Who'da Thunk?

So, yet another fantastic evening with LRman. Our "fantastic" evenings are really nothing too special: sometimes live music, sometimes TV watching, sometimes just hanging out and talking. And yet they are so very special.

Who would have thought I would have found so much love in someone 17 years my senior, salt and pepper hair, a bit of a beer belly and paint caked under his nails? And yet I have.

He is fascinating. He's seen things and done things I can only marvel at. I have never been almost killed at a protest for desegregation. I never hitchhiked up and down the east coast. I haven't raised a fabulous daughter nor do I have Mein Kampf and the Kama Sutra on the same shelf in my bookcase.

I admitted today that I orignally worried that he might have thought of me as arm candy. (Of course, now that I know him so much better I realize that that is not at all something he would do.) I opened up about my marriage and the insecurities I felt before, during and after.

It didn't turn into a massive thing. I just shared my story and then he shared one about his brother - who suffers from the same syndrome as my ex. And then we shut up and watched Rescue Me.

As he was leaving for home, I kissed him goodnight and he said his usual "call ya tomorrow." And then, he grabbed me in a huge hug and whispered in my ear, "don't fret, hon." And, as per usual, he broke into a silly song, "It ain't nothin to fret about, worry about. It all gonna be okay."

I don't know the song or artist. I don't really care. Without making a deal out of it, he told me he heard me, he understood me and he reassured me.

No wonder I love him.

Know What's Amazing?

Having your tech guy make reference to one of your favorite movies under his breath.

Experiencing adventures in travel without stress or anxiety and then walking into a conference room of people who don't shake your hand but give you a hug.

Being called to ask for your "expert" opinion on choosing a new bike.

Finding two cats curled up and asleep on your bed, being far too cute.

Discovering your roommate's son finally feels comfortable enough in front of you to dance.

Having wonderful friends who can talk to you about deep things and silly things, emotions and cosmic reality, anime conventions and th Dresden Files and still not think you're a nutjob.

Staying in your jammies and robe all day and rejoicing about it, all while knowing that tomorrow you will wear well-ironed professional attire, will make your bed and will eat meals at a regular hour.

Getting weepy and sad but knowing that your life won't end.

Feeling disappointed but still knowing you can look forward to fiddlehead season.

Enjoying the smell of garlic and onions sauteeing in a pan.

Thinking it important that you can appreciate NPR and raunchy radio all at the same time.

Wondering at making a toddler smile in an elevator because she has a Disney Princesss ball and you have a Sleeping Beauty keychain.

Knowing that that little girl's mother was thankful fo the distraction because baby was being a brat.

Regretting that someone gave up a lot of potentially enjoyable experiences because he was too afraid to face confrontation.

Seeing a double rainbow and knowing that it meant The Universe would help you as you began a new chapter in your life.

Remembering how much fun I had in Seattle, wandering on my own, talking to strangers, marvelling at the Japanese gardens and walking home in a gentle rain.

Believing that moving to London is a pipe dream and a possibility all at the same time.

Being confident that I deserve love and respect and trust and the space, time and confidence to be comfortable in who I am and do the things that make me happy.

Establishing and supporting the Lady McHerb project.

Finally realizing, heart and soul and mind, that the Lady McHerb project is the most important thing I will ever do.

Another List

Here's a list of things I've learned this week from GoodBuddy:

If you cut yourself shaving, a band-aid is the best first plan of attack

If your cellphone gets wet, popping it into the microwave for "a second or two" will not help

If you reference Molliere and Office Space together and/or more than once in a single conversation, stop talking.

And the hits just keep on comin.

Imagine that

GoodBuddy and I went to see Paranormal Activity over the weekend. Not great. Not bad but I could have predicted the ending about 20 mins in and I think they missed the opportunity for a lot of character and plot development that would have made it much more compelling. But what do I know?

But here's a real horror story for you.

Before we left, GB decided (well, I decided for him) that he would look less grubby if he shaved. And because he's GoodBuddy, he cut himself shaving. And instead of putting a band-aid on, he proceeded to bleed -- all over himself, his clothes, my clothes, my furniture, my floor...

He didn't have any other clothes to change into, so he left the bloody sweatshirt on for the trip. We get to the theater and he goes to throw some stuff into the trunk. (You can't leave anything to chance in Danvers.)

"Ooooh, that woulda been hard to explain if we'd gotten pulled over."

"What's that?"

Trunk of the car held exactly the following:
1 pick axe
1 shovel

You can't make this shit up.

They're just so ... French...

I have never really had a problem with the French. I took French in high school, although I was never very talented at foreign languages (ironic that). I love Eddie Izzard who is a big fan of "doing it in French." I love baguettes and wine and perfume and Les Miz.

Still ...

Today, it was raining and cold in the Big Apple. After 10 full hours of CBL, I had a long walk down 7th Ave. with heels on, holding an umbrella and dodging tourists. I can't tell you how many puddles soaked me up to the ankles.

I wanted to take refuge. I wanted to grab a hot pretzel, a cold Diet Coke and put my woolies on. I wanted to curl up on an uber soft mattress and rent a couple of chick flicks.

Instead, I walked into the hotel amidst what can only be described as a Flock of Frenchies. A whole crowd of them, completely taking over the lobby. I wove my way through them to the elevator, desperate to get to my room on the 25th floor. Along the way, I lost half the hot pretzel I'd gotten. Salt littered the way like I was Gretel hinting to my trailing Hansel. (mixing cultural metaphors, I realize.) An up arrow lit up, a door opened, and I jumped into the waiting car.

And then...

In piled the French. Men and women, all for some reason stinking like grilled meat. Five, six, eight, ten people crowded in. I squealed quietly and shoved myself further into the corner. Fur coats and leather jackets pressed in against me. Slowly, the car elevated, stopping floor by floor by floor.

People spilled out, but still no one moved to grant me some breathing room in my corner. I still stayed squashed, staring at the back of a coat with the words "Pont Neuf" emblazoned upon them.

Finally, I heard, "Qu'est-qui vingt cinq?'

"Vingt-cinq c'est moi!" I exclaimed.

You shoul have seen how fast they moved out of my way! Maybe they really didn't know I was there. Maybe they just didn't care.

C'est si bon.