To My Babcia

Babcia (or as we used to spell it Bopche),* 

Everyone in the family says they feel your presence. I don't discount that, but I don't feel it myself. So for what it is worth, I wanted you to know I've been thinking about you lately. Maybe that's my way of feeling your presence.

This is a tough time for Mom. She remembers your death and can't enjoy July 4th. I know how she feels; Sena died July 9, 3 years ago.

But we dramatic Italian Poles are always dwelling/honoring the past and those gone. Let's move on to happier news...

As you know, your great granddaughter is going to marry a Polish boy. He's a sweet guy, and the family is thrilled and you likely are as well. Or at least your reaction would be a better one than when I told you I married a Turk whose ancestors were from the Caucasus Mountains in Georgia.

I do believe your exact words at the time were "Bah! Can't trust a Ruskie." I knew there was no point in arguing that the two were completely different. WWII had scarred so many mindsets across so many ethnicities. Of course, interestingly, our divorce had to do with his lack of trust.

But, I wanted you to know that I've met a good guy too, a Polish guy. Not 100% but you know, mostly. He was born here, but he knows the important words: pierogi, chrusciki, and kielbasa. And when he caught me wearing a bandanna on my head the other day (on skype), he called me his beautiful babushka-wearing peasant girl.

I'm really hopeful about this relationship, and I find myself wishing he could meet you. In fact, I haven't felt this mature and straightforward about an involvement with a man in a long time. The bad ones had always involved me compromising in some way (some big ways, I hear my friends shouting) that ended up harming me.

Many fears have fallen away. The urge to find someone, just anyone, has disappeared. I started out on this new blog thinking I'd have a stable of men for the summertime, I'd tossed out the idea of a serious relationship, and looky looky what I ended up finding.

I haven't had to compromise anything for this man. He's acting like a man with all the right intentions to be in a long-term relationship. I haven't had to rely too hard on his words alone or spend a moment second-guessing because he's so decisive and straightforward with his actions. I know exactly how he feels about me, and I know exactly what he wants in life.

So maybe just maybe, I could find the happiness I had once more when I was a romantic, 20-year old and married to that Ruskie. Except it'll be better, because I'm much older and wiser now.

What do you think Babcia? Maybe, if the spirit world is smiling upon me?

*Grandma in Polish

My Rental Is a Bad Romance

When I moved here about 5 years ago, it was to live around the corner from my ex and start the next chapter of our relationship together. The housing situation was supposed to be temporary and by no means was I supposed to foot the bill of renting a house 100% alone. But that is exactly what I have done.

Living here now is like being in an unhealthy relationship that you realize you need to get out of, yet you just can't seem to pull yourself away from the comfort and inertia that has a hold of you.

The large picture window and the view of the lake is incredible, no doubt about it.

But to stay here just for that view is the equivalent of staying in a relationship just because the man has a nice ass to look at. If his personality is crappy or his right arm is falling off and needs duct tape to stay together, and he ignores your requests for help, can't we all agree that it might be in your best interest to move on?

So I am moving. Writing it down makes it a very real plan for me.

To even see the words makes my stomach clench with fear and anxiety, not because of change, but because the sheer logistics of it flip me out every time I have to move. And then the physical aspect alone is exhausting. But, in the end, I am a Sagittarian and we love new places and new experiences. A chance to start fresh is like painting on a blank canvas.

I'll be moving from one small lake to a slightly larger lake, so I will still have the water to soothe me in the 3 seasons and hopefully dump some lake effect snow in the winter. I won't have a view or a large picture window, but I'll have a working fireplace and a very tall stockade wooden fenced yard for the dogs. It is black bear country, but I don't think I'll be having any encounters with them personally. I'm certainly not looking forward to seeing them hit by cars or shot during the brief hunting season.

There is so much to do as anyone who has moved knows well enough. I honestly wish I could afford a large dumpster and just trash 80% of what is in this house. I haven't bought a new piece of furniture in years and that isn't likely to change. Maybe I can find some used furniture from family and friends. Best to get into the new place first and see what might work.

During all of my decision-making about whether or not to move, the Michigan man has been a very solid rock. He hasn't tried to push me one way or the other, and he has always just listened to me rant about the current deteriorating house that the landlords refuse to repair.

In discussing my disbelief about the Michigan man's solid supportiveness with a southern friend, she brought home a solid point. He is acting the way a man SHOULD act, and the only reason it seems so unusual is because hardly anyone ever acts with integrity anymore. Just take a look all over the news to see reports of people acting shamefully and without a sense of right/wrong. I know I sound almost conservative rhetoric there, but I'm as liberal as they come. Liberal never meant you can act carelessly.

Nineteen (19) days until I pick up this solid man at the airport. Let's hope my back holds up. *grin*

Here is a shot of the Freesia that are opening up and looking lovely.

Tuesday Was Rough

On Tuesday, the ex (long, long, over-and-done-with relationship of which I'll post up in the archives as soon as I get around to extracting those posts out of the other blog) MMS'd me a photo of his beloved English Springer hunting dog with the words: Percy's dead.

I loved her, more than I loved him (but that's the case with me and most people). And he knew well my attachment to our dogs, having lost 2 to cancer while together. He told me because, in his rather guilt-ridden, altered state of mind, (I quote): "We were a family back then."

The news of her death sunk me low. Her death was tragic, not a natural passing. And he was 100% responsible for it which made me want to rail at him, for ALL of the things that are his fault. But I didn't. I suffered quietly, sobbing at work, complete with a bloody nose due to the uber (yes that's a German word perfect for the company) dryness of the office air. And this hit on a day in which I had to fight louder and longer than usual at work to make my editorial opinion heard by people who simply don't want to understand.

To compound the emotional state I felt, when I got home, I had an argument with my pet sitter who was coming in regularly to let the dogs out for mid-day potty breaks. The result of that argument? I am no longer paying a pet sitter, and I've probably been blacklisted on the local pet-sitting circuit as a difficult client with a difficult dog. To which I say, I've DONE THE JOB and I know how to do it well.

Mr Michigan checked in on me to find me a bundle of moodiness, the first of such he's ever experienced from me in our two-month courtship. I just needed a good long cry and to be alone. So, I briefly told him about the day, in no real dramatic fashion, just a straight-forward here's what happened today rundown. I told him I felt sick and needed to lie down.

While I was sleeping off the foulness, he secretly ordered these to arrive the next day:

They are 30 stems of Freesia and they arrived as buds. I have been looking forward to watching them open.

He is officially deemed a very sweet man.

Emotional Spill

Framed within a window, the view seems so idyllic. What's not shown here, in this lakeside snapshot around the corner from my rental, would drive people away.

Life is like that too sometimes.

You can section off one part of your life that is going so well, it may as well have seceded from the rest of your life.

But just like an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, eventually your toxic past experiences are going to leak into that partitioned paradise you've created. And all you can do is try to contain the damage.

In an unexpected early round of "Just How Into Me Is This Guy Anyway," I had a mini meltdown yesterday. Most of it was brought on by unexpected car repairs that will cost me a small fortune, but then for some reason I started channeling really lousy thoughts from my previous relationship (such as there's no way this guy is for real and I should just prepare myself for the worst) and placing them into this new experience with The Michigan Man.

Um, hello light and breezy sailboat? Meet the dark submarine that's going to torpedo you into pieces if you don't get the hell out of the way.

All I can say is that luckily I recognized it before it got too twisty yucky bad. But it definitely required some open honest conversation. And I didn't hide from the task. I told him what was going through my head, and he took it in stride. In fact, he said "I'm just as taken with you now in hard times and I'm not going anywhere."

So for those of you who feel it is best not to share how you're feeling with a new guy, I hope that works out well for you. For me, I have to be straight with him. Otherwise, I'll always wonder where I stand and if I'm standing there for the right reasons.

Sex & Baseball

Yes.

I said it.

The two most enjoyable topics between me and The Michigan Man.

Oh we talk about MANY other things too....

The oil spill, being liberals in mostly conservative families, how religion controls the minds of many, the thunderstorms of summer, how long can Chad play frisbee (forever), mowing lawn, repairing cars, fixing bathrooms floors when your landlord won't, reading paper versus on screen books, the creative writing process, finding inspiration to write, taking photographs, how emotional highs cannot be sustained indefinitely and how a middle range of contentment must eventually take hold, living on a farm together, paying off debt, taking road trips, traveling overseas.

All of which I thought looked wonderfully artistic as:

But I can't imagine not talking about sex and baseball. Like death and taxes. Only much more enjoyable. Those are going to be the glue that hold us together. And I like that. A lot.

Speaking of neither sex nor baseball, I was invited to another spanking party tonight. I don't want to go so I am not going. I think the novelty may have worn off, but I know for sure I can't imagine me starring in Sweat and The City. Blech. I think the city is only for me during the 3 other seasons. Yes, I'm a priss I guess.

But the invitation did bring up the question about whether or not I should share recent activities with Michigan. I fear no topic with him oddly enough, so I did, last night, after a stiff Boston Absolut and a few rounds of online backgammon.

We sprang into new topics for discussion. My blog, the people in NYC, and his overall level of curiosity. He enjoys when I share something I've written, but he doesn't feel an overwhelming need to read everything I write, he doesn't mind that I write about him, and he would like to meet the people in NYC sometime.

Hmmm, he didn't miss a beat with his calm replies.

The dreaded "where have you been all my life" cliche did poke its head up, uttered by him, stunned into silence by me. I hope it is not the kiss of death for this budding relationship.

Because to be even more cliche, he could be the yin to my yang. The sex to my baseball, the baseball to my sex.

(27 Days...)

Grounded?

Can someone please tie me to something solid? Where is my fellow Sagittarians who know how hard it is to stay grounded? Hit me upside the head with a dose of reality, will you? Because here's what I'm dealing with....

When there's a sexy, 39-year old never married with no kids who loves dogs baggage-free man out there in the world thinking about what color flowers best match your eyes (purple, apparently), many thoughts run through your mind:

• Is he gay?
• How is it that he's still single?
• Have I finally won the lottery?
• Where has he been all my life?
• How do I survive the next 31 days until I meet him?

And then when he randomly text messages "You're beautiful, don't you forget it," in the middle of your work day, your inflated head just detaches from your body, and it suddenly feels like you're floating over the Hudson River.

 Grounded? Oh yes. Of course. I'm staying grounded. Right.