The Picture on my Desk

Years ago for Christmas, my parents gave me a digital picture frame. By the time I decided I would never use it and took it back to Best Buy, it was past the return deadline so I kept it.

Last year I finally found a use for it: it now sits on my desk at work, rotating pictures of me with Brett, or of just him, with a couple vacation pics for good measure. I periodically add new photos to the flash-drive it uses. It’s fascinating to me, watching us progress from just dating, to our wedding, to comfortably married and vacation pics, over and over again all day.

 

The frame, showing a vacation image from Utah.

Why did I choose to do that? I know what he looks like, and it’s not like he travels for work and is gone for days at a time. But you know what? It always makes me smile. No matter what is happening in my day, I glance slightly to my left and see the grin of someone who loves me, FOR me, and remember…

• The world is not, in fact, out to get me.
• This workday will end.
• I have to tell him that funny thing that just happened.
• Someone in this world knows the true me, and it’s okay.
• People can be surprisingly great.

Do you struggle to remember you are loved? It's very easy to feel unlovable, but you are loved. If you can, I highly recommend a digital photo-frame as a way to remind yourself of that fact!

I Found My Thrill on Blueberry Hill!

(...that's a title of a Louis Armstrong song.)

It's also the name of the restaurant where we ate Brett's "birthday" lunch.

My Promised Post About My Recent Weekend Road-trip with Brett.



It was a fun weekend. We went to St. Louis, to specific places we'd not been together before. We must have walked about 8 or 10 miles on Saturday, in downtown, and up in the University City (?) area, where Blueberry Hill - a very famous restaurant - sits among cool shops, art galleries, and coffee-shops.

It was a pretty low-key weekend, if you call "Champagne Brunch" low-key! (I learned that a Mimosa made with cranberry juice is called a Poinsettia. Yum.)

Wait, back up...

Brett's shoulder, sans monkey.

On TUESDAY (I think), Brett was in the ER with his horrible, possessed-by-a-monkey shoulder. His current job is very physical, so by the time the weekend rolled around he had movement, but was still on some kind of painkillers, and the arm was in a sling. Fun times!

It was. It is always fun times. We just enjoy each other's company, so any "activity" or "meal" or "location" is just a setting for our fun.

At one point, I noticed that we didn't seem as in-sync as usual, and I guessed that his shoulder was bugging him more than he was saying. Later, at Blueberry Hill, I got some kind of "stuff overload" from all the very cool memorabilia. So I was kind of out of sync for a while.

My wounded hero mimicking art.



But it doesn't matter! It was still a good time, with good food, and good art. In fact, it was an exhaustingly  good time.

After meandering the University City (?) area, we both needed to relax, so we headed back to the hotel. I'd received a reliable tip on a good blues club to visit in St. Louis, so we looked at the website together, saw who was playing, looked up both acts, and decided we liked the later one better. Later as in 10pm-2am...or something.

No problem. That's why we were chilling.

...and comfortable.
...and ordered a pizza.
...and relaxed.
...and didn't want to go anywhere anymore.

BUT I HAD PLANNED TO GO OUT AGAIN!
but my feet were tired.
BUT I HAD A RECOMMENDATION!
but I could lay my head on Brett's shoulder here.
BUT - DRINKS AND AN APPETIZER TO SHARE!
but I could take out my contacts if I stay.

And here's how awesome Brett is for me, knowing how I am about following through with my plans.
He put down his computer, leaned over to me where I was playing Sudoku on my phone, looked me in the eyes and said:
"You know, we don't *have* to go out again." - notice, no CAPS, just *asterisks*.
and then...
"I'm happy to go wherever you want, but we don't have to if you don't want to."

I think my logical response was, "But I really wanted to report back to [Otis] about going to this place."

But I thought about how I truly felt right then...

And I realized that Brett was right.

(I compromised with myself by taking Brett down to a hotel restaurant for drinks and an appetizer)

Added  bonus of the perfect boyfriend setting everything right:
"Otis" saw one of the pictures Brett posted the next day and commented about the location, and Brett simply let him know we didn't make it to the particular club he mentioned, but that there will be other times.

He is so perfect for me.

We May Have Reached an Impasse

You’ve seen it on TV before. I know there are scenes in both How I Met Your Mother, and in Big Bang Theory dealing with it, and probably lots of other shows, too. In HIMYM, Ted forced his new girlfriend to watch Star Wars, because it is his favorite movie. She didn’t get it, and he hid the fact of how important the movie is to him.

The dramatic saga of Red and The Transformed Non-Conformist has reached such a roadblock.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Brett and I have known for a long time that we have wildly different taste in movies. There is some overlap. We have successfully watched DVDs together during most of our weekend visits, and have been to see movies in the actual theater… what, three times? (The Avengers, Brave…what else?) But there are concessions. When I’m coming over, Brett tries to ensure that Netflix sends him something “Red-appropriate” (AKA: not horror) although we did begin an attempt at horror-indoctrination. (Brett put a lot of thought into it, but we never got beyond step one, which was actually kind of an accidental movie and not the one he intended.) When he comes to see me… well, frankly, I’m having issues with my DVD-player, so we are kind of limited in that regard.

I’ve threatened him with Bridget Jones’ Diary, He’s Just Not That Into You, Moulin Rouge, and all kinds of other chick-flicks and classics. Last weekend, I put in Breakfast At Tiffany’s – one of my top three favorite movies, ever.

He hated it.

He hated the characters.

He hated the story.

He hated … well what else is there?

He didn’t chuckle at the bits that make me laugh.

I love this movie. The Movie Whore in me watches it a lot. And quotes it. We - the Movie Whore and I - find Holly Golightly to be a sympathetic character – oh, not that I can identify with the details of her life, but the way she deals or doesn’t deal? The abstract? Yep. I get it.

What to do?

My Love hates one of my favorite classic heroines!

...My new working theory is that Brett has a subconscious tic in his brain that will not allow him to appreciate any movie that is highly acclaimed. He must find fault with it. It's only a theory, but I have some evidence: He doesn’t like Casablanca. He doesn’t like The Godfather. He is "okay" with Star Wars (or so he tells me) but not wild about it. He said he wants to watch Doctor Zhivago (possibly my all-time, most favorite movie).

I have a sneaking suspicion he will hate it, too.

It’s a classic.

It’s hailed as a work of art.

It IS a work of art, in every respect.

I love him. I love Brett, and he can have any opinion he wants. We may be at an impasse on some movies, but you know what? That SO doesn’t matter. At all. If we’re ever in a situation where we have no available movies that we can agree on, there are plenty of other things to do instead!

Love and February

For the first time ever, I am in love, in February. No matter how many times a day Brett and I say "I love you", I still think Valentine's Day is a crock.I'm reposting what I wrote last year on the subject, because aside from the "being single" part, I still feel the same way.

Some of you may not have seen this post from last year anyway, so I don't feel bad about a re-post.

I give you: February 13, 2012...

I’m not a fan of Valentine’s Day and it has nothing to do with being “alone” which is my choice, or being “reminded that I don’t have anyone” or anything like that. I don’t wear black in protest, or mourning, or whatever that’s supposed to signify.

Here’s my deal: It’s NOT ROMANTIC, homies! St. Valentine was a martyr! While incarcerated he wrote notes to the jail-keeper’s daughter and signed them “your” – as was common even in Jane Austen’s day – which gave us the phrase “your Valentine”. …at least that’s the popular one of many saints Valentine. February 14 celebrates the date of his burial. Happy Valentine’s Day, ya’ll!

Besides, if you love someone, do you really need a special day to tell them? Haven’t you already told them? Don’t you show them in myriad ways? If not, shame on you. Doing something special on Valentine’s Day is a cop-out. How much nicer when it’s a surprise for no reason!

So okay, a lot of people might appreciate a “gimme” holiday that basically tells you what to do and how to celebrate. Fine. But really? Named after - and celebrated on -  the day a MARTYR was BURIED? Let’s call it what it is: Happy “Hallmark Totally Made This Up” Day. Or, my personal favorite: Happy “Anniversary of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre” Day. Heehee. Did I mention I used to live in Chicago?

I’m wracking my brain, and I don’t think I’ve actually been in a relationship on the fake holiday. But then, if I was involved with someone who decided to “do something special” on that day, I would probably get up and walk out of the restaurant, or otherwise ruin all the careful planning. Because really, if we’re together, you KNOW this about me. You KNOW I find this holiday trite and phony and a waste of time and money. So if you have made the colossal mistake of attempting “romance” (key point: I’m not romantic, either - at least not in a traditional way) then you MUST be hinting that it’s time for our relationship to end.

I actually have a commitment – not romantic, and not one-on-one – tomorrow night, so it’s a non-issue for me. But when I get home? Sweats and the movie “Some Like It Hot” which opens in Chicago and includes reference to the massacre in question.

And maybe pizza.

And a beer.

Ah, romance!

To all those who also are not celebrating this martyr: You're welcome for the logical excuse.

Are they Perverts? And is it Anyone's business?

You ever wonder about people? Like you just. don't. know?

A while back, while I was dog-sitting, Jackson and I came upon a very sweet couple while we were out for our walk. The couple recognized Jackson and stopped to chat, inquired after my hosts, and finally said, "We're in that house if you need anything," and pointed to the ONE HOUSE that consistently showed no activity!

THAT house??

I'd been very curious about that house.

So wary cautious curious, in fact, that I never once took a picture of the property, lest they be horrible gangsters serial killers vampires criminals who would be sure I never showed my face again.

~~~~~
Now, during our daily, 3-mile walks, I observed various activity in the neighborhood: cars coming and going, landscaping, neighbors talking, dogs out or back inside... but in 16 walks, only that one house showed no such activity. Not so much as a trash can taken to the curb and then removed.

I had often mused about the property this sweet couple claimed: Typical 5-acre(ish) rolling lawn leading back to a pond, nice brick-and-stone ranch-style house, hmm - the back corner of the house leads to a chain-link-fenced in yard...with a small house opening to the other side of the fenced-in yard...? Why does that small house have a garage door? there's no driveway. Maybe these are "those quiet neighbors" who "no one would guess" secretly are serial killers or child molesters. that's their torture room!
...Remember in the movie "9 to 5" when they kept the boss on a leash tied to a garage door? Yeah. I'm thinking that.

Oh! And there's a creepy, ancient, derelict-looking shack on the back-end of the property, down the slope and almost in the woods. "KEEP PADDLING! I HEAR BANJO MUSIC!"

Yoiks.

Nope. Not taking a picture of that place.
~~~~~

I don't always trust my character-assessment of others, but this couple was over 50, sort of "comfortably filled out" like a lot of grandparenty-types, and so sweet together that... well, I can't say they looked like they'd been married forever, maybe it was a late-life romance, but they just seemed so loving that I immediately revised my assessment of the "serial killer" house.

...wait for it...

THAT'S NOT A TORTURE ROOM, IT'S A SEX-PARTY ROOM!
There's no dog collar attached to a garage-door opener, but one of those sling-harness things that I have no idea what you do with! (you know, like in that scene in Sex and the City?)
Maybe they're into S&M! They have to keep all the sexy stuff in a separate building for when the kids and grandkids visit!
Her patent leather spiked boots and merry-widow, and his leopard-print thong would be a big shocker to a 12 year old boy...or his 32 year old mother.
Ooohh...and that shack must be where the real rough toys are stored...the leather hood, the whips and handcuffs...

Because, dudes, Love has no limits. You cannot judge a book by its white-haired cover. The most grandmotherly woman you know may be a wild animal behind closed doors, and that sweet old guy holding her hand may have to play lion-tamer after dark. Or vice versa, who can say?

Embrace your inner-animal...or get someone who will do it for you!

...and now I will laugh, and leave you to question the motives of your neighbors and family members. MWAHahaha!

Love Hurts

I really fell for Brett. Really.
Like, yesterday.

I was at my parents' for a Labor Day cookout, and my phone rang. I was in the living room, but my phone was in the kitchen, and as I rushed in there I tripped over my dad's footstool and stumbled. I tried to right myself, but...

(image: plungede.org)

You know, this exact thing happened the first time I did a Polar Bear Plunge: You rush headlong at the surf, and as soon as you get to the point where you are no longer picking up your feet higher than the water, the water slows your feet, but your body continues with its original momentum. Next thing you know, you're on your knees rolling in the 40* surf.

...yeah. That, except this time "the surf" was a footstool. Dudes, I wish I had this on video. It had to be grand. As my feet tried to catch up to my body, I may or may not have been flailing my arms like a cartoon character running off a cliff. I saw my life flash before my eyes, but not the past, just the next few seconds: In an instant I saw exactly how this would end, and I was right. But not on the carpeted living room. No. In my few flailing steps from the footstool, I had crossed into the kitchen area. I bounced off my mom's gorgeous, Brazilian cherry-wood floor. Well, not bounced exactly. I left a skidmark. It was pretty gross. Back in the kitchen after cleaning up my oozey knee in the bathroom, I noticed a streak on the gorgeous Brazilian cherry-wood about an inch wide and two-and-a-half feet long. I asked Mom if that was from me and she laughed and said, "It must be. I just did the floors this morning." (Funny, Mom.)

EEWWW! Dudes, there were bits and pieces of my skin all along this trail. My skin belongs on me, not on the floor! Granted, it's not like my leg was lying next to me at an obscene angle, but yuck. (That's a link to Jamie R. Hawkins' debut post. Read it. It's pretty detailed.)

But I didn't notice the track I left until later. Initially, I just glanced down and saw that yes, there was loose skin and blood on my knee, and then attended to the phone. It was Brett. Of course I had to answer with "I really fell for you, Brett!" hahaha

Now Brett, fully aware that I fell for him some time ago, was clearly trying to sort that out. After a brief, confused-sounding chuckle, he must have decided that the logic was beyond him, and said, "Um...what?"

Yeah, it's a lame pun, but how often does the opportunity come to show off battle scars from the game of love?

(just for those of you tracking the jigsaw pieces of a total image of me.)

Seriously, Brett's right. I tumbled for him long ago. (Starting in March, I figure.)
...feeling lost? I added a page about our "Saga" above.

I know a lot of you have enjoyed watching this relationship develop. Believe me, it has been unexpected for me. Gloriously unexpected. Nothing about us is "normal". THANK GOD! Normal means dating.

I'm not huge on the whole dating scene. A couple years ago I made a conscious decision that it wasn't worth my time anymore. Too phony. What is a date? Two people going out to do (usually) something in a manufactured setting, and trying to impress each other. Occasionally I've stuck it out long enough to try to get beyond the "impress each other" phase, but frankly, if I see a red flag, I'm gone. What's the point? I'm comfortable on my own; I don't require romance, but if I'm going through the agony of dating, isn't it subconsciously with the hope expectation that there is a deeper relationship coming? If I see a red flag and know it's something I can't deal with, why keep wasting both our time?

Extreme? I don't think so.

I've never understood women who love a man "except". "He'd be perfect if only..." "I love him except for..." Yeah, I had a friend who was with the man who perfectly complemented her in every way...but he cheated on her. Repeatedly. Dude. RED FLAG! I'm not looking for a project. If I see a red flag, that is my exit sign.



(image: ktvn.com)


Brett and I have actually talked about red flags. ...apparently our openness to discuss whether or not we have any direct issues with each other is weird.

We've been asked by our friends and family about any red flags we may have noticed.
We've asked each other what kinds of things we might not yet know about each other (living habits, etc.) that could become a red flag down the road.

...My teenage niece said it would be my genetic necessity to be right. Guess what? Brett has that necessity, too. We have very entertaining discussions without ever getting angry.
It's stimulating.
It's awesome.
...It's rare. Usually guys trying to impress me don't try to argue with me. Very boring of them.

Somehow, the fact that we both were blogging from different areas of the country made it possible for us to be instantly beyond the "trying to impress" phase. There's none of that. When my geographic situation changed and we met, we were left with instant compatability, instant affection, instant attraction, instant synchronicity.

It's bizarre.
It's stunning.
It's delightful. And a little scary.

Love hurts...but only physically. My advice? Walk, don't run, when the phone rings.

Red (& Brett's) Secret Squirrel Squad

If you’ve been following my blog, you may realize that no person who knows me in real life is aware of my blog. (There are reasons they aren’t allowed in, but that’s not what this is about.) Since they are not here, nobody who knows me knows about my internet fiancé, Brett. (If you missed the original post that started this, check this out and don’t forget the comments.)

That started what has turned into a wild, emotional, roller-coaster ride bridging the gap between reality and cyberspace. When we started talking about meeting, I decided to let my mom know this was going on. Not because it was such a big deal yet, but because if things progress to the point where it becomes a big deal it would only be fair that she had a heads up. (you can read that story here ) As you can see in that post, I left it to her discretion whether she thought it was worth troubling my dad about it.

I now had a Secret Squirrel who was in the know and supportive! It’s very hard to hold onto something like this all alone.

Two weeks ago I went to the symphony with my best friend Aphrodite. On the way up she saw the picture of the now-famous flowers,

which is the background on my phone, and asked who they were from and I gave her the whole story. She laughed a lot, not at me, but at some of the exchanges like the whole “axe-murder” thing, and at the concept of ME of all people in this kind of situation. (I am well-known for being defiantly single. I conscientiously avoid romantic entanglements. So this situation was cause for her enjoyment.)

With Aphrodite in the mix, I had just expanded my Secret Squirrel network to two. Better and better. And Aphrodite is a better sounding board, because she’s here all the time and of the right generation.

The other night at dinner, as I said here, I couldn’t help but mention this situation to The Nurse, because otherwise she was going to urge me into the Indianapolis dating scene. (Dating is torture, people TORTURE!...oh wait, The Nurse did play Nurse Ratched recently...) She didn’t take the situation seriously at all, but she still counts as a Secret Squirrel. That’s three Secret Squirrels!

I like to imagine my Secret Squirrel Squad as Jedi Knights.
May the Force be with them!

Eventually, Mom did say something to Dad. All she told me about their conversation was that he was concerned that I’m “meeting strange men on the internet”. …I don’t know where my dad wants me to meet strange men, or how he could possibly guess that Brett might be “strange”, but apparently that was the concern.

I don’t think he counts as a Secret Squirrel, because he did not hear it from me. So I’m calling him The Mole.

Meanwhile, I have continued to be in regular contact with Brett. We are getting to know each other quite well, I think.

After thinking about it for a while, and not hearing anything directly from my dad, I decided maybe the time had come to broach the subject (and encourage him to put down the axe). I emailed him to let him know that I had done my due diligence in looking into Brett’s character. I stated in no uncertain terms my opinion that it’s a plus that this started growing with no consideration of physical attraction. Then I called Dad out:

Also, it occurs to me that you and mom met by mail, through a friend of a friend as I recall...or was that a friend of a friend of a friend?... and is that really so different after all?

For real! They wrote letters for I don’t know – a year? More? – before meeting. How's that for irony? (or is it ironic...I'll have to check The Oatmeal.)

I think my email helped. After telling my dad about the whole “axe-murderer” theme, his response was to remind me of the variety of rifles and shotguns he has. Haha, Dad!

But he’s still not a Secret Squirrel.

It’s really funny to me, and I think to Brett too, how non-serious this is to people in the real world, because of the “met on the internet” part. And yet I know we both have readers who LOVE this stuff and are rooting for us. YOU, my blogging buddies, are the real Secret Squirrels. And as much as we are trying to keep things off the internet, to separate cyberspace from reality, trust me: you know the facts!

To Live and Love in the Blogosphere

I feel so loved! With all apologies to my dear internet fiancé Brett, you’ve got some competition. I have a brand new lesbian lover!

Sarasaur (of Tangled Skein ) is back from a blog-hiatus and as she was catching up on my postings she left me this little gift in the Comments to “Of Axe Murderers… ”:

SarasaurMar 9, 2012 10:35 PM

The final line to this post makes me love you even more. If you didn't already have an internet fiance (who is probably not an axe-murderer)and I wasn't engaged in real life, and my bread was buttered that way, I'd propose myself.

The “final line” she’s referring to is:

If all my tight-knit defenses are the Death Star, then I just shot a photon torpedo into my own 2-meter thermal exhaust port. Doggone it.

Ah! Another Star Wars nerd! No one else seemed to catch my A-MAZing Star Wars metaphor. …of course, that post had a lot in it – my defense of my extreme caution, a stalker story – there were great comments even without a Star Wars recognition. (My fellow nerds apparently didn’t visit that day.)

But now, in addition to my intelligent, witty Internet Fiance, I have a witty, sci-fi nerd of a Lesbian Lover! Awesome. I mean, don’t get me wrong, to paraphrase Sara “My bread’s not buttered that way” but I’m honored all the same.

Come on ladies, we all do it! We have all had the thought “If I were a lesbian…” or wondered if we’d be attractive to the same sex. …uh, haven’t we all had that thought? Yes? No?

Maybe it’s me. There’s a large, active, gay community in my region, so it’s not an unlikely thought. Also, some of my oldest, dearest friends from my pre-Delaware days are gay or lesbian, and these friends are better at relationships than I am, so more power to them! …but this isn’t a political rant about gay marriage (...which I am for, in case you’re wondering).

Some personal observations:

A couple years ago, when a bunch of us were out for Cinco de Mayo, I walked in on a lesbian couple kissing – deeply – in the ladies’ room. It didn’t bother me, except that I had to squeeze to get around them.

Another time, working my “fun” retail job on Black Friday: sometime around o’dark-thirty, a couple girls – teens? Early 20s? – were following what seemed to be one of their mothers. The girls weren’t really shopping in our store, just waiting for mom. Clearly bored. Next thing I know, they’re all over each other.

Yes I watched, surreptitiously. It was fascinating! They were in my line of sight, and anyway – like any chick wearing a too-low top or a too-short skirt - if they didn’t want to be observed, they wouldn’t do it in public.

No, it didn’t turn me on.

…but it didn’t bother me, either. I had the stunning revelation that I would be more offended by a heterosexual couple groping each other in public. I don’t know why.

Most (straight) women my age have been married at least once by now. (Don't ask my age. I won't answer.) I just could never be bothered to put in the effort at a relationship. So I asked myself if maybe I was barking up the wrong tree. Maybe my gay and lesbian friends were waiting for me to notice something in myself that they already knew, but were too nice to force the issue.

So I forced the issue on myself: I sat in my silent house one evening, closed my eyes, and imagined. I have a good – some would say overactive – imagination. I imagined what it would be like to “be with” another woman. Open your mind, Red, would you like that? Could you do that?

…Nope. Sorry. Here’s the thing: I already have a full complement of girl-bits! What do I want another set for? Nah. Got my own; don’t need yours, lovely though they may be.

But the fact that two different people from two different sexes appreciate what I put down in this blog – enough to want to propose! – makes me warm and tingly all over. To be valued for what’s in my head …or more to the point, what’s spilling out of my head …Delicious!

I don’t mean to offend anyone (but if you’re offended, please comment!). I’m not judging – be with who you love! I adore my Lesbian Lover and Internet Fiance equally.

Next week: Who would win in a “virtual” cage fight: My Internet Fiance or my Internet Lesbian Lover?

p.s. Posts like this one are why my family’s not invited to my blog!