I’ve got a pile of papers, clippings, magazine articles of places to go sitting on my dining room table. I always have a single pile of papers in my household, whether it was in business school or here now, or even at work. A pile of stuff.
I’ve never been really great at anything. I was never athletic. I was never artistic. The only reason I excelled in school is because I forced myself to study at all hours of the night. I’ve always known that I wasn’t that bright. Nor am I talented. Sure, I can carry a tune. Maybe if I watch those Paula Abdul videos long enough, I can mimic those dance moves. And the only reason I write is because I like it. I like the solitude of it, the elimination of chatter. Just straight to the point, read at your own pace, write when you choose to.
The weekend started out great. Dinner with friends at an Indonesian restaurant. Crying babies notwithstanding. Then we went to R bar afterwards for drinks. I didn’t want to go. I’d worked so hard that week. I was pooped out. After a nice dinner, I just wanted to go home and chill out. Dean insisted we wouldn’t stay long.
Dean is truly special. He always knows what to say to make it all better. The tears were temporary.
My B-day came early, baby… meeting you, the best thing that ever happened to me!
Thank you for all the thoughful gifts, dinner and Champagne!!!
Now, go to sleep.
His email messages, texts, and phone calls make me realize he is really good for me. He’s easy-going which balances out my hot temperament. He’s comical which offsets my drama. He’s very giving when I often hold back.
We actually have a song. Check him out. Ray LaMontagne: “You are the best thing.”
I went to bed in tears last night—on my boyfriend’s 40th birthday. We didn’t get in a fight. We were just off. Aloof. Disconnected.