Miss Tricky Takes Over

So, my favorite thing in the world right now, other than the delicious change in temperature around these parts-which is beyond heavenly-is listening to The Spawn sing along with kids show theme songs. I do not know why it thrills me the way it does but I could seriously listen to it all day long. For about a month he sang the Sesame Street song all day every day, now he’s more into Dora/Diego jingles and he just treated me to a rendition of Ruby & Max. It kills me. He has taken to requesting them during our weekend family sing-a-longs. (Wait, that sounded lamer than it should have. Mr. President plays the guitar and sings us songs and I chime in whenever he plays Johnny Cash. Nope. Still lame. Anyhoo…) and by “requests” I mean just starts singing “D-d-d-d-d-Dora!” whenever the Prez is playing and when we don’t join in he asks him to play “hesame hreet pleeeeeeeeeeease!” He just can’t understand why anyone would play Pink Floyd and The Eagles when there are Nickelodeon songs to jam out to. I suppose I can see his point…

Now back to the weather. Readers unfamiliar with an east coast summer should know that it is much like living in Satan’s sauna for a couple months. If those of you who believe in god think that he’s a kind and benevolent deity, I challenge you to spend late August in Philadelphia and then reevaluate your position. There were days last month when the whole universe felt like god-awful, gusting subway steam all over, all the time. Rain brings no relief, night just brings more dampness and standing within five feet of another breathing, sweating, heat-producing human being makes homicide incredibly tempting. BUT! The past week or so has brought such complete seasonal relief upon my new city that I find it hard not to run naked through the streets just to enjoy the sensation of cool air. I could write sonnets to the brisk mornings, I compose poetry about lightweight jackets and closed-toe shoes while walking to work each day. At least twice in the last week I have been a little cold. Okay not cold, but chilly. Chilly! I experienced a chill! I thought to myself, “my! I wish I had long sleeves on!” Oh September, how I do adore thee.

Except for a couple of things. 1. The Spawn starts school on Wednesday (I am only tolerating the horrible big-boy event because I got to go buy him new school clothes yesterday and it’s hard not to be happy about little boy hoodies and jeans and backpacks lunch bags.) and 2. I am not within travel distance of Edward’s Apple Orchard.

Today I am on a quest to find a suitable surrogate orchard and drag my unwilling family out to drink cider and such. Mr. President just tried to tell me that it’s too early for apples in a vain attempt to stay in bed with his New York Times all day- I pity this fool. I am an apple orchard expert. If Edward’s Apple Orchard offered master’s degrees then the time and money I have spent there over the years would qualify me for two. This poorly researched and feeble lie is not unlike the time he tried to tell me that cockroaches do not live in the North Eastern part of this country immediately after I pointed one out to him and made him kill it. While I applaud his effort to make me feel secure (read: blatantly deny the obvious in hopes that I will not make him chase down and destroy every roach in the city) he should have known that I have spent years compiling information on my insect enemies. No less ridiculous than his claim that there are no roaches in Philadelphia is his crackpot theory that there are no apples in September. Puhhhhlease.  There are and I intend to find them. Today. And after I drag him away from his paper and into the car I will deliver an informational lecture on Philadelphia cockroaches. What?

This new work schedule is putting a real kink in my online life. I’m busy and off the work both jobs to day but I thought I would share a few of the ridiculous things that have been said to me this week. Here goes…

Miss T: I feel like hot dog shit.

 Mr. P: You look like hot dog shit.

 Miss T: (dirty look)

 Mr. P: Wait…you look hot, I mean…ummmm…

 Miss T: (dirty look with pout)

 Mr. P: I am going to stop talking now.

~

Mr. P: Did you go potty?

 Spawn: No…I go later. My pee-pee is up.

 Mr. P: what? Go downstairs and go potty please.

 Spawn: My pee-pee is up! (goes downstairs)

 Miss T: I think he was trying to tell you that he has morning wood.

 Mr. P: No!…..what? wow…

~

Mr. P: You know, if we had a baby by the time I was 43 that wouldn’t be THAT old, would it?

 Miss T: If we had a baby by the time you were 43 I would have to get pregnant in the next 3 months or so…

 Mr. P: oh.  (quietly attempts to do math in head) really?!?

~

Mr. P: You smell like restaurant.

 Miss T: (quietly to herself) fuck you.

Another year of Miss Tricky has come and gone…. and I hate to be too cheerful, but it may be the best one yet. Out of the myriad reasons this year has been stupendous, there are two that really stand out.

First is The Spawn. It seems like everyday for the past two weeks I find new reasons to be amazed by him. It’s hard not to cry every time he sings. This morning he crawled into bed with me and sang his own version of Old MacDonald…

“Old bedonald has a farm,

eee, iiii, eeeee oooooooo.

The pig goes oink, oink,

Eeeee, iiiiii, ooooooooo!”

Last night he slept naked because he asked me if he could “sleep with my body”. All of this is incredible because it means he is engaged and interacting. In previous years life just seemed to bounce off him and never get in; he wasn’t a part of anything. Now he is a part of everything and is grabbing the world in big, greedy handfuls.

The other started exactly a year ago…

For my 27^th birthday a couple of small miracles happened and I got to actually make plans and go out. Some good friends of mine from back home drive the Jager bus all around the country and just happened to be in Southside (my favorite neighborhood in Pittsburgh) on my birthday that year. I secured a babysitter for the Spawn and made plans to go out for dinner with my parents and then out for some serious drinking with old friends. Dinner was lovely, my parents and I were starting to hit a stride in our newfound relationship and we stuffed ourselves on seafood and drank expensive champagne. I actually got them to stop into Jack’s for a birthday shot when they dropped me off to find my friends. (At some point I was walking up Carson Street listening to voicemails when I noticed two guys walking past me in the opposite direction. I don’t remember anything about them except that they totally checked me out. Who doesn’t want that on their birthday? )

I still don’t know which bar we were in when they introduced me to some guy they worked with- I suppose it doesn’t matter. I was drunk, it was my birthday, and I felt pretty and free and was having an amazing time when they insisted that I accept a ride home from that particular gentleman. Despite the fact that I had plans to meet up with some old Southside friends who I surely would have gotten into some debaucherous trouble with, I allowed myself to be ushered into his car.

I was far too birthday drunk to try and figure out directions and I know for a fact that his GPS took us the longest way possible but who cares? It’s my birthday and I definitely don’t know this dude from Adam! I do remember that I had a severe case of diarrhea of the mouth and that I ceaselessly scanned through his satellite radio the entire way home. So far so good right? Hot-mess, drunk birthday girl who won’t stop talking or pushing buttons in the car; it must have been dead sexy. We made it to my house at some point where I immediately marched inside, kicked off my shoes, grabbed a bottle of Cook’s Champagne (classy) from my fridge and dragged that poor man out on a barefoot walk through my neighborhood. We drank from the bottle, talked about life and he very wisely convinced me not to climb the fence and get in the pool.

I kissed him in my driveway. I kissed him because it was my birthday and I wanted to kiss someone. I kissed him because I was drunk and wanted to see if I could. I kissed him because he seemed like a good person to kiss. He was a GREAT person to kiss and when I pulled away he reached out instinctively and didn’t let me go. It was pretty fucking hot. That’s it, right? Birthday kiss with random stranger never to be heard from again…not bad for my first birthday as a truly free woman.

Except that I saw him again. The next night (where I embarrassed myself at a whole new level- another story, another time) and then that fool called me and asked to come see me again before he left town. I don’t know why but I let him. I let him come to my house where my kid and my friend’s sick dogs that I was watching were on a Sunday afternoon. The power was out and it was hot and sticky and all I had to offer him for a beverage was a Capri-Sun. He took it and we sat on my porch and talked. I was kind of a bitch to him. I was embarrassed and hostile and just threw my whole story at him and waited for him to be appalled. But if he was he didn’t show it and as he left to travel home he asked if he could call me.

So he called and we talked. Over time I discovered that he was the one checking me out on the street that night. Over time and hours of late night phone calls and visits and incessant texting I fell completely and totally in love.

This year I spent my birthday in his house with my son and my monkey-cat. (Oddly he spent it in Southside with my parents.) Life moves in strange and amazing ways if you let it, and some days I still can’t believe that this is my life. I guess if you are really lucky one year you’ll decide to steal a drunken, birthday kiss from a charming stranger who just happens to be the love of your life.

Relax kids; it’s not that kind of post.

“Marriage” has become “The M Word” in my head of late; a big, dirty word that you could never, ever say out loud to anyone. It’s bugging me out and it never used to.

Getting married or the details of a future, theoretical wedding are things I have always casually talked about with serious, live-in boyfriends. They weren’t plans or agreements or designed to elicit a proposal, just what I feel is a normal conversation topic in a committed relationship. Mr. President and I do it too, but lately with him it’s beginning to feel dirty. I, as in all cases *wink*, blame my family…

It started when I told my father I wanted to move to Philadelphia. The questions about what Mr. President’s intentions were (gag) started out pretty tame since my divorce wasn’t final yet, but were always hovering around me. Then the paperwork came back and things like “well now that you’re unencumbered we’ll see what the level of his commitment is…” started being said. The question started coming from everywhere, even from the most unexpected sources. I was shocked and mildly offended. First of all, by what stretch of the imagination is a piece of paper and an overpriced party more indicative of intent than moving in a poor-ass, crazy woman and her autistic three year old? Secondly, I had just finished being married and we had only been dating for like nine months…where’s the fire? I really did appreciate my loved ones desire for me to be safe and I can understand how they would assume that there would be less risk involved in the move if I had a ring on my finger, but is there? If we had been engaged (or even married) wouldn’t I still have been picking up my whole world and handing it over to him? What’s the difference? It’s not like the institution of marriage is all that sacred anymore. Shouldn’t the test have been whether or not I felt comfortable and safe enough with him to bring my child across the state and away from his grandparents?

Anyway, things settled down. I got very good at delivering my “I’ve been married and it’s not fun so why don’t you just leave us alone about it so we can decide on our own terms when or even IF we want to get married” speech and since they are all crazy in love with the Prez and could tell that Spawn and I were happy, they eventually let it drop. But it was too late. Now all our chats and jokes about what our wedding would be like if we had one felt tainted. I felt like if I said the dreaded M word he would think I was fishing for a proposal. Then other things started to crop up in our evening conversations…what if something happened to me? What about Spawn? What about custody and legal rights and living wills and all that other crap you are suddenly forced to think about when you are responsible for a child? Huh??! What about that?!? I was forced to confront the reality that when you are dating, and there is a child involved, the entire playing field is changed. All the rules are different. We talked about how it’s very possible to do everything but change parental rights with a decent lawyer and some living wills; you don’t need to be married to make certain things official. This made my head really start to spin, I mean wouldn’t that make us sort of douchey? What point would we really be making by doing all of the “getting married” stuff without getting married? Isn’t that dumb?

I decided to ignore it all. Life is much more comfortable that way. I, in particular, am terrible with unknowns. My idea was to swear that we would never, ever get married which would take the whole discussion off the table so we could get back to just being happy. If we agreed to never do it then it would stop looming over us and we just ignore all the other stuff until one of us dies, right? Good plan? Oh, no? Fine. Jerk.

Now that I am back in the work force the question has started getting asked again. What is with people? Just because I moved 300 miles, with my son, into the home of a man I love so much I can hardly stand it…Okay, fine. I see your point. To be honest, I don’t even mind that people ask. I am quite happy and secure in my relationship just as it is. I do not doubt the sincerity of his feelings at all. I just don’t like feeling like “wedding” is a dirty word. I have good marriage based jokes! I like to talk about what my third and fourth weddings will be like and how when I turn 35 I am going to start only marrying rich, gay men from conservative families that are willing to pay richly for my beard and heir bearing services. That is good material that I should be able to use without guilt and now it’s all strained and awkward.

Maybe I should dump Mr. President and find a real scumbag that no one would ever want me to marry. Then things can get back to normal…

I had one of those moments last night, one that made me feel so crazy and helpless that my chest hurt a little. Nothing really happened before hand…. it was just all of a sudden there. I tend to think that when you are experiencing huge emotions your brain has a special filter that only lets you absorb a little at a time. It is how people survive the death of a loved one, it is how women handle becoming mothers and it is how couples manage to achieve true love.  Human beings are jumpy creatures who shut down when overwhelmed. If your brain suddenly let you feel the full impact of your deepest emotions you would probably spend the rest of your days eating valium flavored pudding at the funny farm; but we can handle it all in small doses. Last night my filter slipped just a little bit. Last night for a moment I got a taste of just how deeply happy I am.

 It totally rocked me. I have never been in love with a whole person before, not every part of them. My ex I was fascinated with; he was this aggravating taunt, always out of reach that drove me to chase him. At the time I thought that was the only way to stay passionate about someone. I thought that love couldn’t fill you up the way need does.

 This may shock you guys, but I am a bit of a cynic. (gasp!) I do this stupid little thing in my head when I think about Mr. President and how I feel about him. I bargain; I rationalize. I seem to be so prepared mediocrity in love that my brain starts to try to and put him in a tidy, little, predictable box. Something I can control, I suppose. All my defenses want to squish him into a little spot in there that I could lose without losing everything. But he just won’t stay in it. Every time I get him wedged into the companion “we talk for hours and he’s my favorite friend” box he kisses me again and I panic. Why do I just naturally assume that you cannot be great friends, great lovers and focused parents all with the same person? How did I learn that? Why is it that every time we match each other step for step in humor, passion and reliability I am flabbergasted?

 Last night I got this one little peek behind the curtain and saw just how good I have it. Maybe it was a perfectly planned flash to remind me to stop over thinking, maybe it was just an accident, but either way I woke up a little different today than I did yesterday. I’m glad I can’t feel all of it all the time, that much joy might kill me; but for one little moment last night I got to feel exactly how much I love him. There is nothing better than that.

So …I was all set to get up this morning and write a smooshy “It’s Friday, I’m in love” post about how great it is here in Philly with the squeeze. I was going to talk about how smoothly it’s gone and how much I don’t hate having him exist in the same house with me and how generally ass over elbows I am about the whole situation. I was going to do that. But then this morning while we were laying in bed, snuggled up and talking about the coming day and possibly, maybe, sort of entertaining the idea of some morning nookie and the smell of coffee was working it’s way upstairs…this happened:

T: mmmmm coffee…….

Mr. P: you know, putting cream in your coffee amounts to an extra 5lbs a year.

T: (with my sass up) really? How about skim milk?

Mr. P: well, that’s not so bad…

T: how about almond milk?!?

Mr. P: well, almond milk is probably actually good for you…. but you put sugar in it! That’s reallllllly bad. How many teaspoons of sugar do you put in your coffee anyway?

T: (climbing out of bed in a huff) This is ridiculous! How did you go from telling me you wanted to have sex with me to telling me I’m fat because I drink coffee?!?

Mr. P: Hey! You can’t be mad at me! I was just asking you how you take your coffee so I could go get you some!

T: Ummm, no you weren’t. Reciting the list of awful things that will happen to me because of how I drink my coffee is NOT asking me how I would like some.

To be fair, I know enough about this man by now that when he started talking about cream and sugar I knew he was just trying to remember how I like my coffee. Alas, Mr. President has a disease commonly know as “diarrhea of the mouth”. It is most prominent when he is tired so early mornings and late nights are filled with him sharing thought processes with me that should have stayed in his head. (He refers to this as “talking out loud” apparently not realizing that ALL talking happens out loud and what he really means to say is “thinking out loud”, but I digress). Unfortunately I think he’ s super cute so when he got embarrassed and hid his head in the pillow while pulling me back under the covers I laughed and totally let him…

Mr. P: I love you for letting me be stupid. And I want you to have plenty of things to write about…I was only thinking of your blog.

T: yeah…well, maybe you can make it up to me by taking me out for lunch somewhere nice.

Mr. P: oh yeah…. I didn’t expense lunch with that rep yesterday so we can totally get lunch and expense it! It will be the rep lunch!

*crickets*

Mr. P: ummm, I was just sort of working that out in my head but I said it out loud, huh?

T: Yup.

Mr. P: sorry.

I spend a lot of time teasing Mr. President about the things he sometimes says to me that you should never, ever say to your girlfriend. The rest of my time I spend teasing him about the things he should be saying to me all the time but invariably misses the set up. Allow me to present an example:

After the Red Ball we went to a favorite local spot for cocktails and ran into our friend Tom. Someone had graciously offered me a seat at the bar so I could get my eat on while Mr. President stood behind me. I said something about feeling bad that he had to stand and he replied that he was fine, he had the best seat in the house even! Tom (ever the smooth operator) interjected with:

“Well, the second best seat in the house anyway” while subtly gesturing towards my ass.

(Get it? Like you also call your butt a ’seat’ and mine was obviously the best one there? Get it? Get it? Yeah, guess who didn’t…)

We both turn to look at the Prez waiting for him catch on…

“Yeah, it’s the second best seat in the house,” I say- this time totally lifting my rump off the barstool and arching my back like a spastic cat.

Nothing. Mr. President is all “what? I don’t get it”

Even when Tom started teasing him about missing the pitch, not even a pitch! More like a t-ball set up, my poor Mr. President didn’t catch on.

To be completely fair, I find this to be an adorable trait. He may just be thickheaded but I like to think that he possesses a truly genuine nature and is burdened with an incurable honest streak. It syncs up well with my propensity to tease some like we’re on an elementary school playground when I like them.

Anyhoosits, since the move we’ve had many miniature state of the union discussions to address how each of us is handling the adjustment. I keep asking if he’s regretting it and secretly hating us and he keeps saying that he really thought he would but isn’t as of yet.

Some girls would probably get all cry-face and stupid if their boyfriend told them he had planned on secretly being miserable for at least awhile when she moved in, but I find his honesty rather refreshing. It takes commitment for him to be this steadfastly un-smooth and I applaud his consistency. Even when I don’t want to…

(This scene takes place in bed, all snuggled up watching The Daily Show and exchanging sweet nothings before sleep.)

 ”Are you happy we came? Is it good or are you hiding ‘oh crap what have we done’ thoughts deep down in your brain?”

 ”I’m very happy, I thought I would be having those thoughts but I’m really, really not.”

 (The monkey-cat awkwardly jumps up on his belly and he continues…)

“You and your broken kitty and your broken little kid. You guys are like that chipped piece of china, ya know? Like, it still works and you love it so you’ll eat spaghetti out of it by yourself but you wouldn’t put it out at a dinner party, you know?”

 (Laughing hysterically)

“What?!? Are you saying we’re like that chipped, old coffee mug that you had to glue the handle back onto but it’s your favorite so you still have your coffee out of it every morning?!?”

(Excited that I get it…)

“Yeah! It’s your favorite and your certainly not going to throw it away but you’re not going to use it when you have company either.”

 (Admittedly still cracking the hell up…)

“O. My. God. I cannot believe you just called me and my kids a junky, old, coffee mug.”

 The conversation actually continued on here, he pointed out that I had said coffee mug while he had called us a plate (as though what piece of busted china we were being called made the difference) and at some point I even became a not quite washed, garage sale soup tureen because I figured having a ladle made it classy. The monkey-cat was labeled a factory- reject gravy boat and Mr. President maintained that the Spawn was the cracked plate you eat spaghetti off of.

 ”So there it is, huh? We’re just a busted, broken down china set on your big fancy dining room table? I am soooooo putting this on my blog tomorrow.”

 And as if engaging in an argument with me over which metaphorical dishes my broken babies and I were best represented by wasn’t enough to prove how right we are together, he rolled over and said,

“Fine. Just make sure you tell them you were laughing so everybody doesn’t hate me.”

I heard a news story on the way to the eye doctor this morning that I cannot believe is an actual news story. Apparently yesterday a naked man was spotted walking along the turnpike near Plum. Twenty some people actually called 911 to report it. Excuse me, but if you saw a naked dude by the highway would you call 911? That’s a non-emergency if I’ve ever heard of one. Twenty people?!? Like the lines were jammed because some guy lost his clothes? It gets better. A nearby elementary school put it’s “Lock Down Procedure” in practice because god knows you simply cannot take the chance when there are naked people around. They locked down the school. Locked. It. Down. Who are these people? Now there’s a full-fledged manhunt in effect, complete with the police mailing out photo line-ups to the people who called it in. Does it count as porn if the police send it to you? Plus, I may be crazy, but this sounds to me like somebody had a bit too much to drink Thursday night and his friends thought it would be funny to steal his clothes and make him walk home. In their defense, it totally was. Rest well tonight, people of Plum, your kiddies were locked down like a nuke shelter and the police are sending out line ups of naked dudes as we speak- Police, 1; Naked dude, 0.

So then I got to the eye doctor and they had fucked up my appointment and I was about to give them the what-for (read: leave quietly) when they decided to squeeze me in since it was their mistake. So far, so good. Then it occurs to me; I have to decide on a new pair of frames with no outside opinions. Mr. President is 3 hours behind me and why would my sister be up at 7:30 on a Saturday? So I looked around and browsed and tried to get the Spawn to form an opinion and finally accepted what I had to do. I Twittered, I Facebooked and then I broke down and texted the squeeze. 

Wake up! I need glasses help!

(I don’t like to brag but dammit if that delicious man-sample didn’t hop to and hold an intelligent glasses text-discussion with me at 6:30 in his morning.)

Tommy Bahama heavier, boxy dork frames or hot pink and slender-more retro?

(Secure your panties ladies because this is how he answered…)

How heavy? How boxy? Librarian or socialite? Boardroom or Rodeo Drive?

I answered and then sent him a picture.

Those are cute. So is your Saturday morning face.

Then he suggested I get both and I was like “ummmmmm poor” so then we both decided on the dorky Tommy Bahama frames. My sister finally chimed in too late with a vote for the pink ones, but only because she said the ones I chose made me look like I was going to chew her up in a boardroom somewhere which is exactly the look I was going for. Win.

And all the while the Spawn was a dream. Two full hours of glasses picking and eye exams and the little champ didn’t even melt down a little. Double win! Infinite win! I guess that’s why I’m moving, huh?