Follow-up

Greg just reminded me that I failed to supply a conclusion to Saturday's entry--that is, what happened when Kevin stopped by. If I were writing serial stories for magazines, I'd be fired tout suite, wouldn't I? I can imagine me ending an installment with "The murderer crept ever closer, with a mad gleam in his eye, while Detective Jones sat unaware, reading peacefully by the fire...." and then picking up the next installment with Detective Jones shopping for peaches at the grocery. Outrage would ensue!

Unfortunately, Saturday's story has no such suspense. Kevin stopped by as arranged, and I had his DJ outfit and two bags of laundry ready to go. (Yes, I'd done the laundry for him last week because did I mention? I wanted him out of here.) He played with the dogs for a bit while I gritted my teeth. "Yep, they miss you! Don't you have to go pick up your equipment SOON?" Finally, he grabbed the laundry, and then, to my shock, tried to kiss me good-bye. I managed to turn my head so fast that I think I pulled something, and he wound up getting just my cheek and part of my ear.

He left, and I called Ed back. About five minutes later, I saw Kevin pulling up in the driveway again. Just as I was swearing a blue streak, Kevin came up to my office window and said, "I left my DJ outfit here." Christ, I jumped a mile. I went into the living room, and sure enough, there it was. I unlocked the front door and handed it to Kevin, and he said something smarmy about kissing me making him forget to take his outfit. I faked a laugh and said, "Oh, everyone says that to me," and shut the door. Gah.

Oh, and I avoided the call to Thurston and Lovey Howell by looking up their e-mail address in the church directory. I just wasn't up to a phone call, and with my luck, if I tried to call at a time when I'd normally get their voicemail, one of them would have decided to stay home that day. They replied with a nice e-mail and said that whatever the reason for the breakup, they're sure it was very hard. That's almost exactly the same thing the woman running RE classes said. It must be the politically correct response du jour.

I'm feeling flu-ish today. No fever--just achy and tired, and my throat's sore. I think everything that's happened in the past few weeks is finally hitting me. I've decided to take the rest of the day off, and I'm getting into bed with a logic puzzle book, a novel, and a big glass of iced tea.

Breaking Breakup News

It's been so long since I broke up with anyone that I forgot about the "breaking the news" task. I've told all the important folks: my family and you people. However, several local friends and acquaintances still don't know. I got one announcement out of the way this morning. A woman at church e-mailed Kevin and me, asking us to teach a religious education (RE) class for high school students. For Unitarians, RE classes don't involve Bible study; the high school curriculum for this fall is a series of classes comparing the major Western religions, discussing beliefs about the afterlife and religious prejudice, examining dogma and creeds, and so forth. Interesting stuff, but I'm not going to be around the entire year, and Kevin, obviously, can't do it because he moved to another town. So I had to e-mail this woman and explain we broke up. Aaaaawk-ward! No reply yet. Heh.

Next, I have to call a couple we'd met at church, who have been urging us to get together for dinner. They sent us an invitation for a pool party at their house, which is almost an hour away. Kind of a cute idea for the theme--Gilligan's Island--but I'm not showing up in a coconut bra in front of people I barely know. Also, they live out in the country, and I can't drive back home that far at night. My night vision isn't what it used to be; I do fine on main, well-lit roads, but dark, gravel-paved roads in Corn Country? No, thank you. I'm not looking forward to making this call and listening to expressions of condolences about the breakup. If they say "Oh, I'm sorry," I'm a little afraid I might blurt out, "Well, I'm not!"

I haven't decided how (or how much) to tell theater friends from Mayberry. Is a group e-mail in poor taste? Etiquette manuals don't address this issue, or they'd probably suggest separate handwritten letters on monogrammed stationery. *snort* What should I do?

A new season of Project Runway started last week. I do adore watching stressed-out people make bad decisions in the face of ridiculous challenges, and every now and then, there's a moment of impresive creativity. What I love most about this show, however, is reading the hilariously bitchy commentary at Project Rungay. Snarky gay humor never fails to cheer me up, and it cracks me up that these two guys invariably refer to Heidi Klum as "Frau Seal." You know she'd hate that!

Oh, I just got a reply from the woman supervising the RE classes at church. She's sorry to hear about the breakup. Should I tell her "Don't be!" :)

My dogs admire my conversational skills

Kevin's coming over in about an hour because I made a booty call. Kidding! No, he's DJing a wedding tonight and left his outfit here. I wonder whether he'll notice how much better the art room and garage look? I've spent a lot of time this week cleaning both, and when I finish, I'm smudging the hell out of both rooms with sage. If nothing else, it will get rid of the cigar smell.

Daniel came over for lunch today. He was going to cut my grass, but of course it rained this morning. He decided he still wanted his "reward" lunch of a grilled PB&J sandwich, and we watched a Deep Space Nine episode ("Little Green Men," for you other geeks out there). It reminded me of when he was little and we watched Star Trek: Next Generation together, in the Pre-Kevin Days. He had such odd taste in TV shows back then. One of his favorite shows was Murphy Brown. I don't know what a kid his age would have seen in that show, but Murphy getting grumpy and snapping at people cracked him up.

We were both much more relaxed without Kevin around. Before, when Daniel came over for a meal, he'd eat and then make some excuse about why he had to leave immediately. I loved having him hang out for a while today. We had a good talk about his plans for the coming school year, and then we went through some stuff he has stored here to cull items for a garage sale I'm planning to have in a few weeks.

I'm feeling a little antsy about tonight. I've spent a lot of Saturday nights alone the past few years, with Kevin away at DJ jobs or art fairs, so I don't know why it's bothering me. I've been alone all week, and I haven't fallen apart yet. The dogs are wondering why I've gotten so chatty with them, but I haven't been all that weirded out. It started creeping up on me last night, however, and to be honest, I'm kind of dreading tonight. I could go to a movie, but going alone on Saturday night? I might as well just wear a sign saying "Look at me! I'm by myself on Saturday night!" Also, I tend to become a weirdo magnet when I go out by myself at night. Any conspiracy theorists or students at clown schools in the vicinity? They're compelled to strike up a conversation with me.

A bubble bath and a book are sounding much better by comparison--and probably a lot safer.

Insert Title Here

I'm getting the hang of cooking for one. (Making coffee for one? Still a work in progress.) As Greg pointed out, leftovers are the answer. Last night I made the usual two servings of rice and combined one serving with the leftover stir-fry. Ta-da! Dinner for tonight or tomorrow is done. Sasha, I like your idea of roasting a chicken--or for me, chicken breasts, as I don't care for drumsticks and other dark meat--because I can dice up the leftovers into a salad (Celeste's idea). To be honest, I'm not a big fan of all-vegetable salad as a main course; it leaves me feeling dissatisfied. Greg, your "Salad is what food eats" cracked me up. Even considering the Leftovers Plan, if I make too much of a dish, I do know a young man who adores my cooking and lives only 5 minutes away. After intense negotiations, Daniel agreed to cut my grass in exchange for a home-cooked meal.

I made another discovery about the depths of Kevin's laziness. Monday I asked him whether recycling goes out this week, as it's picked up every other week. He all but whistled and looked at the ceiling and muttered, "Oh, I just check whether the neighbors have put their recycling bins out." I didn't have to rely on my status as a part-time PI to know something was up and finally extracted the story from him. The recycling bins blew away in a storm SIX MONTHS ago. Did he get replacements? Why, no! That would involve all the effort of picking up the phone and making a call. So for the past six months, I've been dutifully putting recyclable items in the basket I keep in the pantry for that purpose, and he's been pretending to carry them out to the recycling bin in the garage, and then putting them in the trash. I don't go in the garage much, so I didn't notice, but I assumed he was keeping the bins in an odd place, such as the shed. Yesterday I called the city's recycling department, and new bins are being delivered today. The entire "effort," from start to finish, took approximately 1.45 minutes. Oy.

My mom keeps moaning that "both [her] girls are single now." Did I mention my sister got divorced? Long story that I'm too lazy to type now, but her husband committed one minor indiscretion, and she cut him (and his balls) off at dizzying speed. I haven't figured out yet how to tell my parents about Ed. Of course, they'd be delighted with anyone who's not Kevin, but from their perspective, the news is going to come out of the blue. When Ed and I first started e-mailing, I told my mom because I was so excited to hear from him. As usual, she listened with only half an ear. She's really not interested in what's going on with me; she calls me frequently so that she can complain about her illnesses, gossip about people I don't remember or barely know, and tell me how wonderful my sister is. I've mentioned Ed a few times since then, but again: half an ear. In addition, her memory has gotten much worse the past couple of years, so I suspect she remembers maybe a third of what I tell her--that is, a third of what she actually hears. Therefore, if she's shocked when I finally break the news, too bad. If she'd been paying attention, it wouldn't be a complete surprise. Also? I'm 50 damn years old, and I don't need her approval or permission. As for my dad, I think he'll be satisfied knowing I'm happy. Maybe the conversation will be easier than I'm anticipating. My dad will be happy for me, and my mom will be over the moon to hear further proof that my sister is far more sensible and perfect in every way than I am.

Coffee talk with Lisa

A very old, skinny man, pushing a baby in a stroller, just walked by my house. He was trudging along so slowly that I suspect the baby could have gotten out and walked faster.

Holly the Boneheaded Beagle pulled quite a stunt. Well, it was partly my fault. When I take her out at night for her last pee, often I have to put her leash on and pull a little while coaxing her. Her arthritis has gotten so bad that she's reluctant to get up and make the walk outside. Until she can figure out how to sit on the toilet, however, out she goes. Last night, while I was standing in the yard admiring the full moon and waiting for Holly to finish, I heard her leash hit against something metallic. A second later, CRASH! Instead of turning around and walking directly back to the patio, she had walked in a circle, wrapped her leash around a wrought-iron plant stand holding four clay and ceramic pots, and brought the whole caboodle down. Charlie jumped straight up in the air when he heard the crash and did a rather impressive leap over the debris. Miraculously, only two pots broke, but I had one hell of a mess to clean up this morning. I still need to sweep up a pile of dirt. Mental note: Save the moon-gazing for when I'm outside BY MYSELF, with no spazzing dogs.

I finished my purple variegated socks. Here's a blurry, crappy photo that will give you only a vague idea of what the socks look like, but feel free to humor me and exclaim over their beauteousness:



The Room Formerly Known as Kevin's Man Cave is looking better. I finished vacuuming and sweeping away cobwebs, stacked all my art supplies on an empty bookcase he left, and hung a few pictures I'd stored because I had no wall space left to hang them. I have a folding table in the garage that I'm going to set up for a temporary workspace, and I'm going to try to set aside some time to do a little collaging and rubberstamping. With all Kevin's stuff scattered around, I never had room to get my art supplies out and do anything with them.

Weird, this burst of energy I'm having, but I guess it's caused by a major source of stress being removed. I don't know how long it will last, but I'm enjoying it while it does. I'm even going to cook a nice dinner for myself. Last night, I was too exhausted to make more than a bowl of cereal, but tonight, I'm stir-frying chicken, broccoli, and almonds. I think I'll skip the rice because I don't know how to make just one serving in my rice cooker. I've almost forgotten how to cook for one (AND make coffee for one, so I had too much this morning). Any tips?

He's left the building

It was over before I knew it. He picked the truck up at 11, loaded it, and said good-bye at 2. He got very emotional when he was saying his good-byes, and I thought, for a moment, I was going to cry. Mostly a knee-jerk reaction to another's tears--like Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias, I have a strict policy about no one crying alone in my presence. I "womanned up," however, and stayed strong. Well, one benefit of things getting so bad the past few years is that I was less likely to dissolve in a puddle of sentiment, right? He said a lot of sweet things to me, but I couldn't help thinking, "Too little, too late." I'll give him credit for this: He taught me to pay more attention to actions. That's one lesson I won't have to learn again and again and again, as I have with so many other lessons.

Strange that there are so few reminders of him left. He slept mostly in the guest room, so there won't be any noticeable absence when I go to bed at night. Some dust bunnies and a few pieces of furniture in the art room that he didn't have room for--and that's about it. Don't most people leave more of a physical imprint? I feel as though I've been living with the chalk outline of a person, and a strong wind just blew the outline away. I can still see a faint ghost of it, but one hard rain, and even that will disappear.

Gearing up for Man Child's exit

I shouldn't complain because I HAVE work, which is more than a lot of people can say, but I will, anyway. The problem is that I took on extra projects a few months ago because my finances were in terrible shape, thanks to Man Child. Now that he's leaving Monday (whoo hooo!), I'm not going to need the additional income as desperately, but I'm stuck with the projects. Oy. Well, I do have an expensive move coming up soon.

Being busy has the benefit of keeping me too occupied to dream about eating chocolate. I haven't lost more pounds recently, but I must be getting smaller somehow because I'm fitting into clothes I couldn't wear a few months ago. My big news is that I bought a pair of boots the other day that I can actually ZIP. With my short, German milkmaid calves (TM Sasha), finding knee-high boots I could zip was difficult. These boots are black leather and bad-ass--well, as bad-ass as I'M capable of being. I'd post the picture I took, but Ed seems to think it's risque and is probably dubious about me posting it on the Innerwebs for the *gasp* public to see (not that hordes of people are eager to see my short middle-aged legs in a pair of boots).

I've been busy this week catching up on grooming that I was too broke to afford while waiting for checks to come in. My eyebrows, for example, were a shanda. I've been getting them threaded for a while, so I've lost my tweezing skills, I'm afraid, and the little Indian lady does a MUCH better job than I could ever do. Wednesday, I stopped in to get my eyebrows back in shape, and I noticed she uses plain old sewing thread. All this time, I thought she used special eyebrow thread or something--and in my imagination, it was imported from India and very expensive. What a letdown!

Next up is my damn hair. Ever since I got it cut extremely short, it's been growing like the weeds in my flower beds (which are flourishing, thankyouverymuch). I feel slightly ridiculous saying "It's too long!" but it is. Another thing I love about Ed is that he adores my cropped hair. Other men I've known have been fans of long hair and were always urging me to grow mine longer. I don't think they believed me when I explained that curly hair grows OUT, not DOWN. No more struggling with longish hair for me. My "styling" process consists of getting out the shower and running my fingers through my hair, and the lazy girl in me loves that.

I'm taking a break from work to watch another episode of True Blood. Good show, great sex scenes (one of the advantages of shows on HBO).