I wish all could feel as I do, this balance, this peace, this love.
What a large part of this has been you, from you, and through you!
Yes, the other, too, absolutely. But you. You enabled this. Thank you.
She's been gray about the muzzle for a couple of years now, but it seems to have spread into the face. I see it in large breed dogs, usually when they hit around the age of 8 or 9 years. This one probably qualifies as "small", being around 45 lbs -- maybe medium -- and she's only four years of age. She was born with pancreatic insufficiency. This manifested before she was a year old. I wonder if this might be shortening her lifespan. She's got character. No matter when she goes, I will miss her sorely. I hope she lives long.
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