And now for something completely different.

Well, not really.  It’s completely related to all that shite I wrote last month, but I’m not ready to tackle it yet.  Or better yet, I don’t know if I’m allowed to discuss it publicly yet.

Yes, that was complete, unadulterated snark.  Deal with it.  😆

This post is a devotion to all the things I love about my Mocha Man, because I never, ever want to take him for granted.

I love his laugh, and the way his eyes twinkle.

I love his skin: the color, the softness, the warmth.

I love his twisted sense of humor.

I love his sense of adventure.

I love that he’ll eat ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING.  Especially absolutely anything that I cook.

I love that he cherishes the value of a good crap.

I love that he bought an orange couch.

I love that he adores red wine, the spicy, tannic, dry as sand kind.

I love that he trusts me completely.

I love that he loves my cats.

I love the way he lights up when I enter a room.

I love way he GETS me.

I love the way he smells.

I love the fullness of his lips.

I love his Sunday afternoon stubble.

I love the way he sees beauty in absolutely anything at all.

I love that he can express his love for me so openly.

I love his fearlessness.

I love his sense of integrity, and his insistence upon truth.

I love his sense of style.

I love his strength.

I love that he finds me beautiful no matter how fucked up my hair is when I wake up.

I love his goodness, and his respectfulness.

I love him, everything about him.

I am a very lucky woman.

The Wreckers

There’s a CD I turn to when I need my home, and my family, and the people I love.  There’s one CD that truly plows into my heart and reminds me where I come from.  It’s on now, as it has been for the better part of two weeks.  A few years ago, Michelle Branch formed a country duo with her backup singer, Jessica Harp: The Wreckers took over the country music scene as one of the most promising acts in years.  They released one album, Stand Still, Look Pretty, before they disbanded some 18 months ago. Some of you may scoff at this seemingly odd choice, especially those of you who know my musical background, and I dare say that you’d be right to assume I’d gone absolutely batty.  But seriously, this disc is excellent.  These two women have nearly identical voices, which make for some spine-chilling harmonies.  Paired with damn good, tell-it-like-it-is songwriting and a phenomenal band, it’s simply infectious.

I fall back to this disc when I can’t say what I want to say, which has been precisely my position for the past few weeks.  I know what’s getting to me, I know exactly what brought it on, but due to a completely undeserved promise of loyalty, I can’t discuss it.  So I put this disc on, I sing at the absolute top of my lungs (which is somewhere near Mount Fuji, I’m guessing) and I shell pistachios for the biscotti I’m making for my Mocha Man.  I remember the long, windy drives through the mountains of Eastern Kentucky with my best friend when we played this disc on repeat and gave The Wreckers a run for their vocal money.  I remember sitting in my sister’s bathroom when I lived with her for a few months, watching her put on her makeup and singing along to this disc with her.  I remember driving back and forth to Louisville, nursing a broken heart and letting my rage seep out with the song “Cigarettes” on repeat.

So here I am again, with The Wreckers on repeat, wondering when I’ll quit being pissed about all this.

Not anytime soon, I’m guessing, since I’ve almost drained the juice in my ipod.

Deep breath.

I’ve been struggling lately with an all-too-familiar set of circumstances.  Years of therapy and pharmaceuticals (and yeah, I guess personal growth is in there, too) convinced me that I am above trite, simplistic emotions like bitterness and jealousy.  I am a WOMAN, a strong, intelligent, confident, ass-kicking woman.  My worth is not determined by what others think of me or their choices regarding my place in their lives.  I love myself regardless of my life’s circumstances.

But a recent turn of events has me picking up the mirror again, that same mirror I discarded a few years ago.  This mirror reflects self-loathing, weakness, rage, jealousy, envy, and yes, bitterness.  I can’t begin to wrap my brain around this turmoil and why it’s suddenly come out of remission.  I’m at a loss.  I do my best to go on about my days and love myself and the life I’ve made in this beautiful place, but all I want right now is my Mom, and my sister, and my best friend, and her back porch with the view of those Kentucky mountains I love so much.

I went down to the beach with my Mocha Man a few nights ago after work.  I needed some majesty.  I needed to feel the embrace of something far bigger than myself.  We sat on a tattered bedsheet from my childhood, sipping beer from a travel coffee mug and eating fresh green grapes.  He held me as we lay there, watching the waves emerge and crash from the midnight.  A band of fog rolled in and obscured us from the peering eyes of the world, and I felt better.

But now it’s Tuesday morning, and I’m headed out to job number 2.

Deep breath.

Slightly dank with sweaty undertones

The title of this entry, ladies and gents, describes the bouquet of a freshly-corked bottle of the Southern California DMV on a Hot, Late Summer Day.  That’s right, after spending most of the effin’ afternoon taking tests, rifling through forms, mooing to myself in line after line, and having to start the process all over again because I forgot about the dreaded Smog Check, I am officially a resident of California.  They want me to mail my Kentucky plate back to the DMV in Frankfort; fat fucking chance, losers!  That puppy is getting nailed up in our Beach Shanty.  Maybe on the ten square feet of stair landing I so lovingly call The Veranda.  I opted against the KNTUCKY vanity plate my heart so desired; the extra time in line was not worth letting everyone behind me know that I actually KNOW how to drive in bad weather.

So when I wasn’t breathing in the stank of 30 different ethnicities while repeatedly peeling my thighs from  the plastic DMV chairs, my day was spent interviewing at Job #2, heretofore known as Sweatshop Goodies on the Cheap.  Maybe I’ll think of a better name, but maybe my employment there won’t be long enough to justify pestering my brain with witty fodder.  I think it will work out fine; I’m now head of the furniture department and backup head of the wine department.  Fitting enough, yeah?  And hopefully it will give me the financial boost I need to keep from being shat on by the Great Pigeon of Credit Card Hell.  Means I’ll see less of my Mocha Man, and I’m definitely sad about that.  But hey, if we wanna keep the Beach Shanty long enough for you bastards to come visit, you do what must be done.

And now, it’s naptime before I trudge on in to Job #1.  I’ve been promising to break out the oven mitts, but sleep calls.