75 Days Remaining
It's not usual, these days, for me to sit down and work on blogging two days in a row. It is also not usual for me to begin a blog post when I have no real idea what I want to say, or a basic sense of the format in which I want to say it. But the weekend is over, the kids are at their dad's (I have an early start for my practicum tomorrow morning), and I've downed a rum & Coke rather too quickly, so here I am...with some rum & Coke musings for you. Be warned: I have no idea what I'm going to say, so this may shape up to be either the most boring post of the lot, or the most interesting one of all. Perhaps I should pour myself another one (I'm seriously a lightweight when it comes to the stuff) and we'll see what kind of nutso garbage comes out of my fast-typing fingers when I'm a little north of tipsy!
One: Rum & Cokes made with the amazing Bermuda black rum that my landlord left in the cupboard (hey, he lives in Bermuda; I'm sure he can get more over there) are really quite delicious.
Two: Why did my son's freakin' dog have to puke twice and poop once on the carpet the first day he actually spent some time in the new house, and why does the carpet stain remover seem to be actually changing the color of the carpet and making it look worse than the puke and poop did?
Three: Somebody needs to take that garbage out. It reeked when I walked down the stairs (well, at least it did until the automatic air freshener poofspat some lovely vanilla scent into the air). Why don't I have someone to do that for me?
How long has it been since I've had a man in my life who actually took the garbage out for me? I mean, I don't necessarily subscribe to the idea that it's a man's job (if I did, my house would sure smell a whole lot worse than it does right now) but it sure would be nice to have that. It's not the garbage, of course; it's everything. I miss being in a partnership. Actually, I don't think I've ever had a real partnership. Not the kind I long for, anyway.
I'm thinking back on my posts throughout this blog and I'm glad to say there haven't been too many when I've lamented the lack of a man in my life. My most-read post is Love in the Petting Zoo (at last count, 837 pageviews, which I couldn't for the life of me understand until a friend pointed out that people think it's a pornographic post. Yay me - not). In that post, I got a little more sappy than I usually do in this blog, and I really think out of the entire 73 posts that I've made thus far, it's probably the only one (with the possible exception of But Don't You Miss SEX?!?) where I really talked about how much I miss being one half of a whole. Or...one whole with someone else. Or something like that. This rum is yum.
But why not be honest about that???? Yes, I'm happy that I've taken the time to be on my own. Yes, I'm thrilled with some of the things I've learned about myself and about God and about men and what I want/need/don't want/definitely must stay away from...but my bed is still empty. And it's been empty for a long, long time. I'm lonely for that special someone who will always be there for me. I miss the days of fighting over bed covers and arguing over who would get up with the kids in the morning. I miss having flowers delivered to my place of work and grinning at my co-workers in delight because I belong to someone (okay, that only happened once, but still). I love being part of a partnership. I've waited a long time and I've spent too much energy and emotion on people who just weren't the right ones for me. (Does it still count as "waiting" when you're focusing too much on the wrong person and pretending that the quasi-semi-pseudo relationship he's allowing you to have with him is a real one, when you know deep down inside that it definitely isn't? Probably not...so I've wasted, not just waited, a long time.) And I know that I'm likely to wait a whole lot longer and that SUCKS. Sometimes, at least. It really does.
In church this morning they asked, as they always do, for prayer requests. I put up my hand and asked that my fellow believers would pray for me in the area of patience - specifically, when it comes to relationships. I'm such a romantic that I still believe that my knight in shining armor (dented armor, sure, but it shines real good when you polish it) is hanging out just around the corner, and every guy who expresses interest in me has the potential to be that guy. That's not to say that I don't have more discernment than I used to; I certainly have an easier time sorting the wheat from the chaff. The muck from the melons. What does that even mean? I think I just made up a new expression but I kind of like it - except that it does not pertain to me, since I can't stand melons. I also like the new word I came up with in the fifth paragraph from the top: "poofspat". Yeahhhaahh, that has a nice ring to it. Well, that is what those air freshener thingies do, isn't it? They "poofspit"? Anyway, I feel as though I've spent so much time being on the lookout for someone who would fulfill my Prince Charming wishlist.
So I asked for patience. Part of me is scared that I will actually receive patience, and then it will take that much longer for my future husband to come to me, simply due to the fact that I'm not parked around the corner stalking him and cooking him really enticing meals in order to lure him in! Yet, in my situation now, and in general - because it has always been something I struggle with - most of me really does want patience. And of course, it has to do with being on a dating hiatus (and, let's face it, just trying to date in general in this town!), but more than that, it has to do with my Michelin Man. I'm falling for him more every day and it's...really nice. But he's so far away and I don't know when I'll get to see him. Plus, even if I got to see him tomorrow, we're still thousands of miles and three years of classes away from being able to find a real way to be together, if that's what we decide to do. So patience - whether I'm still waiting for my dented prince (am I mixing metaphors? who cares; I'm slightly inebriated), or if Mitch Michelin is that prince and I've already found him - is an absolute necessity. And I don't want to wait much longer to fight over the covers with someone! And I definitely don't want to wait much longer for him to take out the disgusting kitchen garbage. Come on, baby; get over here and take my garbage out.
Incidental Aside: Hey, I learned something new after my post two posts back: The Michelin Man actually has a name: it's Bibendum. Apparently that is common knowledge in the UK, but I had no idea what it meant when a friend of mine - in a private message commenting on said post - referred to Mitch as Bibendum. I had to Google it to find out what he was talking about! I would change the name and start calling Mitch "Bibendum" if I didn't think it would confuse people too much...but I might just start calling him Bibendum on occasion, just for the fun of it. It's a fun word: say it a few times. Bibendum. Bibendum. (If it doesn't seem very fun, go drink two rum & Cokes - or, if you're not a lightweight like I am, it may take a few more extra strength ones - and then try again. I promise it will be more entertaining. Send me a video of yourself saying Bibendum over and over while drunk. Hee hee.)
Dog puke. Garbage. Stretching my leg over onto the cold empty side of the bed when I should be meeting the warm fuzzy leg of the man who loves me (Bibendum Bibendum Bibendum...maybe). Loving words through Facebook or text message or email that tell me that I mean something to someone...but the emptiness of the air when I shut my eyes and wish for a kiss. These things make patience very, very difficult to come by. But still, I ask for it, and I know that someday I will be rewarded for it.
This blog post brought to you by Black Seal Bermuda Black Rum...and a happy heart that still aches to be a little less lonely, and needs to express it every once in a while.