soapboxdiner

Feh.

If I may adopt a word from my beloved Shivs...

Feh.

So, in keeping with the oscillating nature of my world (and really, why would anyone want things to remain constant and/or stable in their own little worlds for more than a day or two at a time), I again must question the wisdom of this here relationship. I don't know. It could be that I'm looking for an excuse... or it could be that I have Remarkably In Tune Sensibilities.

You see, Friday was a marvelous day. Truly it was. I worked, I got off work, I went to visit The Girl and fixed her security options on her puter, had a beer and some nice lip action. We chatted about some issues. Cleared up some miscommunications. All Was Right In The World. We were in synch, in tune, on the same page.

Lovely, it twas. She made a very insightful comment and left me with something to think about. This is one of the great things about her. She Makes Me Think.

Saturday I refinished my roof. This involved climbing through a window and up onto the shed, then up onto the actual roof. There, I donned a cheery little (umm, let's call that relative) one piece suit, covered it discretely with some grandma pants, and some tennies. I opened the 5 gallon container of Insta-Roof with Asphalt(tm), and began the laborious task of smearing slippery goo over the luxurious 672 square feet of tin sheeting. At about square foot 337, I discovered that the slippery goo was actually supposed to be mixed with the the 2.5 gallons of congealed aluminized tar at the bottom of the $50 bucket.

Double feh. So I climbed back down off the roof, being sure to smear slippery primordial crud all over my window, dresser and fancy sheer WalMart curtain. So I cracked a frosty one and proceeded to call The Girl to inform her that based soley on the happenings of my morning, I was positive that she would be forced to revoke my recently acquired Potential Butch Lez honorary status.

I was as saddened by this disclosure as you could only imagine in your worst terror filled night sweats.

Fortunately however, I'm a survivor. I laugh in the face of losing Butch face. So we were all achuckle. She assured me I was far from losing my status.

Thusly reassured and quite bolstered as a matter of fact, I proceeded to broach a more personal matter.

"So, you're a pretty smart lady, you know?" I said.

"How so?" -- She's ever the questioner.

"Well, you knew I wasn't being entirely open with you. So my question (because I'm a questioner too) is, how open do you want me to get with you?"

"*Sigh*, do we have to discuss this now?"

"Um, no. Certainly not."

Blah blah blah and so it went.

But we talked anyway.

"Because, you know, I could really care about you if I were to be open with you. Is that something you can handle?"

"I don't know."

Triple feh and a heaping dose of unresolution.

Later in the evening, she calls and is all lovie talking sexy sexy to me. Methinks I am in receipt of what the great literary giants would describe as The Booty Call.

Which is cool because, and this is just between you and me, diary, I kinda like me some dirty talk. But, you see, just because I partake of the occasional phone sexy sexy (and really, we're talking more Made for TV Phone Sex than, say, Hustler Phone Sex), that doesn't diminish or disconnect either of my collective two brain cells.

You see, we've attempted the Wait Til The Kid's Asleep Nookie. Let's just say... oh hell no.

We've also aborted the unsuccessful Mission Quickie After Work Before Heading To The Daycare.

And quite frankly, it is rapidly becoming apparent that Spontaneous Acts of Affection are obsolete in the age of single mother living in a one bedroom trailer afterglow. Yes, dear diary, we are relegated to the ultra romantic world of Planned and Orchestrated Time Limited Sex.

What's involved in POTLS (that's pronounsed "pottles" for you lucky people out there who get yo groove on by joyous happenstance) is this:

1. Consult mutual calandars.
2. Assess overlapping free blocks.
3. Inquire with various responsible and trustworthy adults to arrange babysitting.
4. If successful, shower and shave. Hygiene, darlings. It makes the moment.
5. Arrive at destination.
6. Make stilted conversation over liquored beverage of choice.
7. More stilting, as you know the ultimate goal is, indeed, successfully achieving your POTLS.
8. Say: ah, to hell with talk. Let's get busy.
9. Feel rushed and hurried. Try to feel sexy anyway.
10. If lucky, ultimately achieve the POTLS.
Turn over, look at the clock and say, "Okay thanks! That was great! Gotta go now, tic toc tic toc, the sitter's waiting!

And that's a LOT of fun, eh? But really, between the option of creating my son's first mental trauma and getting a quickie on a kitchen floor with the pug dog watching, the POTLS is probably the best option. And she should know this. We Speak From Experience. And yet, she calls vaguely insinuating that she wants some now, so drop everything and come over.

Hmmm.

Love, what a funny little thing it is. Just when you're feeling all warm and fuzzy, someone leaves the seat up and you find yourself ass deep in ice cold reality.

Feh.

11:26 pm - 07.20.03
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