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.