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Random thoughts from a woman in love

So – there I was, ready to go.  A mug of coffee in each hand, books tucked under my arm, shoes nowhere in site when my dog asked me, “Wanna race?”  I looked him up and down.  He wriggled his ears and grinned at me.  “I know I can beat you. Only,  it’s not fair of you to tell me to ‘wait’ at the top of the stairs.  You know I can’t resist the ‘wait’ command.  It’s so…hypnotizing.” he said.   I shrugged my shoulders.  “Okay.  I’ll be fair.  Ready…set…go!”

Off we ran with me in the lead as we exited the bedroom and turned left towards the stairs.  He was gaining on me as I reached the first step, but I knew how to slow him down:  I stopped mid-step.  He stopped.  He was confused. Were we or weren’t we going downstairs?  He turned back toward the bedroom thinking, “She must have forgotten something…again.  Her age is definitely showing.”  I hopped on down the stairs.  I heard his feet slide on the hardwood floor as he realized he’d been duped and turned on his heel.

He barked and raced down the stairs after me, gaining ground quickly.  With just 5 steps to go, he was at my side.  He body-checked me into the banister, and leaped past me for the win.  He skidded at the base of the stairs and slammed into the front door, but he didn’t care.  He had won!  Victory was finally his!

Meanwhile, back on the stairs, I couldn’t regain my balance after that vicious body-check.  I raised my arms out to my sides to help, fully forgetting that I had several books under my arm and two mugs of lukewarm coffee in my hands.  The books bounced unceremoniously down the stairs as coffee painted a lovely abstract image on my cream-colored walls.  I dropped the coffee mugs in a desperate attempt to stave the fall, but my bare feet suddenly slipped out from beneath me. I fell butt-first on the 4th step, bounced without a bit of grace down the remaining steps, and landed on the oak floor with a loud bang.

And that, dear reader, is how I managed to herniate my L3, L4, L5 and S1 discs last week.  Do you know any good taxidermists? One that works with the canine species?

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My son, Jeff, is an Eagle Scout and an Assistant Scout Leader for his troop now that he is 23 years old.  I am extremely proud of him, not only for his accomplishments as a scout, but also for the man he has become and his general approach to life and his friends and family.  As I saw an elderly man panhandle at a traffic light the other night,  I flashed back to one of those moments where my son completely and absolutely amazed me to the point of tears.

At the wise old age of 16, Jeff asked me to stop at Safeway to get a snack for him and his friend Chris before they headed off to Castle Rock to go rock climbing.  He had his allowance burning a hole in his pocket.  I stopped at the store, and watched as the boys walked through the parking lot.  They passed a man who was sitting on the curb in front of the store holding a sign that said “Homeless and hungry. Can you help?”  The boys greeted him with a nod as they walked by.

I noticed that most people passing this man on the curb ignored him. Oh, how I hate that.  I thought, “At least acknowledge his existence, even if you can’t or won’t help him.”  Everyone should be treated with dignity, regardless of their circumstance.

As I began to search my cavernous purse for the Safeway gift card I had won at work, the boys came back out of the store.  Jeff stopped next to the man on the curb, handed him the bag of groceries he was carrying and then shook his hand.  What Jeff said to the man, I will never know, but it resulted in a smile and a laugh from the man as he said to Jeff, “God bless you. God bless you.”  I know my son said, “Thank you.  He already has!”  That’s his standard response when someone says that to him.  He and Chris returned to the car, empty-handed but smiling.

Jeff said, “That was cool.” as he dropped into the front seat.  I asked him what happened.  He said he didn’t feel right getting “junk food” after seeing the guy sitting at the curb, so he got a whole cooked chicken and some fruits and vegetables to give him  “I can wait until dinner, mom.  He looked like he hasn’t had a good dinner for a while.” Then, because I was getting teary eyed, he frowned at me and muttered, “It was the right thing to do, okay?  Can we go now?”  And that was it.  I let it go because Jeff didn’t want to talk about it anymore.  So on to Castle Rock we drove, listening to alt rock at a decibel that sent shock waves through my system and nearly made my ears bleed, but I didn’t care.  My son was becoming a good man with a kind heart.  I could suffer a little loud music for him that day.

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As I work toward rekindling the creativity I once had, I am reading others writings, looking for inspiration. So many writers offer inspiration in unexpected ways. The fact that one woman wrote a blog about not having an excuse for not writing her blog was inspiring. (Huh? Read it again – it’ll make sense eventually.)  She kept on going despite her lack of (desire, energy, inspiration?) to do so. That “Never give up, never surrender” attitude is inspiring and encouraging to me.

One of my favorite bloggers wrote today about how he fuels his inspiration to write, and another wrote about writing a journal as a way to improve your writing skills. Both were well-written essays that made me think about what inspires me, and helped to brush some of the cob webs from the right side of my brain. Somewhere underneath all that dust and clutter is a creative ember glowing and waiting to spark. I just need to apply the right fuel to feed the ember. *sigh* Is chocolate a combustible?

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Steve and I are taking ballroom dance lessons. *sigh* Not an easy thing for a woman who was officially certified as a klutz by her ballet-dancing sisters and who is so shy, she blushes at the thought of dancing with strangers.

At our second lesson, we “warmed up” with a cha-cha.  Ummmm…that’s not a warm-up, that’s a guaranteed way to get me to quit. It was too much like…exercise!   Five minutes into the warm-up and I was sweating.  Steve was grinning from ear to ear, dancing his big ol’ heart out.  Being the trooper (read: sucker) that I am, I continued cha-cha-ing with gusto.

Finally, the music stopped.  I was tired.  Already.  How on Earth was I going to keep dancing for the next 50 minutes? Steve smiled and leaned over to whisper in my ear, “I am so happy right now. I’ve wanted to do this for 36 years, and I finally have someone who wants to learn with me.  You are doing great!”  Okay – that’s how.  I couldn’t quit after hearing those words from him.  And he did look very happy.  He had such a cute, goofy grin on his face and his blue eyes sparkled.  He was in his element.

The instructor yelled “Gentlemen, grab your partner.  Let’s waltz.”  Steve grabbed my hand; put his other hand on my back, and, whoosh!  I was in his arms.  The music started, and we were waltzing.  The man can dance.  I followed him, trying my best to look graceful.   I forgot I was tired and just enjoyed sharing the music with him.

I got to waltz with him for a whole 2 minutes, and, then, the dreaded “Switch your partners!” was called.  Steve handed me over to the man next to us with a quick, “Bye honey!” as the woman to his right eagerly stepped up to him.

Wait! I’m not ready!  I stepped up to my new partner – my shyness-gene went into red-alert status.  Stranger danger!  He smiled and said, “Hello, care to waltz?”  I blushed, as I tend to do, and gingerly placed my left hand on his shoulder as he took my right hand.  Okay.  Breathe. This will not kill me.   The music started, we began to dance.  1, 2, 3; 1, 2, 3.  Hey!  I was dancing! With a stranger, no less.   And the world had not ended.

For the next 45 minutes, I danced with every man in the room, except Steve.  I was learning new steps to combine with that 1,2,3 box step, and I was “getting” it, to a degree.  I hadn’t stepped on anyone’s toes, I was tired, but I felt good, and I could do the reverse turn quite well.

The call for last dance came up, and we got to go back with our “mate”.  Finally!  I scurried back to where Steve stood with a gaggle of women who were flirting shamelessly with him (happens all the time – he’s hard to resist).  The gaggle scattered and Steve took my hand.  “Ready, baby? Let’s show them how it’s done.”   (See why I love this man?)  Up went his right hand, forming a perfect bridge, his left hand pressed firmly on my back, elbow out.  The music played, and we danced and twirled across the room as he led me through the new steps we had learned.  Brilliant!  It was as if we had waltzed together all of our lives.  I was in heaven.  The music ended much too soon.  Our instructor smiled, pointed at the two of us, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen – please watch this couple dance.  Their feet understand the music. Lovely!”  He played the waltz again, and we danced for our class.  Look ma! I’m dancing!  I am not a klutz anymore.

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I love lingerie.  So much so, I have officially run out of space in my little townhouse to store it all.  There is no more room at the inn. My armoire, specifically selected to house my lingerie, overfloweth.  And – I was told by the love of my life that it is time to edit my collection.  WHAT?  How on Earth am I supposed to do that?  Not one piece of lingerie in my home is extraneous – I wear it all and don’t keep any items for just “special occasions” (ok – that’s not entirely true. I only wear the red bra and panties with the white feather trim during the Christmas season, and the Halloween sets are only worn in October). Other than that, I rotate the lingerie routinely so all have an equal opportunity wearing.

My lingerie makes me feel good – pretty.  I can wear a grungy t-shirt and jeans to work in the garden, but I feel pretty because I know that underneath that grunge is a pink and black lace bra with matching panties.  Everybody sing! “I feel pretty. Oh so pretty. I feel pretty, and witty and gay. And I pity any girl who isn’t me today. I feel charming. Oh so charming. It’s alarming how charming I feel…”

Mind you, the man who told me it was “time to edit” has so much junk in the garage, we can only park one car in a garage big enough for 2 cars and a motorcycle!  He has two, count them, TWO 6-foot tall tool boxes.  I know there is a gadget in one of them that can only be used for one specific repair on his Mercedes.  He has used it ONCE and will probably not use it again for another 6 years, but it sits there, in that drawer, taking up space and looking very expensive (it was), while I make certain that MY stuff gets used regularly.

Something’s rotten in Denmark…would it be wrong to suggest he “edit” his toolboxes so that I can store some of my pretty things in it? Maybe I can re-purpose that Snap-on Toolbox to store my corsets and peignoirs.  Hmmmm…I think I’ll suggest the re-purposing over drinks tonight. I’ll serve them while I’m dressed in the little red silk organza negligée that started this whole “edit” idea.  That should work, don’t you think?

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Easter always puts me into such a happy frame of mind.  It’s a time for celebration of life…and, apparently, gaining 5 pounds thanks to Mr. Reeses and his peanut butter cup eggs.  Oy!

I find it very easy to resist candy and cookies during the Christmas holiday, but it’s a challenge for me on Easter.  Must be the colors…I love Easter colors.  They mean SPRING is here!  Yay! Yipee! Spring is here – let’s have some candy.  I should just skip a step and slather the chocolate and peanut butter directly onto my hips and thighs (I know someone who would LOVE that, but I digress to a topic that should not be discussed on a blog…)

How do people do it? I see peanut butter and chocolate, or solid chocolate eggs or Peeps or…and I want them.  OMG! Peeps! Little bites of heavenly sugar and marshmallowy goodness.  Do they make them low cal? Or no-cal? Nooooooo! What would be the fun of that?  It’s fun to see the fat lady who has managed to lose 8 lbs in two weeks put them right back on!  The love of my life manages to say “no” after just one small piece of candy. That is so wrong. And so unfair.  He can afford to add on a pound or two, but he doesn’t because, as he likes to joke, “That would ruin my girlish figure.”  Smartass.

So – how do you manage to resist temptation? What makes you step away from the candy dish so no one gets hurt? What’s your motivation?  I need ideas, people, because getting into “bikini shape” is so not going to happen.

HTML!  That’s how I greet the love of my life when I send him a text message.  It means “Hi there, my love!   He said he loves that I do that – it makes him feel good and it’s “code” – every guy loves secret codes.

It’s hard sometimes to put into words how much I love this man.  He’s a gentle giant. His plate-sized hands are so large that I have to hold three of his fingers rather than his whole hand when we walk together (mind you – I am 5’9″ tall – not exactly a petite femme).   His physical presence is intimidating to many people, especially the teenage friends of his son, which makes me laugh inside because he is such a kind and gentle man.  Our two cats adore him, to the point where they follow him around the house and yard like puppies, tripping over themselves trying to be the closest one to him. Even my dog loves him – hard not to love the one who “accidentally” drops that forbidden piece of bacon on the floor next to you…

He’s a hugger-extraordinaire.  My friends tend to come back for “just one more hug” from him before they leave our home. His baritone laugh fills the room, and his smile makes my heart skip a beat.  My sisters all think he’s the best thing that has happened to me since…”Forever”, to quote my younger sister.  They have seriously questioned my choices in the past when it comes to men (they were right to do so – I have made some HUGE mistakes – HUGE, HUGE, HUGE mistakes.) All 3 of my sisters  adore him, of which he reminds me constantly.  Well, of course they do – He bakes them fresh sourdough bread and cinnamon raisin bread whenever we go to visit them.  Bribery with food works on my family.

He has kind, happy blue eyes complimented by deep laugh lines.  I noticed the other night (I discover new things about him daily) that he doesn’t have a frown line. Not even a hint of one.  Amazing! So, silly me – I commented on it.  His response was, “It’s been destroyed by all the smile lines you’ve created for me.”  No wonder I’m truly, madly and deeply in love with this man.  I told him I am keeping him.  Like it or not. He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine.

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