What's the best way to get back at an accountant? No, it's not the start of a joke. I'd REALLY like to know. Sneak into his office and steal all the lead from his mechanical pencils? Reset his calculator to flash "H E L L O" with upside-down numbers whenever he hits the add button? I found out today that a guy in accounts payable has been sitting on checks for invoices from the entire month of June because, as he snapped to an assistant inquiring about payment for a broke editor in Indiana, he was "too busy" to sign them.
TOO BUSY. Why, what a brilliant and reasonable excuse! The next time I have a deadline, I'll just explain that I'm TOO BUSY to meet it. I'm sure everyone will understand, and it's not as though me missing a little ol' deadline will affect anyone else. The next time my water bill is due, I'll just drop the water company a note and say I'm TOO BUSY to pay my bill. Shouldn't be a problem.
TOO BUSY, my ass. Harrumph!
Let's see, what else is chapping my hide lately? Oh. Last night, Kevin complimented my appearance, and I said "Thanks" politely and tried to change the subject. Awkward, right? Apparently not awkward enough, as he went on to say he's accepted that he's "entering a period of celibacy." 1) That's related how, exactly? and b) Am I supposed to apologize? I pointed out that he could certainly date, and he said, "Anyone else is going to be substandard compared to you." What utter hooey. Also, I have no idea how to respond to that comment, and given the situation, I don't see how I could have felt anything but uncomfortable. But wait! There's more! He remarked, "It's going to be a lot easier for you. You could just throw a rock out the door and hit someone better than me."
Ah, the time-honored tradition of stoning the object of your affections to get his attention. Good idea! Also? The man has a point, but I was too nice to say so. I tried to laugh it off with a joke about trying it on the strange elderly man who walks his chihuahua past the house every day and coos baby-talk to his dog and added, "Hey, you know I've had my eye on him for ages!"
How long is it until the first weekend in August??
Monday, July 12, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Greg, WordPad is much better--thanks! I guess Blogger has decided it hates .doc files now.
Yes, I had too much caffeine Friday night. I never thought I'd say "too much" and "caffeine" together in the same sentence, but I think I'm going to have to switch to decaffeinated for making iced tea. I cannot tell you how much I hate admitting that I can't handle mass quantities of caffeine as easily as I used to. I can still ingest more than the average bear but not nearly as much as in the past. When I get over my limit, not only do I type very, very fast, but also my heart starts pounding. I almost typed "I start getting heart palpitations," but Jebus, that makes me sound frail and old. Anyway, after finally getting my heart rate to a reasonable level after last year's scary high, I should endeavor to keep it there, right?
Good news: Kevin's been moving stuff to the storage unit he rented last week, and his scary man-cave is starting to empty out. Here's the even better news: He told me this morning that he'll be out the first weekend in August. His family reunion is that weekend, so he plans to take everything that's going in the truck up that Friday--and he's not coming back at the end of the reunion. Did I hear a collective sigh of relief?
He thinks I'm being generous by giving him so much furniture and other stuff (including a TV and DVD player), but I don't need to correct his impression by telling him I'm not that freakin' generous; I just want to get rid of a lot before I move. Integrating my crap and Ed's stuff is going to be enough of a challenge without me bringing along tons o' things I don't need. I'm a little nervous about how this "Yours, Mine, and Ours" thing is going to work. I told Ed the other day that I've never lived with anyone who already had all his stuff in place. I keep thinking of that scene in When Harry Met Sally, when Carrie Fisher is arguing with Bruno Kirby about whether his wagon-wheel coffee table stays. I'm a little worried that EVERYthing is going to be a wagon-wheel coffee table. Anyone ever been in this situation before? I could use some advice--or just tell me to calm the hell down.
Yes, I had too much caffeine Friday night. I never thought I'd say "too much" and "caffeine" together in the same sentence, but I think I'm going to have to switch to decaffeinated for making iced tea. I cannot tell you how much I hate admitting that I can't handle mass quantities of caffeine as easily as I used to. I can still ingest more than the average bear but not nearly as much as in the past. When I get over my limit, not only do I type very, very fast, but also my heart starts pounding. I almost typed "I start getting heart palpitations," but Jebus, that makes me sound frail and old. Anyway, after finally getting my heart rate to a reasonable level after last year's scary high, I should endeavor to keep it there, right?
Good news: Kevin's been moving stuff to the storage unit he rented last week, and his scary man-cave is starting to empty out. Here's the even better news: He told me this morning that he'll be out the first weekend in August. His family reunion is that weekend, so he plans to take everything that's going in the truck up that Friday--and he's not coming back at the end of the reunion. Did I hear a collective sigh of relief?
He thinks I'm being generous by giving him so much furniture and other stuff (including a TV and DVD player), but I don't need to correct his impression by telling him I'm not that freakin' generous; I just want to get rid of a lot before I move. Integrating my crap and Ed's stuff is going to be enough of a challenge without me bringing along tons o' things I don't need. I'm a little nervous about how this "Yours, Mine, and Ours" thing is going to work. I told Ed the other day that I've never lived with anyone who already had all his stuff in place. I keep thinking of that scene in When Harry Met Sally, when Carrie Fisher is arguing with Bruno Kirby about whether his wagon-wheel coffee table stays. I'm a little worried that EVERYthing is going to be a wagon-wheel coffee table. Anyone ever been in this situation before? I could use some advice--or just tell me to calm the hell down.
Friday, July 9, 2010
I'm feeling much too scattered tonight to relate any sort of coherent story, so I'm just putting down some random thoughts. Anyone who makes it to the end of this entry gets a MAJOR PRIZE labeled "Fra-gee-lay."
I've been knitting a lot the past few years and have been on a sock kick for a while. I like knitting socks because I can finish them quickly, and sock yarn is bee-yoo-ti-ful. I have about a dozen pairs now in a variety of colors and patterns, and I love 'em. A little while ago, I was working on a sock in subtle variegated shades of violet and remembered a remark Celeste made about not having to deal with snow after I move to Georgia. Suddenly, I thought, "What the HELL am I going to do with handknit socks in an almost tropical climate??" It might get cold-ish there, but cold enough for wool socks? Gah, maybe I should raffle off all my socks. Oh, and Ed doesn't live in Savannah; he's about an hour away. I can't tell you exactly where he lives because then I'd have to kill you, and let's face it: I'm too lazy to do that.
You know the woman in the Columbia Pictures logo, at the beginning of movies? She looks just like Annette Bening. Go look, if you don't believe me.
Why won't Blogger accept entries I write in Word anymore? I tried pasting in a Word file, and Blogger just about had a hissy fit, flagging every other line as "invalid HTML," which kind of hurt my feelings. Now I have to write entries in Notepad, and I loathe Notepad. The lines wrap oddly, and the font is too tiny for my geezer eyes.
Today the rental inspector came over. I decided Kevin could deal with her and escaped to the grocery store because it makes me uncomfortable to have a strange woman poking around my house. I feel compelled to follow her around in case she gets the notion to inspect my unmentionables, too. When I got home, Kevin had to report in exhaustive detail everything she said, including numerous stories about her bazillion dogs. When he got to the story about her Pomeranian's eye POPPING OUT of its socket and the vet shoving it back in, I finally rebelled and said, "No more dog stories!" Jesus Christ, I did not need to know about that poor dog's eye.
Hey, I just figured out how to make the font bigger in Notepad. I'm SUCH a genius.
A few weeks ago, I had to get my new glasses adjusted because they kept slipping down my nose. I've never had that problem before because I have a freakishly large head. I mentioned this fact to the woman adjusting my glasses, and she asked whether I'd lost weight recently. I said yes, and she said, "Well, you know people lose weight from the top down, so maybe your head is smaller now." OK, first, who are these freaks who lose weight in their HEADS? And second, I don't think her theory is right. If it is, it's not working on me. I went down a half shoe size before my waist got smaller, and the last time I checked, my feet are below my waist. Also, I'm still wearing the same cup size in bras, so my boobs haven't gotten the memo about the top-down strategy, either.
Funniest typo ever (seen in a comment on a blog): "triads" for "tirades." Now three times as indignant! I like it.
I didn't get a lot of pictures while I was in Savannah because I kept forgetting to take my camera with me. Someone (ahem) did manage to get one picture of me early enough in the day that I wasn't too hot and sweaty yet, so I'm slapping it up and calling this an entry. It was taken in Monterey Square, where Mercer House is. No laughing at my freakishly large head!
I've been knitting a lot the past few years and have been on a sock kick for a while. I like knitting socks because I can finish them quickly, and sock yarn is bee-yoo-ti-ful. I have about a dozen pairs now in a variety of colors and patterns, and I love 'em. A little while ago, I was working on a sock in subtle variegated shades of violet and remembered a remark Celeste made about not having to deal with snow after I move to Georgia. Suddenly, I thought, "What the HELL am I going to do with handknit socks in an almost tropical climate??" It might get cold-ish there, but cold enough for wool socks? Gah, maybe I should raffle off all my socks. Oh, and Ed doesn't live in Savannah; he's about an hour away. I can't tell you exactly where he lives because then I'd have to kill you, and let's face it: I'm too lazy to do that.
You know the woman in the Columbia Pictures logo, at the beginning of movies? She looks just like Annette Bening. Go look, if you don't believe me.
Why won't Blogger accept entries I write in Word anymore? I tried pasting in a Word file, and Blogger just about had a hissy fit, flagging every other line as "invalid HTML," which kind of hurt my feelings. Now I have to write entries in Notepad, and I loathe Notepad. The lines wrap oddly, and the font is too tiny for my geezer eyes.
Today the rental inspector came over. I decided Kevin could deal with her and escaped to the grocery store because it makes me uncomfortable to have a strange woman poking around my house. I feel compelled to follow her around in case she gets the notion to inspect my unmentionables, too. When I got home, Kevin had to report in exhaustive detail everything she said, including numerous stories about her bazillion dogs. When he got to the story about her Pomeranian's eye POPPING OUT of its socket and the vet shoving it back in, I finally rebelled and said, "No more dog stories!" Jesus Christ, I did not need to know about that poor dog's eye.
Hey, I just figured out how to make the font bigger in Notepad. I'm SUCH a genius.
A few weeks ago, I had to get my new glasses adjusted because they kept slipping down my nose. I've never had that problem before because I have a freakishly large head. I mentioned this fact to the woman adjusting my glasses, and she asked whether I'd lost weight recently. I said yes, and she said, "Well, you know people lose weight from the top down, so maybe your head is smaller now." OK, first, who are these freaks who lose weight in their HEADS? And second, I don't think her theory is right. If it is, it's not working on me. I went down a half shoe size before my waist got smaller, and the last time I checked, my feet are below my waist. Also, I'm still wearing the same cup size in bras, so my boobs haven't gotten the memo about the top-down strategy, either.
Funniest typo ever (seen in a comment on a blog): "triads" for "tirades." Now three times as indignant! I like it.
I didn't get a lot of pictures while I was in Savannah because I kept forgetting to take my camera with me. Someone (ahem) did manage to get one picture of me early enough in the day that I wasn't too hot and sweaty yet, so I'm slapping it up and calling this an entry. It was taken in Monterey Square, where Mercer House is. No laughing at my freakishly large head!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
What's Going On (with apologies to Marvin Gaye)
So where was I before I got caught up in all this kissing folderol? Something about explaining my current situation, reactions to it, and so forth. I've said, I think, that the breakup with Kevin has been coming on for years. It took me a long time to realize I was unhappy. When you're so unhappy for so long, however, I think remembering what happiness feels like is hard. Realizing I didn't respect Kevin anymore took me even longer; as a matter of fact, it wasn't until I typed those words--"I don't respect him anymore"--in an e-mail to a friend that it really hit me. How could I have any respect for a man who sat around all day watching the Weather Channel and porn while I worked 10 to 12 hours every day--EVERY GODDAMN DAY--trying to keep things afloat? Sure, he had occasional DJ gigs and art fairs, but most of what little money he made went to sporadic child support payments. Not that I didn't want his kids to get the money, but I desperately needed a little support (financial and emotional), too, and I sure as hell wasn't getting any.
Lest it sound as though all my concerns were financial, his lack of employment was only a small part of the picture. What bothered me more was his complete lack of interest in me. If someone held a gun to his head, he wouldn't be able to recall the name of a single author or co-worker I talked about or describe what I do for a living, other than "edit books." He knew nothing about what worried me, what I dreamed of for the future, what memories haunted me--and he never asked. Conversations with him--or rather, attempts at conversations--were the oddest experiences I've ever had. I'd try to tell him something, and it was like shouting into a vacuum. Nothing. No response, no follow-up questions, no facial expression. Just... blankness. The only time he got animated in conversations was when he was holding forth on a topic: relating in excruciating detail something he read, reporting what he saw on the news, and the like. He didn't want to hear what I thought, either; actually, he got irritated if I "interrupted" with my reaction or opinion. I don't know whether it was self-centeredness, a complete lack of curiosity in other people, or just ME. Whatever it was, it got worse and more frustrating to deal with.
I mentioned his increasingly bad temper a few entries ago, but I can't pinpoint when it started getting worse. I always knew he had a short fuse, but his fits of temper got more intense, and trying to predict what would set them off became almost impossible. His rage was almost always completely out of proportion to the situation. The screaming, stomping around, and throwing things were bad enough, but when his rage was more directed at me, it was terrifying. I'm too embarrassed to list the names he called me and the hurtful things he said to me, but I'll never forget them or the more physical expressions of his anger.
You're probably wondering how I got into this situation. I claim to be a smart woman, so what's my problem? All I can say is that no one sets out to be treated this way. No one wakes up one morning and thinks, "Hey, today I'd like someone to shatter my self-esteem!" No one wants to be called hateful names or have their feelings ignored. When changes are gradual, they're harder to notice, and then one day you're being knocked across the garage, and when you land, you think, "How the hell did THAT happen?"
When I told Kevin I wanted to break up, my first words were "I can't do this anymore." I talked for a long time about how I'd been feeling and tried to explain the depth of my exhaustion and frustration. His first reaction? "So you're kicking me out? Where am I supposed to go?" Self-centered to the very end! He's nothing if not consistent. I suggested a few possibilities: his sister, his mother (who's in her 80s and alone and really needs someone living with her), a nearby friend who's looking for a roommate. He was furious that I mentioned his sister and mother and accused me of trying to get him out of town. Yeah, AND?
I might have known he'd have little trouble finding someone else to leech on to. He's moving in with his cousin, who lives about 45 minutes away. (So I am getting him out of town! Whoo!) His cousin, Dramatic Sam (DS), is ill and needs a live-in caregiver as well as help running an educational foundation he started. The plan is that he'll pay Kevin for his help, and because Kevin won't have living expenses, he'll be able to save money and look for a full-time job. That's the theory, anyway. Kevin informed me that he and DS had decided he'd move up there in October. OCTOBER. I was stunned and knew there was no way in hell I'd make it through FOUR MORE MONTHS of living with him. DS's brother, who doesn't like Kevin, is doing some repairs on DS's house, and DS has worked up a melodramatic scenario in which his brother finds out Kevin's moving in there and refuses to do the repairs. Whatever. NOT MY PROBLEM. I finally extracted from Kevin the information that the repairs are being done in July, and then stated he could be out in August, and I wasn't in the mood to grant any extensions.
Of course, this conversation was replete with screaming and name-calling and making threats, but through it all, I kept repeating, "You have to be out of here in August." I sounded like a broken record. (Ancient reference. For you kids, records were what music came on before CDs and MP3s, and sometimes.... Oh, never mind. Google it, you young'uns.)
I'd been hoping to have a month or two here to myself to pack and just enjoy the peace and quiet, but that's not likely to happen now. I haven't quite figured out what to do about the packing timeline; it's not going to be the organized, somewhat leisurely affair I'd hoped for. I'm juggling an insane workload right now, too, so I guess I'm going to wind up tossing things into boxes willy-nilly a few days before the actual moving day. I suppose I could start packing now, but Kevin doesn't know about Ed or my move, and I think it's prudent to maintain his "in the dark" state for now. I'm rather fond of my own delicate, Southern belle hide and would like to keep it intact. Both Daniel and Ed have offered to give Kevin a smackdown, and much as I'd love to watch that with a big bowl of popcorn in my lap, I like both of 'em too much to want them to wind up in jail for assault. On the other hand, I could make a boatload of money selling tickets for admission, couldn't I?
Oh, one thing (besides Ed, of course) that's been keeping my spirits up this week: I'm having lunch with Celeste next Tuesday! I could use a good, healthy dose of Funny Lady, and she's just the woman to deliver it. :)
Lest it sound as though all my concerns were financial, his lack of employment was only a small part of the picture. What bothered me more was his complete lack of interest in me. If someone held a gun to his head, he wouldn't be able to recall the name of a single author or co-worker I talked about or describe what I do for a living, other than "edit books." He knew nothing about what worried me, what I dreamed of for the future, what memories haunted me--and he never asked. Conversations with him--or rather, attempts at conversations--were the oddest experiences I've ever had. I'd try to tell him something, and it was like shouting into a vacuum. Nothing. No response, no follow-up questions, no facial expression. Just... blankness. The only time he got animated in conversations was when he was holding forth on a topic: relating in excruciating detail something he read, reporting what he saw on the news, and the like. He didn't want to hear what I thought, either; actually, he got irritated if I "interrupted" with my reaction or opinion. I don't know whether it was self-centeredness, a complete lack of curiosity in other people, or just ME. Whatever it was, it got worse and more frustrating to deal with.
I mentioned his increasingly bad temper a few entries ago, but I can't pinpoint when it started getting worse. I always knew he had a short fuse, but his fits of temper got more intense, and trying to predict what would set them off became almost impossible. His rage was almost always completely out of proportion to the situation. The screaming, stomping around, and throwing things were bad enough, but when his rage was more directed at me, it was terrifying. I'm too embarrassed to list the names he called me and the hurtful things he said to me, but I'll never forget them or the more physical expressions of his anger.
You're probably wondering how I got into this situation. I claim to be a smart woman, so what's my problem? All I can say is that no one sets out to be treated this way. No one wakes up one morning and thinks, "Hey, today I'd like someone to shatter my self-esteem!" No one wants to be called hateful names or have their feelings ignored. When changes are gradual, they're harder to notice, and then one day you're being knocked across the garage, and when you land, you think, "How the hell did THAT happen?"
When I told Kevin I wanted to break up, my first words were "I can't do this anymore." I talked for a long time about how I'd been feeling and tried to explain the depth of my exhaustion and frustration. His first reaction? "So you're kicking me out? Where am I supposed to go?" Self-centered to the very end! He's nothing if not consistent. I suggested a few possibilities: his sister, his mother (who's in her 80s and alone and really needs someone living with her), a nearby friend who's looking for a roommate. He was furious that I mentioned his sister and mother and accused me of trying to get him out of town. Yeah, AND?
I might have known he'd have little trouble finding someone else to leech on to. He's moving in with his cousin, who lives about 45 minutes away. (So I am getting him out of town! Whoo!) His cousin, Dramatic Sam (DS), is ill and needs a live-in caregiver as well as help running an educational foundation he started. The plan is that he'll pay Kevin for his help, and because Kevin won't have living expenses, he'll be able to save money and look for a full-time job. That's the theory, anyway. Kevin informed me that he and DS had decided he'd move up there in October. OCTOBER. I was stunned and knew there was no way in hell I'd make it through FOUR MORE MONTHS of living with him. DS's brother, who doesn't like Kevin, is doing some repairs on DS's house, and DS has worked up a melodramatic scenario in which his brother finds out Kevin's moving in there and refuses to do the repairs. Whatever. NOT MY PROBLEM. I finally extracted from Kevin the information that the repairs are being done in July, and then stated he could be out in August, and I wasn't in the mood to grant any extensions.
Of course, this conversation was replete with screaming and name-calling and making threats, but through it all, I kept repeating, "You have to be out of here in August." I sounded like a broken record. (Ancient reference. For you kids, records were what music came on before CDs and MP3s, and sometimes.... Oh, never mind. Google it, you young'uns.)
I'd been hoping to have a month or two here to myself to pack and just enjoy the peace and quiet, but that's not likely to happen now. I haven't quite figured out what to do about the packing timeline; it's not going to be the organized, somewhat leisurely affair I'd hoped for. I'm juggling an insane workload right now, too, so I guess I'm going to wind up tossing things into boxes willy-nilly a few days before the actual moving day. I suppose I could start packing now, but Kevin doesn't know about Ed or my move, and I think it's prudent to maintain his "in the dark" state for now. I'm rather fond of my own delicate, Southern belle hide and would like to keep it intact. Both Daniel and Ed have offered to give Kevin a smackdown, and much as I'd love to watch that with a big bowl of popcorn in my lap, I like both of 'em too much to want them to wind up in jail for assault. On the other hand, I could make a boatload of money selling tickets for admission, couldn't I?
Oh, one thing (besides Ed, of course) that's been keeping my spirits up this week: I'm having lunch with Celeste next Tuesday! I could use a good, healthy dose of Funny Lady, and she's just the woman to deliver it. :)
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
A Kiss Isn't Always Just a Kiss
In my previous entry, I promised to tell Ed's version of our first kiss. I'm a little reluctant to do so because it will ruin my reputation as a good girl and an arbiter of morality and... *snort*. Yeah, okay. Who am I kidding? However, keep in mind that at the time, I was very inexperienced and innocent. My dating/kissing experiences before that time consisted of 1) an older boy of 16 who tried to ram his tongue down my throat at a church sleep-over for the youth group when I was 13, 2) the editor of the school newspaper, a senior and, therefore, impressive to a sophomore, who invited me to a movie and attempted to climb on top of me in his car right in front of the theater, and 3) another senior from a nearby school who took me to see The Tamarind Seed and kept trying to stick his tongue in my ear and his hand up my shirt when all I wanted to do was sigh dreamily over Omar Sharif. So I was dubious about this kissing thang and a little wary, especially of Older Men.
Now, I didn't remember this story AT ALL, but one of the things I adore about Ed is that he remembers exactly what I was like as a teenager. Talking to him after all these years has been like getting little pieces of my history back. All right, I've delayed long enough. Our first kiss went like this: We'd skated for a while and were sitting and talking. Ed claims I moved in for a kiss, but he'd recently gotten over mono and was worried about passing it on to me, so he pulled back. Yes, the dreaded Pull-Back. We talked a little more, and I repeated the move, with the same result. (I have to state, for the record, that I'm shocked--shocked, I tell you--that I made not one move, but TWO.) Ed was worried about what I was might be thinking about his avoidance tactics, so he confessed that he'd had mono. Without missing a beat or batting an eyelash, I blurted out, "Oh, it's all right. I've already had mono."
TOTAL LIE. I'm afraid that I was not only a complete and utter hussy, but also a little liar lips. Hey, it worked, though. Ed wasted no time in testing my theory on immunity and repeating the test several times to ensure valid results. Scientific method, you know. I changed my opinion about kissing and decided it was my new favorite activity. That experience also showed me that older men could be a lot of fun, especially when they had a little finesse about the whole thing.
Of course, I was mortified when Ed told me this story. I'm still bewildered by my forwardness. I'd NEVER acted that way before, and I don't think I've ever been that forward with anyone else since. Ed says he loved it, though, and I have to say, he did respond rather favorably to it. Even now, I'm a lot bolder with him than I usually am with men. I'm not sure why, but I think it has something to do with trust. Well, and people are more likely to repeat behavior when they get a positive reaction, and Ed's downright delighted when I'm forward.
At 15, I thought he was the best kisser in the world, and over the years, other kisses never quite measured up to my memories of him. I kept telling myself that was silly, and I was remembering him through a romantic haze and all that. I tried to be sensible and realistic. When we were making plans to meet in Savannah, I couldn't help thinking about it, however. The entire, seemingly endless day of flying to Charlotte, waiting through a two-hour layover, and finally flying to Savannah, I kept wondering whether I'd feel the same way when he kissed me again. When he finally did, all the wondering was over: I did feel the same way. After thirty-five years, that seems like a miracle to me. I wish I could explain it better, but the best I can do is to say his lips fit mine perfectly, and I'd be happy to never kiss any lips but those for the rest of my life.
I'd planned to write more about Daniel's reaction to all this and what the current situation with Kevin's living arrangements are and try to answer questions some people had in the comments, but clearly I have kissing on the brain tonight, and that's about all I can focus on. I'll get to the practical stuff in the next entry. Oh, and I'm also thinking I should change the name of this blog to reflect the apparent loss of my sarcasm. What can I say? I'm too happy to be cynical! How about "Finding Love at Fifty: All Sentimental Hoo-ha, All the Time"? OK, maybe I haven't completely lost my edge. :)
Now, I didn't remember this story AT ALL, but one of the things I adore about Ed is that he remembers exactly what I was like as a teenager. Talking to him after all these years has been like getting little pieces of my history back. All right, I've delayed long enough. Our first kiss went like this: We'd skated for a while and were sitting and talking. Ed claims I moved in for a kiss, but he'd recently gotten over mono and was worried about passing it on to me, so he pulled back. Yes, the dreaded Pull-Back. We talked a little more, and I repeated the move, with the same result. (I have to state, for the record, that I'm shocked--shocked, I tell you--that I made not one move, but TWO.) Ed was worried about what I was might be thinking about his avoidance tactics, so he confessed that he'd had mono. Without missing a beat or batting an eyelash, I blurted out, "Oh, it's all right. I've already had mono."
TOTAL LIE. I'm afraid that I was not only a complete and utter hussy, but also a little liar lips. Hey, it worked, though. Ed wasted no time in testing my theory on immunity and repeating the test several times to ensure valid results. Scientific method, you know. I changed my opinion about kissing and decided it was my new favorite activity. That experience also showed me that older men could be a lot of fun, especially when they had a little finesse about the whole thing.
Of course, I was mortified when Ed told me this story. I'm still bewildered by my forwardness. I'd NEVER acted that way before, and I don't think I've ever been that forward with anyone else since. Ed says he loved it, though, and I have to say, he did respond rather favorably to it. Even now, I'm a lot bolder with him than I usually am with men. I'm not sure why, but I think it has something to do with trust. Well, and people are more likely to repeat behavior when they get a positive reaction, and Ed's downright delighted when I'm forward.
At 15, I thought he was the best kisser in the world, and over the years, other kisses never quite measured up to my memories of him. I kept telling myself that was silly, and I was remembering him through a romantic haze and all that. I tried to be sensible and realistic. When we were making plans to meet in Savannah, I couldn't help thinking about it, however. The entire, seemingly endless day of flying to Charlotte, waiting through a two-hour layover, and finally flying to Savannah, I kept wondering whether I'd feel the same way when he kissed me again. When he finally did, all the wondering was over: I did feel the same way. After thirty-five years, that seems like a miracle to me. I wish I could explain it better, but the best I can do is to say his lips fit mine perfectly, and I'd be happy to never kiss any lips but those for the rest of my life.
I'd planned to write more about Daniel's reaction to all this and what the current situation with Kevin's living arrangements are and try to answer questions some people had in the comments, but clearly I have kissing on the brain tonight, and that's about all I can focus on. I'll get to the practical stuff in the next entry. Oh, and I'm also thinking I should change the name of this blog to reflect the apparent loss of my sarcasm. What can I say? I'm too happy to be cynical! How about "Finding Love at Fifty: All Sentimental Hoo-ha, All the Time"? OK, maybe I haven't completely lost my edge. :)
What I've Been Up To: Part II
Now for the happy part: I'm in love, and I'm moving to Georgia. It's a rather long story, but I'll try to condense it for you. In March, I had a sudden urge to look up my first boyfriend, Ed. I dated him in 1975 and 1976, when I was 15 and 16. For those of you who can do math, that was thirty-five years ago. Yes, I yam old. While we were dating, he went into the Army; we wrote lots of letters because, you know, no e-mail back then (gasp). Eventually, we drifted apart, but there was never a definitive break-up, no bitterness, no hard feelings. As a matter of fact, I thought of him often and fondly. Every time I saw a guy with strawberry-blond hair wearing a plaid flannel shirt, my heart beat a little faster.
I met him at a roller-skating rink in February, 1975, when he asked me out for a moonlight skate. He was one of the cool guys who could actually skate backward, and my little 15-year-old self was thrilled. Hard as it might be to believe, I was rather shy back then, but I had no trouble talking to him. Later, we wound up making out in his car in the parking lot, until my mommy came to pick me up. Talk about humiliating! I was sure I'd never hear from him again because he was cool and 19, but I did. I'd kissed a few boys before that, and had a few dates with guys who did an excellent impression of an octopus, but I'd never felt like that before. The minute he put his arms around me, I felt as though I'd come home, after being away for a long, long time. As new-agey as it sounds, I even felt as though I recognized him. (Ed has a slightly different memory of our first kiss that I'll write about in my next entry; I'm a little embarrassed because it shows what a complete hussy I was with him.)
Memories can be deceiving, I know, but I never did find anyone who had all the qualities I loved in Ed. Some had his intelligence, some had his wit, some had his initiative, some had his playfulness, but none were Ed. Quite simply, I never fell out of love with him. Near the end of my marriage, when things got so bad, thinking about him gave me the guts I needed to tell The Ex "I'm done." So one night back in March, I tried to look him up on Google. The only link that had possibilities was at Classmates.com, and I left a message with my e-mail address for him there. I wasn't sure he'd remember me, however.
He did. Two days later, I got an e-mail, starting with "Lisa, Lisa, Lisa," which is the way he used to start so many of his letters to me. Even better, there were no misspellings, no mistakes in grammar or punctuation. Most of you will realize how much that meant to me. I tell you, my heart fluttered with joy. Hey, I have my priorities! We started e-mailing regularly, once a day at first, but soon two or three times a day. I think we made an honest attempt at keeping things friendly, but it was clear pretty fast that we both still had feelings for each other. After a few weeks, we talked on the phone, and although I was so nervous I could hardly breathe, I calmed down right away when I heard his voice. It was a little deeper than I remembered, but in so many ways, he still sounded like the Ed I remembered. My Ed. I don't normally like chatting on the phone very much, but with him, I could talk easily and, apparently, forever. Two hours on the phone with him seemed like only minutes.
Before I make you all hurl by waxing eloquent about how wonderful he is (see how considerate I am? but he is wonderful and sweet and sexy), I'll fast-forward to June 18, when I met him in Savannah for a four-day weekend. I was taking a chance because I'm not immune to the allure of all the Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil atmosphere; Savannah's a beautiful city and one of the most romantic places I've ever seen. I could have been in Peoria and still been as happy, however.
A few years ago, I read that when you see people you knew many years ago, after the initial surprise of realizing they've gotten older, you stop seeing the changes and see the people you used to know. Whoever wrote that was describing a high school reunion, but I had the same reaction. Of course Ed's older. I do know that, and hell, I'VE certainly gotten older. None of it mattered. I still saw my Ed: my first love, the man I never got over. In all the important ways, he's the same, and the ways in which he's changed are for the better. He still makes me feel loved and cherished in a way no one else has ever come close to.
I considered writing about how Ed is an improvement over Kevin, but that's not the real (or only) reason I love him. It's enough to say that they're so different they could be entirely separate species. Making occasional comparisons is inevitable and natural, but I'd rather not focus on them. Yes, I believe Ed's a better person, but more important, he's better for me.
To make a long story short (or as short as I'm capable of, being a long-winded girl), I'm moving to Georgia soon, where he lives now. No, he can't move here because he has a J-O-B, unlike some men who shall rename nameless. Ahem. My job's extremely portable. Yep, I'm going to be rash and impulsive and imprudent and all that, but it feels more right than anything I've ever done. Despite the frustration and annoyance and occasional fear going on while Kevin's here, I'm happier and more hopeful than I've been in what seems like forever. About damn time, huh?
I met him at a roller-skating rink in February, 1975, when he asked me out for a moonlight skate. He was one of the cool guys who could actually skate backward, and my little 15-year-old self was thrilled. Hard as it might be to believe, I was rather shy back then, but I had no trouble talking to him. Later, we wound up making out in his car in the parking lot, until my mommy came to pick me up. Talk about humiliating! I was sure I'd never hear from him again because he was cool and 19, but I did. I'd kissed a few boys before that, and had a few dates with guys who did an excellent impression of an octopus, but I'd never felt like that before. The minute he put his arms around me, I felt as though I'd come home, after being away for a long, long time. As new-agey as it sounds, I even felt as though I recognized him. (Ed has a slightly different memory of our first kiss that I'll write about in my next entry; I'm a little embarrassed because it shows what a complete hussy I was with him.)
Memories can be deceiving, I know, but I never did find anyone who had all the qualities I loved in Ed. Some had his intelligence, some had his wit, some had his initiative, some had his playfulness, but none were Ed. Quite simply, I never fell out of love with him. Near the end of my marriage, when things got so bad, thinking about him gave me the guts I needed to tell The Ex "I'm done." So one night back in March, I tried to look him up on Google. The only link that had possibilities was at Classmates.com, and I left a message with my e-mail address for him there. I wasn't sure he'd remember me, however.
He did. Two days later, I got an e-mail, starting with "Lisa, Lisa, Lisa," which is the way he used to start so many of his letters to me. Even better, there were no misspellings, no mistakes in grammar or punctuation. Most of you will realize how much that meant to me. I tell you, my heart fluttered with joy. Hey, I have my priorities! We started e-mailing regularly, once a day at first, but soon two or three times a day. I think we made an honest attempt at keeping things friendly, but it was clear pretty fast that we both still had feelings for each other. After a few weeks, we talked on the phone, and although I was so nervous I could hardly breathe, I calmed down right away when I heard his voice. It was a little deeper than I remembered, but in so many ways, he still sounded like the Ed I remembered. My Ed. I don't normally like chatting on the phone very much, but with him, I could talk easily and, apparently, forever. Two hours on the phone with him seemed like only minutes.
Before I make you all hurl by waxing eloquent about how wonderful he is (see how considerate I am? but he is wonderful and sweet and sexy), I'll fast-forward to June 18, when I met him in Savannah for a four-day weekend. I was taking a chance because I'm not immune to the allure of all the Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil atmosphere; Savannah's a beautiful city and one of the most romantic places I've ever seen. I could have been in Peoria and still been as happy, however.
A few years ago, I read that when you see people you knew many years ago, after the initial surprise of realizing they've gotten older, you stop seeing the changes and see the people you used to know. Whoever wrote that was describing a high school reunion, but I had the same reaction. Of course Ed's older. I do know that, and hell, I'VE certainly gotten older. None of it mattered. I still saw my Ed: my first love, the man I never got over. In all the important ways, he's the same, and the ways in which he's changed are for the better. He still makes me feel loved and cherished in a way no one else has ever come close to.
I considered writing about how Ed is an improvement over Kevin, but that's not the real (or only) reason I love him. It's enough to say that they're so different they could be entirely separate species. Making occasional comparisons is inevitable and natural, but I'd rather not focus on them. Yes, I believe Ed's a better person, but more important, he's better for me.
To make a long story short (or as short as I'm capable of, being a long-winded girl), I'm moving to Georgia soon, where he lives now. No, he can't move here because he has a J-O-B, unlike some men who shall rename nameless. Ahem. My job's extremely portable. Yep, I'm going to be rash and impulsive and imprudent and all that, but it feels more right than anything I've ever done. Despite the frustration and annoyance and occasional fear going on while Kevin's here, I'm happier and more hopeful than I've been in what seems like forever. About damn time, huh?
Monday, July 5, 2010
What I've Been Up To: Part I
Not to sound melodramatic (although I am dabbing my forehead delicately with a lavender-scented handkerchief), but writing this entry on the Fourth of July (yeah, and posting it on the 5th because I procrastinate) is fitting because I've declared myself free of Kevin's attempts to drain the life out of me. Being Peter Pan's girlfriend got old years ago, but I loathe confrontation almost as much as I do Michelle Bachman. However, the past couple of years have been leading inexorably to this point, and I finally overcame my fear of The Unpleasantness. I can't keep living with someone I don't love and respect. As Gloria Gaynor said, "Enough is enough is enough." (Gloria, right? Whatever. Some disco queen, which is probably a poor source of wise quotes. I'm too exhausted to look up a pithy saying by Emerson, however.)
Everyone I've told has been encouraging and supportive and has said in one way or another "About damn time." Daniel summed it up succinctly by saying, "Mom, he's mooched off you long enough." Yes, he has. He hasn't been employed full-time since we moved here, a little over two years ago, and has made only a few attempts to look for a job (and none at all for the past year). Enough, indeed. About a year ago, I paid more than $2000 to keep him out of jail for not paying child support. Go ahead, say it: Dumbest. Move. Ever. Yes, I was a sap.
To make all the financial woes even more delightful, his temper has gotten increasingly worse. I realized several months ago that I'd stopped sleeping well because I was constantly tense. I lost my appetite--which is QUITE the symptom of being upset for me--and started having recurring stomach problems. I started walking to get out of the house (in other words, away from the source of my tension) and help me deal with stress. It did help, and as a result, I've lost a little over 50 pounds. About damn time for that, too, but I don't recommend living with a crazy person as a weight-loss method.
Well, there's more to this story, including a very happy ending, but I'm going to save it for another entry. I'm out of practice and need to work up to writing again. To my steadfast friends who have listened to me moan and kvetch and whine and offered insight, humor, and righteous indignation on my behalf, I love you, and you've made all this easier to bear.
Everyone I've told has been encouraging and supportive and has said in one way or another "About damn time." Daniel summed it up succinctly by saying, "Mom, he's mooched off you long enough." Yes, he has. He hasn't been employed full-time since we moved here, a little over two years ago, and has made only a few attempts to look for a job (and none at all for the past year). Enough, indeed. About a year ago, I paid more than $2000 to keep him out of jail for not paying child support. Go ahead, say it: Dumbest. Move. Ever. Yes, I was a sap.
To make all the financial woes even more delightful, his temper has gotten increasingly worse. I realized several months ago that I'd stopped sleeping well because I was constantly tense. I lost my appetite--which is QUITE the symptom of being upset for me--and started having recurring stomach problems. I started walking to get out of the house (in other words, away from the source of my tension) and help me deal with stress. It did help, and as a result, I've lost a little over 50 pounds. About damn time for that, too, but I don't recommend living with a crazy person as a weight-loss method.
Well, there's more to this story, including a very happy ending, but I'm going to save it for another entry. I'm out of practice and need to work up to writing again. To my steadfast friends who have listened to me moan and kvetch and whine and offered insight, humor, and righteous indignation on my behalf, I love you, and you've made all this easier to bear.
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