Vitamin C

Paul was sick with the flu for the better part of last week, plus the weekend but managed to buck up enough for V-Day. There's nothing like the opportunity for lovin' to make a man rise from his death bed sick bed.

I'm not entirely/partly/remotely sure why men turn into moaning groaning babies when they get sick. Paul was nursing a "bad" case of snuffles co-mingled with a dash of coughing. And a fever - Ooooo. But by the sounds of it [literally], he had leperacy or malaria.

Not that I think Paul was faking it or anything. He really was sick. He even finger blew his nose in the shower. But I question the degree of sickness, of Paul, or any man. When a hang-nail can morph into flesh-eating disease, you need to distance yourself and stop encouraging any man-baby behaviour. I mean come on, child birth anyone?

I have the sinking senstation the flu is making a come back, and I'm numero uno on the hit list. So, I've been taking some preemptive action, mainly by boning up on my vitamin C's - coffee and chocolate. No moaning, no groaning. Just proactive kick-assness instead of reactive sorry-assness.

Now what's so hard about that?

Can You Keep A Secret?

Ahhhh…this is the life. Right now I’m in my bedroom sitting on the chaise typing. I’m half-cuddled half-lounging on said chaise with a black faux fur throw. My wine glass is on the window sill beside me. Did I mention I’m typing? On a laptop! I like the little clicky clicky noise the keys make when I type. It’s very Carrie a la Sex In The City.

Mary (aka Undercover Mother) had suggested, no, implored me to get a laptop because my posts were dwindling down to infrequent dribble. Coincidentally my bank just upped the credit limit on my visa, so I debated maxing it out again just so I could have the luxury of writing a post whenever (and more importantly wherever) I wanted. I could have a whole post category for “bathroom posts”. Or “posts written while eating mustard.” The possibilities are endless really.

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, to max out my credit card. I KNOW.

So instead, Paul brought home his laptop from work. Now I can have the thrill of typing in odd mustard enabling locations without the credit crunch. There’s only one catch…

I had to promise not to open any documents because there’s secret government stuff on Paul’s laptop. I KNOW.

So the first thing I thought was…there’s got to be ex-girlfriend stuff on here. And probably porn. When Paul said, “You need to promise not to open any documents on there,” was that guyspeak for “You need to promise not to snoop on there”?

Resist. Resist. But then, I saw it. The Recycle Bin, out of the corner of my eye. All full of electronic papery goodness. Taunting me. Resist. Resist. Might. Be. Secret. Government. Documents.

I HAD to peak (like you wouldn’t). And technically I didn’t break my promise. Because not once did I look at any documents. I only checked out the pictures. And technically I didn’t look AT them. I just changed the view to “thumbnails” so I could see without getting all double clicky. [Besides, I tried double clicking on them and FYI you have to restore things from the Recycle Bin if you want to view them].

And sure enough…there were pictures of his ex-girlfriends. And me. All parts of Paul’s life mixed up together. What did he see in them? It’s beyond me. Not that I have the best ex-boyfriend hall of fame. One of the differences between us is I have deleted, burned, tossed, and pawned almost every ex-boyfriend related memento I had. All part of the getting-over-your-ass philosophy I practiced (except the jewelry - my momma didn’t raise no fool). Paul’s more of a ho-hoarder. Exhibit A: our second date. It started to rain. I was dressed in a mini and a tee. Paul gave me a sweater to borrow, to stay warm. It was three sizes too big for me. But it was his “cousin’s” so I didn’t say a word. I quickly learned that “cousin” was Paul’s early dating code word for ex-girlfriend. The sweater was donated to charity (but I kept a pair of “her” designer sunglasses – my momma didn’t raise no fool).

Is it weird that I know the names of Paul’s ex-girlfriends but he couldn’t name one of mine (my ex-husband excluded)? I know how many girls Paul has slept with but he has never asked me how many guys I’ve been with. Maybe girls are just born with the need-to-know gene while guys remain oblivious. I’m sure Darwinism isn’t putting it high on the list of must-haves.

And yes, there was porn.

Caveman Is As Caveman Does

Last night Paul and I went to a "Black Shirt Party" at his coworker's apartment.

When we arrived the ratio of women to men was 6 to 1, with Paul being the lone male. The lone wolf. The alpha male. We made ourselves at home on a nice large ottoman. We chatted, we laughed, we watched one of the party-goers demonstrate how she can put both her legs behind her head at the same time. I kid you not. And, it's not as impressive as it sounds. Ok, it actually doesn't even sound impressive, just a whole lotta hussy.

About a half hour later, the number of men climbed to 2 with the addition of another of Paul's [married] coworkers. I opted to move to a chair because my back was not digging ottoman style sitting. We chatted, we laughed, we watched the bendy party-goer almost fall out of her shirt every time she inhaled.

Twenty minutes later, the number of men was at an all-evening high of 4 when single guy #1 and #2 arrived. I was still in my chair and Paul was still on the ottoman nearby. Quicker than you can say "caveman" Paul put his hand on my leg. Ok, a not-so-subtle mark-your-girl move. The guys mixed their drinks in the kitchen and then joined the rest of the party goers in the livingroom. Paul leaned over, way over, so he was leaning into my lap. I was worried that at any moment he was going to start peeing around me.

I guess the ways of the caveman (or canine) are alive and leaning.

Moving On Up

Packing and purging. Purging and packing. Two of my favorite past times. While I consider myself a veteran packer (I've had lots of practice living in more than 13 different rentals). But this time it's different. I'm moving to something (and someone) and not away from something (or someone).

At the same time. I'm rusty as hell. I haven't lived with a man since my first husband. Ten years and a whole lot of personal development later (read: therapy) I feel ready to try this whole living with a man thingy. But not just any man. Paul.

My stuff is being sorted into "keep", "sell" and "throw" piles (the sell pile is very very large). Unlike when I left my husband, I opted to take it all and leave him with only a wok and a spice rack (which is unfortunate since the wok was a wedding present from my aunt and she's never let me forget that my ex was enjoying sweet and sour chicken balls because of her. And because I really liked that spice rack!). I was hoping my ex-husband would realize over thyme and basil what a cheating, money-wasting jerk he was while he slept on the floor.

This time I am opting to resurrect the local economy with a huge yard sale featuring most of my belongings. It's just stuff after all. Whoa. Who said that? Was that me? Interesting.

It's scary and fun. Scary fun. In a good way. Not like when you're watching a horror movie and the blonde chick decides to check out the noise downstairs [Why DO they do that?]. It's more like taking a chance on something that is so worth it.

I have no doubt there will be moving pains. I don't live in a fairy tale. Although I do have a fondness for glass slippers and frogs. But think of all the delicious stories I'll have for blog posts. Bruhahahaha.

The Great Dick-bate

Me: "Let's rent 27 Dresses this weekend (the movie, and not actually renting 27 dresses)!"
Paul: "Sounds like a chick flick. Iron Man is at the theatre. I was thinking of taking Aidan for some male bonding. You could come too."
Me: "Hmmm...sounds like a dick flick. I think I'll opt for the inevitable taffeta filled music montage."

And somewhere, Thelma and Louise give a high five.

Today's Post Is Brought To You By The Letter "E" (as in Eeeeeew)

Today is Monday. It's undeniably Monday.

So far I've managed to fall into a large drizzle bordering on puddle of unrine (most likely NOT my own) during a code one hovering manuever in the bathroom. Paul, funny enough, didn't know about the art of hovering until I filled him in.

Note to guys: "hovering" is a term used to describe the multitasking feat of defying physics, maintaining kung fu-esque balance while posed in muscle cramping/leg shaking squat form by ladies when urinating. Coined because we "hover" over the bowl and do not make skin to porcelin contact with the lid (or with anything else for that matter). And depending on how much water you drink, can be quite the workout.

Sometimes I don't think you guys know how lucky you are. Just for one day I'd like to know what it was like to stand, point and pee. Or write my name in the snow. You do that, right? Just like we girls have pillow fights in our underwear at sleepovers.

Misunderstandings With Paul, #1

Ah...the joys of PMS. It's a different variation of the same torture for each woman. But I think it really helps if you have an attentive and understanding boyfriend.

Me: "My boobs feel like bricks."
Paul: "Your poop feels like bricks!?!?"