7/22/13

The sound of his voice breaking still hurts. Every time I close my eyes I want to crawl under a rock and dig a tunnel, until I'm so far down that even God can't see me, and weep.

Not Every Day Is A Good Day

Sometimes, I wake up and the world is sunshine and happiness, the birds sing, and I reflect on how happy and lucky I am. Today was not one of those days.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with irritation in my head. Not at anything particular, just the little things-the wind blowing my hair the wrong way, my egg yolk not being as cooked as I thought and dripping onto my hand. By the afternoon, I knew a full-on funk was coming. I tried desperately not to slip into it, but to no avail. It probably didn't help that I went shopping(which is a 50/50 activity on my best days, let alone a funkday) and tried to assemble a cheap bookshelf(if we didn't desperately need more shelf space, I would have destroyed it).

I put on my best smile when the boy made dinner(cheesesteak wraps!), but I know he could tell that I wasn't thrilled. He's not an expert on women or emotions, so I decided to retreat to a book and let him relax for awhile. I thought going to bed would be a good thing, but as soon as I lay my head to sleep, my brain kicked into overdrive with all of my insecurities.

Now, it's a very little known fact that, after 3 or so years of some sort of relationship and many nights spent cuddling in the same bed, the beautiful boy and I have yet to do.. ya know... the thing. A distinct lack of hanky-panky. Oh, sweet chastity, thy name is...! I'm sure you get the point. And while I find this a really cool thing sometimes(because let's face it, that kind of thing is rarely heard about these days, especially when it involves people that have no religious strictures against the activity), I'm a person that is thoroughly insecure. Needless to say, there are times when I begin to wonder "Why?" and, even worse, "Is there something wrong with me?"

"Is there something wrong with me?"
"Is there something wrong with me?"
"Is there something wrong with me?"
"Is there something wrong with me?"

This, ladies and gentlemen, was my night. Somehow, in that inbetween of asleep and awake(the one that has treated me so well in the past) I somehow got the idea stuck in my head that I'm damaged goods.

Today has been dreary. It is a complete and total funkday. I'm hoping I can pull myself out of this, lest he start thinking that I'm angry or unhappy. I've been invited to a yoga class tonight, and maybe that will give me peace and serenity...and not a pulled muscle.

Finally!

After months of hoping, cringing, biting my tongue, and waiting, today was the day. In that half-awake mental twilight, when we were snuggled tightly in bed before the day began, he finally said the words I'd been missing.

"I love you."

Sweet words are a salve to all wounds. It's been so long since I've heard those words. The past two months have been a struggle not to grab him and exclaim my feelings; I knew that soon I was going to burst. And now, I see maybe he felt the same way.

Today has been a day of joy. I've been listening to swing music and fighting the urge to dance. I'm smiling. The poor guys at work don't know what to do, seeing me so bright and sunny. When I get home, I think I'll make a nice dinner.

Today is a good day.

Today Was A Good Day

That's what we agree on every night.  We've decided, in fact, that there haven't been any bad days in this place. We say "Today was a good day", we smile at each other, and we go to bed.

It's a nightly ritual. Though he's already in bed, I know he's still awake, waiting for it and waiting for me.

It's just us, now. We're two halves of a whole, a two-man team. He makes sure I don't worry too much, and I make sure he knows that home is always safe. Yesterday, he called it a haven.

He told me once, years ago when we were a something that wasn't anything solid just yet, that he didn't mind all that bad that had happened because he wouldn't have met me otherwise. The same applies now. I went through Hell to get here, but my reward?

Good days.

An Open Book

A couple weeks ago, I was getting ready to head to the open mic at our local theatre. The one and only beautiful boy grinned.

"Are you going to read some of your poetry?"
"Have you seen my poetry? It sucks."
"No, you never let me read your poetry."
"...Cause it sucks."
"I'd still like to read it sometime, though."

I had to admit, he had a very valid point. He has read exactly one of my poems, and only because it was published in our college's literary journal about a year and a half ago. I had submitted it half hoping that he would see it, but half hoping that he wouldn't bother thumbing through(which he probably wouldn't have, if I hadn't left the thing lying around in my room).

Three years, and I've begrudgingly let him read one poem. Granted, there are other blurbs he's probably come across when flipping through my notebooks(he stopped doing that, though, when he saw how much it bothered me).

The problem is, I start to write, and I forget to lie. If I have any true feeling, it's on paper somewhere. It's a habit that has gotten me into serious trouble(let's just say my stepmother liked blackmail), and I have learned to guard my notebook with ferocity.

The only time he's ever yelled at me was some time ago, when he was looking for a blank page in a notebook, and I snatched it back. "Is anything in there really that bad? Do you or do you not trust the person you share a bed with?" It stung, as well it should have. He had seen enough by then that I knew better than to think he'd be shocked.

So, last week, I decided to go forth in a new frontier. I bought a new notebook. It's just a Dollar General notebook, with a blue/green/teal faux snakeskin cover(the kind of thing that's either adorable or disgusting). In this notebook, I will write things. And he will have absolute access to this notebook. He can pick it up and read it any time his heart desires, and I won't stop him or say a thing.

This level of emotional vulnerability frightens me on a fundamental level. Yes, I sleep next to him. Yes, I now live with him. He's even seen me cry. There's not a world I've kept from him except my writing. And while I'm still a long way off from linking him to this blog, the notebook is a step.

Hopefully, I won't step into anything unpleasant.

The Nerve!

I am not a chef. I, in no way, am contestant material on a cooking show. But every once in awhile, if I really try, I can create something not only edible, but even enjoyable.

However, I don't think my culinary efforts are always appreciated by my beautiful boy. I spent most of my free time at work searching for a cream of crab soup recipe that was similar to Nadine's, the chef at a restaurant I used to work at. I immediately disregarded those that didn't use Old Bay. I narrowed my search even more by ones that used cornstarch. Finally, I found the one that seemed closest to what I remembered.

After work, I ran over to get my crab meat(in Chestertown, it seems to be tradition to gather together at work and pool money for pounds of crab) from the bed and breakfast. It was good, and fresh, and not all of it made it as far as the soup stage. Next was a trip around the corner to our local organic foods store(not out of any health benefit, just convenience this time) for heavy cream and half&half. I dash back up to my apartment and begin the preparations... What's this? Cornstarch?! I'm now mid-soup, so I call out to my sweetheart.

"Feel like doing me a favor?"
"Uh, not really."

...Well, shit.

I turn the soup to low, dash back across the street, grab the cornstarch, and dash back up. Things are going well now, the base has come to a nice boil, and it's time to add the cornstarch. No one ever told me that cornstarch was so light, and that the slightest bit of force used to open the bag would send a fine mist into the air.

So here I am, irritated at his general lameness and covered in cornstarch, but like the trooper I am, I continue. Finally, the soup is done.

"Soup's done! Would you like some?"
"Nah, I'm good."

Oh, the heartbreak. Mind you, I've been talking about trying to make this soup for a week and a half by this point. He was fully aware of the general Hell I'd gone through this afternoon(and, of course, when I feel accomplished in something I work hard at, I want him to share it). I turned the burner off, moved the pot from the heat, and walked casually into my room. And, much to my surprise, he seemed to notice that I was put off. He calls to me from the kitchen:

"You know what?"
"What?"
"This really is delicious."
"Good."
"..I think I'm going back on what I said before."
(This is the part where I sigh internally because dammit I can't be mad at him)
"Be careful, it's still really hot."

In the end, we all had good soup, and trust me- it was GOOD soup. Moral of the story? Men are jerks, but occasionally they aren't.

In My Life, I've Loved Them All

Day in and day out, I'm surrounded by an endless swarm of characters. They are so varied and interesting that sometimes I find myself describing them in my head the way I would in a book.

There's Harriet, who is so outgoing that you can't help but enjoy her presence. She's the unsinkable Molly Brown of Chestertown, with a voice that's always at an 11. I know her through the music store as one of our fine students of ukulele. She's one of the few people at Washington College outside of Buildings and Grounds that I feel comfortable around.

Then there are the B&G workers themselves. Lea, a take-charge woman who takes no shit. Scottie, who always has a grin. Iwonna, the Polish immigrant who actually explained yoga to me, and Jeff the 6 and a half foot teddy bear.

The music store has it's own cast. There are all the kids, of course. They run in, and they don't know how to hold their guitars yet, but they love my boss and they love me and they love each other and it's so much fun to watch them grow and learn. My boss is scatterbrained, but he loves music and he'll do anything to let someone partake of it(usually coming out of his own pocket).

I also do my time at a bed and breakfast on the weekends. There's an old black woman there named Sherle, who calls me honey child and makes me soup. I think I've awakened her maternal instincts, because she's always trying to fuss over me. I don't let myself get too used to it, but it's also kind of a nice feeling.

The theatre group deserves a post all it's own, but that's for another day. These people fill my life with happiness and stories. Moving to Chestertown was leaving everything and everyone that I'd been near, and even though I despised Denton, it was familiar. But these people, this random assortment of characters, walk in and out of my life every day and turn this place into home.