Perfect

Sometimes things are too perfect. And this can be a recipe for disaster. In his words, the train was rolling along on the tracks so smoothly, so perfectly. And then they just ended. In a roiling, broiling, gut wrenching, beyond describably painful mess. And then what?

This was my fault. It was an accident. Something no one could have foreseen. But it was my fault. And I can't honestly say what I would do in his place. The roil and broil is split equally between the fact that I hurt him so deeply and that, despite the fact that it was an accident, I have slipped so far in his esteem. I cannot take it back. I cannot begrudge him his feelings. But I can hope like motherfucking hell that we can right the train.

I am trying so very hard not to be crazy. Space is important. For both of us. But in that space I am crazed. At times. It's better than it was two weeks ago. It's WAY better than it was a week ago. I think my sister used the word hysterical. But the unknown is so hard.

Call me shallow, but it is hard to know that everyone liked him so much and that everyone liked me so much and now this. Would it be extra special crazy to start a campaign? Like I could post a link to his email and everyone could write and say, "Understanding, of course, that this is going to be a difficult mess to clean up we know that she cares deeply for you. We know that she feels differently about you and that you had softened her to things she said she never wanted. We know that she never would have hurt you knowingly. We have never seen her so excited about someone. Could you please oh please just take this into consideration while you are taking your space? Think hard before you let her go."

Right Idea, Wrong Name

Just before Christmas my uncle called my mom with a sticky question. I had sent him a Christmas card and signed only my name. He wanted to send one back but he wanted to check in with her and make sure I wasn't still dating Frank.

Right.
Frank.
The dog.

All this time I've been signing my cards "Eileen & Frank" and he thought she was my boyfriend. We have been together for almost 10 years...

Cha!

Oh for fucksake you knew I'd get over it, right?

I'm smitten. That's what my mom says. Smitten.

How can you NOT be smitten with a guy who makes you dinner so you can work on your grad school application essays, who sits with you at the coffee shop while you work on said essays to help you make sure you're actually working, who drives you through the snow for an hour trying to find the prettiest place in the city, who does the "leech" when he's cold and it's so funny and crazy you giggle (like a friggin' school girl) every time you think about it, who actually WANTS to go square dancing, who brings you muffins from his office's breakfast spread so you won't get hungry while you're running errands, who calls your dog "sweetie", who puts his arm around you just so when he kisses you goodbye at the airport, and who passes on a ski trip with his buddies so he can spend his first weekend back in town in two weeks with you? How can you not be totally and completely schmoopsy?

And this guy is a lawyer. A lanky little balding Jewish lawyer. Course, that doesn't mean he's not sexy and adorable. Bald matters less as we get older, yes? But he's just not someone I ever thought I'd be falling all over myself for. I guess it's good not to have a type. All I ask is that he be smart and funny and respect me and after that I don't know what else we can really want. I suppose we all gravitate towards a certain personality (mine is tall and lanky and tatooed and moody and usually aimless- fortunately I rarely go out with those guys) but everyone has something to offer.

School! School! School! If I'm not with Mr. P I'm working on School! Just a few more weeks and the application process will be over. Then it's all about applying for scholarships and fellowships and grants and aid and making decisions about my future. I do not understand how we as a society expect anyone under the age of 25 to make these kinds of decisions. I remember thinking that I could have had my masters at 24 and how the hell could anyone call me a master of anything at 24? Thirty-one feels a little more realistic. Course, I'll be 34 or 35 when I'm done. Whoa holy.

That Point

It always happens. I reach that point where I'm really not sure how I feel about all this and am I not usually happier alone and how much effort do I want to put into this and how much does he want to put into it and probably it's going to require a discussion but I hate talking and jesus wouldn't it be easier to just end it?

And I dropped that bomb on my sister, that I thought I was done, and she freaked out and told me to get over myself.

Probably I'm sick. Well, I am. And that clouds my judgement of all things (wouldn't right now be a really great time to buy a new little red dress and a pair of shoes to go with it? See, all things.). But especially in matters of relationships. Because I feel like ass and I want to be alone but can't he be a mind reader and help me out here? And he was gone for nine days for Thanksgiving. And of course wasn't in touch as much as I would have liked. Mind reader. And last night when he came by I felt a wall but I'm pretty sure it was my wall. I don't know.

Some mornings I walk Frank and I think that probably I'm not cut out for this and probably I will be the auntie forever and probably I will be OK with that.

Christ almighty I have a ton of stuff to do, too. All this school stuff. Packets of various hoo-ha to put together and send to the right people and statements to write and rewrite and professors to harass. And one of those professors is kicking my ass, asking for rewrites and edits and don't I want this to be perfect? Yes. Yes I do. But I'm sick.

Come February all this school stuff will be over and I can breathe til April when I have to make a decision. About where I'm headed for the next 2-3 years of my life.

And probably this whole school thing doesn't help the whole relationship thing. Bleh. Can I just blame this on the plague?

Head Over Heels

I've had some questions. A few hints. That maybe some of you are wondering what I've been up to. The short answer is that things have reached a point with Mr. P that well, blogging would be kissing and telling and laying bare a friendship that has turned into something a little more and since he doesn't know about this blog it's really not fair to do that. It might be slightly tacky, anyway, to talk about our Halloween sleepover.

But I can tell you that things are going well. Really well. That I am having incredible fun. That he makes me feel so good and sexy and funny and wanted. That the days I'm going to see him are the longest and the time we spend together goes too quickly. I am head over heels schmoopsy and I love it. He's adorable and sexy and smart and tests nearly every preconception I have about relationships and what I think I want and who I think I would want to be with. He's whip smart. Whip smart. That's high on my list. And funny. And such a shit. An instigator. He's benignly offensive (is that possible?) at the best possible moments. And corny (last night he told me that geologists make the bed rock). He dances. The man dances. He opens car doors. He tells me I look nice. And he likes to do things. To do things. Last night we went out to eat and then over to the Tractor and saw two bluegrass bands and it was the most fun I've had in awhile. And today we went sailing. I left work early and we went sailing with some of his friends. Sailing. I love to do things. Anything. Ohmigod I can't tell you how much fun this has been. I'm in so much trouble.

On Mr. P's end. His father passed away while he was in Chicago. He had been sick for almost two years. It was terribly sad but also a bit of a relief to know he wouldn't suffer any longer. The same week he passed away Mr. P found out he'd passed the bar. And yesterday he went to what he thought was an informational meeting with a firm downtown that turned into an interview. He received an informal offer and will hopefully know by the end of the week what the next six months of his life will look like. I am so excited for him. It's been a shitty year. He deserves all the good that's tumbling his way right now.

And yes, I deserve it, too. A great guy.

What's What

So right. Moving along now.

Sometimes I get desperate. Especially when it's the first real rainy, boring Wednesday night here in Sea Town and all I really want is a fireplace and some good company and a beer. And my fingers find their way to a phone number I know better than to call. Mr. P. Dude. And of course his voicemail freaks out. This is a problem I've had before. And I can't leave a message. And so I know my number is on his caller ID without a message and oh well whatever. I promptly delete his number from my phone book and my call history. This is what? About three weeks ago.

And then. And then. Two days later I find an email from him in my inbox. And I have my sister read it because I'm 100% pure positive it's begging me to just leave him the fuck alone. But no. It's asking me to come to a BBQ at his new house that Sunday. And with a little work and some game playing I find myself there. Me and his roommates and a bunch of everyone's friends and somehow. Somehow. I manage to pull off the coolest girl in the world. This probably has to do with eight beers and one hot dog and some warm September sun. Nevertheless, I manage to play it cool and not make an ass of myself and escape with only a wicked hangover and a lost hat.

A few days later I realize my hat is lost. My favorite hat. The hat that keeps the pencil behind my ear at the studio and makes my hair look better not worse. And I contact Mr. P to see if maybe I've left it at their house. And to see if maybe, maybe I can take him up on this offer of high end Scotch he keeps making. And at first he's all excuses. And then something changes. And Sunday morning I find myself hopping into his yuppie SUV (did I mention that he's a balding, yuppie, Jewish, soon to be lawyer but is still incredibly cute?) and heading into the woods for a crisp fall hike. And it's awesome. And I've found my hat in the laundry. And the hike is crazy fun and we talk talk talk and drive back into town and get a pizza and a six pack and head back to my place and talk talk talk some more. And we do a little me show & tell. And it's fun. And 12 hours blows by like nobody's business. And then I check my email.

And he's invited me to come over to his place for debate night (these are attorneys and environmental consultants with sailboats we're talking about so yes, debate night) with some of his friends. That night I get a call that everyone has bailed and so if I'm going to bail, too, then please let him know. But of course I had been trying to decide what to wear when he called, not deciding to bail. So I head over there and he makes some food and we watch the debate and then talk talk talk and oggle his bikes and talk talk talk and drink Scotch and watch the late shows and pretty soon I'm ringing in my 31st with my third glass of Scotch and Mr. P next to me on the couch.

And I can tell that when I mention my birthday plans he really, really wants to go. But I've been instructed not to invite him. And I think about it all day and I figure what the hell. It's my birthday. And so I ring him and he'd LOVE to come. And off we all go for Morrocan food. And it's fun. And it's my birthday. And then Mr. P and I go up the hill to see The Duchess & The Duke. And I start to realize how different his life has been. With money and the symphony and foie gras and I'm telling him the stand next to the bar has the best fries in Seattle. And still. It's fun. He takes the long way home. I notice.

Please note that there has been no kissing. No making out. Not even a birthday hug. This is friendly friendly. And it's awesome.

Friday evening I come home from work and put together Mr. P's Waiting For the Bar Exam Results Survival Kit. And I call him Saturday afternoon to see if I can swing by that night to drop it off. His voicemail works this time. And I don't hear from him. I start to get pissed. What the hell, man? I figure he's gone into the woods to wait out the weekend before the bar. He does things like that. And I drink some wine and pass out on the couch with Juno. And the phone rings at 10:30. This is early for me except I've been drinking wine. And it's Mr. P. He's sorry he didn't ring earlier but he's been called to Chicago to see his dad. Because Mr. P's dad is fighting the good fight against cancer but it's not going so well. On debate night he'd been admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. And Friday night they moved him to the ICU. And Saturday morning Mr. P gets the call from his mom to come home now. And so I say, "OK. Yeah," about 400 times and let him go to drive home with his brothers.

I feel a bit of an ass. Here I'm getting pissed he hasn't called and he's in Chicago seeing his dad for what very well may be the last time. Fuck. How do you deal with that?

And so. As my truth spouting massage therapist has put it, this is an opportunity to establish a good and trusting friendship with this man before the shit starts rolling and if I think I'm going to jump in and start making out and sleeping with him and being a girl then well. I may as well shoot you all now to save you the pain of having to listen to my whining about fucking it up. Instead, I will take this opportunity to establish a good and trusting friendship with Mr. P and if that's all it ever is than so be it. The guy is kind and funny and takes my shit and scoops it back as quickly as I can dish it out. And I haven't kept anything from him. And we're already giggling about bodily functions. Why would anyone fuck that up?

Stopping By

It is alarming to me what a little positive male attention can do for making one feel whole. Fuck. Did I just say that? Not whole. Centered. Quieted. Something that I wish didn't take positive reinforcement from a man.

Still. It's kind of nice.

Right. We'll be working on an update.