Attraction

There is this guy at work. Let's call him D. D is hilarious, and easy on the eyes. Not much taller than me, but dark-complexioned and always laughing at some dark joke. Educated. Intelligent. Cynical. Mmm, yeah.

Several of my colleagues have commented that they think he's attracted to me. I think so, too...his gaze lingers just a little too long. He always seems to find a reason to come to my department, though he works elsewhere. You know.

I have to admit, I am attracted back.

D invited T and I out to the bar last week. T hates bars, and tried to convince me to go alone. I did the right thing, and decided to stay in. I am not a cheater, and 'cheating' doesn't happen by accident, but a night of drinking and dancing just didn't seem like the right thing to do. It seemed more like an accident waiting to happen. Not that I said as much to T, but it felt like the only choice to make.


Yesterday, I had a home inspection. T was at work.

The inspector, G., was tall, well over 6 feet, and had M's auburn coloring, dark earnest eyes, and freckles. He smelled distractingly delicious. He spoke in a quiet, reassuring tone, sounding competent and calm and confident without coming off as cocky. He laughed big, though, deep and hearty.

G had long freckled fingers not sporting any rings. He was patient with my million questions, and my tagging along, poking around at furnace vents and wall outlets. He explained what he was doing and why, without being condescending. I followed him up the ladder and into the attic, and down under the crawlspace. That ass going up the ladder was...well, let's just say it was a hell of a view.

There were places where I had to be right in G's space in order to see the things he was pointing out. The air crackled, and it was hard to pay attention to the plumbing with his cologne and low voice. When a strong arm reached over, brushing my shoulder to point to the wiring...well, it wouldn't take much imagination to go from there to a cheap Harlequin story. In fact, my imagination had no trouble with that, at all.

I am not sure I have ever become 'not single' in my head. I did the right thing not going out with D, and refrained from asking G any personal questions, like did he have a girlfriend, or what was he doing later that night. I had to work at it, though. I keep hoping that at some point, I will be so madly in love that I stop noticing anyone else, but it hasn't happened yet...

Funerals

T's grandfather passed away a couple weeks ago. This week was the funeral.

I had not yet met T's extended family. I was quite concerned about being introduced to a highly religious bunch as T's live-in (in sin) 'special friend' in those sorts of circumstances.

After a whirlwind round of introductions at the funeral home, I decided to sneak out for a smoke. I say sneak because T has been hiding my habit from his family since I met them. I creep around like I am a teenager again, making excuses to be outdoors and out of sight. T's parents must believe by now that my dog is completely incontinent, and wonder why I take her everywhere...

So I was standing outside, smoke palmed, checking for parents before each drag. One of T's cousins, J, caught me. He asked if he could bum one. I handed it over, and told J he had to cover for me if any parents came out suddenly. He laughed and commented that at least we weren't smoking dope, then went on to say that if I was interested, he had some good BC bud in the car. I laughed like I thought he was joking, and he let the subject drop, but I felt a little better knowing that I wouldn't be the blackest sheep at the party.

After the burial, we were sitting in the holding pen at the church, where they make the family wait while they seat everyone else. Another of T's cousins came over, introducing himself to me, and saying he had a funny question to ask. He wanted to know if it would be okay if he used T's last name to refer to me in the eulogy, 'to make it easier for everyone to understand'. I started to get nervous again at that point.

I am terrible with names. Sitting in the holding pen, I was trying to use some fancy memory tricks to help me remember the names and relationships of the forty-six people in the room. I asked T to help me sort out who belonged with who. I asked him to tell me something memorable about each of his relatives. T is not very good at this game, in general, as he is not close with his family. However, T surprised me.

He started out pointing at a cousin. 'That guy's father is the one in the green shirt over there. But he's not really the father. The woman in the blue shoes, over there, was cheating on him, so neither of the kids looks like their 'dad'.

'The man over there is my sort-of uncle. Mom's sister was married to him for awhile, but he didn't make enough money, so she divorced him and married the British guy in the grey suit. He's a millionnaire'

'The gal with the little baby in the carrier over here...well, we just found out she was pregnant. Last week. The baby is about six days old. She likes to party, and we're not sure who the father is.'

I don't know why I try so hard to impress these people...

...And I don't know why I think 'religious' people would look down on me...

So anyways, the funeral went much as funerals do, and T and I came home and did some passionate affirming of life on the couch when we got home. Something about funerals does that to me every time...

...And I have to say, the family's less intimidating, somehow...

Kittens

I am now the not-so-proud owner of two kittens. They were accidental. I do not like kittens. At all. The combination of sick helpless things, terrible weather, and T being a bigger softie than me did me in, though.

T said he would deal with the litterbox.

T found the litterbox too dusty, and in a place where he never remembered to scoop it.

Your faithful author moved said litterbox, drove an hour to get no-dust litter, reminded T twice a day, then gave up and did it herself.

The next fight we had was about me being sick of being everybody's mother. I have chosen not to have kids (so far), so I don't understand how I get stuck in the role of coddling and/or supervising the people around me. I told him I was sick of having to do everything, or make sure he was doing it. I am sick of having to remind people to do things that they should just up and do for themselves. I am sick of having all the responsibility. I used the litterbox for an example.

"But I've been scooping it twice a day" he said.

I started yelling at that point.

Roles

I think I have mentioned before that I am not a girly girl. I am an indifferent housekeeper, and I am only a good cook because I like eating. I tried sewing, once, when I was fourteen. After stitching my hand to the shirt I was trying to make, I gave up and took woodworking in school.

I don't think I've ever really even had a girly job. I was a waitress, once, for about a week. A customer decided to grab my ass. That customer wore his very hot coffee home. I got fired, but it was worth it.

My current job includes un-girly aspects such as playing with guns and yelling at people. I don't really like it, but it pays better than waitressing.

My car needed an oil change last week. I had the filter and a case of oil sitting in the trunk, but I was being lazy about it, mostly because it is starting to get cold out, and the weather had been windy and rainy. It got to be pretty critical, though, as I was well over the recommended 5,000 kilometers, and T and I were planning a trip home, which adds another 1,000.

I spoke to a girlfriend at work and arranged to use her garage on Thursday. I mentioned it to T when I got home from work. T cocked his head.

"Shouldn't I be doing that?"

"Do you know how?" I replied

I guess that wasn't the most political thing to say, but T just isn't that type. I'm sure he could do mechanics, but he doesn't seem to want to. It turned out that he does know how to change oil, though he doesn't enjoy it. I told him it was fine, I was happy to do it myself.

"But what will your friends think of me?"

"I'm sure they will think you are a progressive, open-minded gentleman."

Supper was waiting for me when I got home.

Perceptive.

They say that travelling with someone is a good way to learn about them. They're right.

We were on our way home, taking the 'scenic' route, which added about 6 hours to the trip. It was already suppertime. We came to the town where my granny used to live, and I got unexpectedly choked up, realising I hadn't been there since the funeral. That's the first time T has seen me cry.

I explained. Granny and I were close.

T looked at me, head cocked, and said "do you need to visit the grave?"

I would never have asked, as we were running so late, but I really, really did.

What a sweetie.

Days before, we had gone to introduce T to my father. Neither of us were looking forward to that. Calling my relationship with Dad 'strained' would be equivalent to calling the Rockies 'a few hills'. Outright combative would be a little more accurate.

We went for dinner, and Dad picked up the tab, then tucked a wad of bills into my pocket. Driving away from the restaraunt, I shook my head.

"I hate that," I told T.

"Does he show he cares by giving people money?" T asked

Perceptive.

"Yeah," I admitted, "and he shows he's pissed off by writing us out of the will."

"Well," T mused, "if that's the only way he knows how to say he cares, why not just accept it?"

Touche...