I NEED HELP!
You know - I give, and give, and give until I can't give anymore. It is time for you, oh readers of the blog, to help me. Basically, I've been feeling really isolated since moving to my new job. It's not to say that I don't love my new job (because I do, so far, at least). I just like the idea of change much more than I actually like to experience it.
One of the most annoying parts of my old job was that my boss would come running in and out of my office, to get his documents from the communal printer. The printer was located behind me and my boss would take his papers, put his hand on the back of my chair, and stare into my computer, just to see what I was doing. Sometimes, if I was really into something, I wouldn't even hear him come in until he was standing beside me. It was awful and I total invasion of any and all personal space.
Yet, I find myself missing him and the constant hum of the printer. I miss all of my coworkers flitting around the office, sticking their head into my cubicle to ask if I had seen X file or Y grant. I haven't even seen my boss today. I've heard her down the hall, I think. I can't be sure though. I would have to actually stand up to go and investigate and that would involve moving the blanket from my lap. I'm not ready for that kind of commitment this early in the morning.
I was trying to build a relationship with J., which meant that I stopped talking to some of the other people from the internet that I was talking/flirting/laughing with almost every day. My friends from college are busy and I have this one year-old (maybe you've heard about him?) that takes up most of my evening, so it's hard for me to find time to call.
It's my fault. I know, I know.
Here is where you come in. I have this Yahoo toolbar that stares back at me from my computer. The mail icon just sits there, like a bastard, waiting for me to cave in and click it, only to find out that I don't have any messages.
I'm asking anyone who has ever read a post on this blog to give back. To break my cone of silence and isolation. I don't care if you have ever commented before or not. I don't care if you hate me and wish that I would stop talking about my kid so much. Cool. Tell me about it. Tell me a funny story. Tell me about your kids. Tell me that about the last lie you told someone. Tell me about the last time you wanted to cry, but couldn't because you feel so numb.
Write me!
notsopregnantintexas@yahoo.com
Please.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
8/24
I'm tired of writing how my heart is hurting. I'm tired of actually having my heart be hurt. I'm tired of getting all worked up about something, only to find out that everything is, indeed, fine and I didn't need to get so upset.
In summary, I'm tired of dealing with other people.
Last night, Zac and I played on the floor: me assembling his foam puzzle from American Baby, and he destroying the said puzzle in his best, "I'm a toy-tester and no one can stop me," kind of way. I waited for the phone to ring. Waited for my heart to stop hurting.
It didn't happen.
---------------
Day 4 at the new job:
I bundled myself up today. There are nuns in Florida right now showing more skin than I am right now in my office. I'm wearing gray trousers, a white button-down shirt, black sweater vest, SOCKS, and black loafers. Yes - I do look like a pubscent, 1980's prep-school boy. Why do you ask?
I don't think that I've worn socks in over eight months. My feet are enjoying the cushy softness and it's mid-day and I can still feel my toes. Granted, I sweated all the way into work, trying to wipe the perspiration off my face to see the road through the blinding glare of the Houston sun.
But it's worth it.
Oh yes, it is worth it.
I'm considering purchasing a space heater next pay check, just to make sure that I don't cause any permanent damage to my extremities.
In summary, I'm tired of dealing with other people.
Last night, Zac and I played on the floor: me assembling his foam puzzle from American Baby, and he destroying the said puzzle in his best, "I'm a toy-tester and no one can stop me," kind of way. I waited for the phone to ring. Waited for my heart to stop hurting.
It didn't happen.
---------------
Day 4 at the new job:
I bundled myself up today. There are nuns in Florida right now showing more skin than I am right now in my office. I'm wearing gray trousers, a white button-down shirt, black sweater vest, SOCKS, and black loafers. Yes - I do look like a pubscent, 1980's prep-school boy. Why do you ask?
I don't think that I've worn socks in over eight months. My feet are enjoying the cushy softness and it's mid-day and I can still feel my toes. Granted, I sweated all the way into work, trying to wipe the perspiration off my face to see the road through the blinding glare of the Houston sun.
But it's worth it.
Oh yes, it is worth it.
I'm considering purchasing a space heater next pay check, just to make sure that I don't cause any permanent damage to my extremities.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
8/23
This morning I was putting the nipple back in one of Zac's sippy cups when I heard him cry out, "ba ba!" He stretched out his arms and reached for the sippy cup, still lovingly demanding his "ba ba". I filled it up with diluted apple juice and gave it to him, strangely proud that he had connected a word with an object.
I've tried not to get my panties in a knot about Z-man's development. Yes, he started crawling late, standing late, and talking late. At his 12-month physical, the Doctor asked me if he could say 1-3 words. His repertoire of sounds is varied and complex, but actual words connected to an object or person - no.
When he's happy, he usually babbles "da da daddadaddadda". Do you have any idea how awful it is to hear my child babble that for hours at a time? It's like sticking a knife into the eye of single mothers everywhere. Sometimes, if I'm feeling bitter, I tell him that he doesn't have a Dada and he should start calling out for Mama.
When he wants something, he yells, "na na nanananananana". This demand may or may not be connected to a sighting of a banana. My child gets orgasmic glee every morning when I share my banana with him. Honestly, I never imagined that a kid could get so happy chewing on a piece of fruit. He looks like he's died and gone to a vegetarian heaven, located somewhere off the coast of Fiji. The banana is the magic fruit that transports him there.
Everyone says that I'm going to hate it when he can actually talk back to me and tell me what he wants. I think those people have clearly forgotten how frustrating it is to hold an inconsolable baby at 2:30am and not have any idea what is wrong with him. Or to have him demand the box of Nilla Wafers, only to start stacking them into architecturally-sound piles after wetting them with his saliva. I've spent the past thirteen months guessing what it is that my child needs, wants, or hurts from. I'm ready to hear him, although after living exclusively in the Not-so-Pregnant household, I'm guessing that his first full sentence will probably include some variation of the f-word.
I've tried not to get my panties in a knot about Z-man's development. Yes, he started crawling late, standing late, and talking late. At his 12-month physical, the Doctor asked me if he could say 1-3 words. His repertoire of sounds is varied and complex, but actual words connected to an object or person - no.
When he's happy, he usually babbles "da da daddadaddadda". Do you have any idea how awful it is to hear my child babble that for hours at a time? It's like sticking a knife into the eye of single mothers everywhere. Sometimes, if I'm feeling bitter, I tell him that he doesn't have a Dada and he should start calling out for Mama.
When he wants something, he yells, "na na nanananananana". This demand may or may not be connected to a sighting of a banana. My child gets orgasmic glee every morning when I share my banana with him. Honestly, I never imagined that a kid could get so happy chewing on a piece of fruit. He looks like he's died and gone to a vegetarian heaven, located somewhere off the coast of Fiji. The banana is the magic fruit that transports him there.
Everyone says that I'm going to hate it when he can actually talk back to me and tell me what he wants. I think those people have clearly forgotten how frustrating it is to hold an inconsolable baby at 2:30am and not have any idea what is wrong with him. Or to have him demand the box of Nilla Wafers, only to start stacking them into architecturally-sound piles after wetting them with his saliva. I've spent the past thirteen months guessing what it is that my child needs, wants, or hurts from. I'm ready to hear him, although after living exclusively in the Not-so-Pregnant household, I'm guessing that his first full sentence will probably include some variation of the f-word.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
8/22
I got a call from my apartment complex. It seems that something fishy (pardon the pun) occured last night with my trash. It started off innocently enough, with me coming home from my first full day at the new job - still shivering.
It seemed last night that my nipples were staging a revolution for the indiginity of being hard for six straight hours. When I've lived in extremely cold climates, I wouldn't see my skin for days, sometimes weeks. I would just add or take off layers to suit my body's preference for 'awake' and 'asleep' time. No such luck at the office, especially when you walk outside to 100+ degree heat. I almost passed out in the lobby when I reached the front door on the way out to the parking garage. Today, I'm still wrapped in the accountant's old sweater as I type this, giving my boobies a welcome siesta.
Well, as I came home, I changed, listened to the six voicemails that I had on my cell phone, once I found it from under the pile of Zac's toys in the living room. I went for a walk/run, Zac fell asleep, domestic bliss was had everywhere. Deepseadiver J. came over at 8:30pm and we hung out, marveling at Zac's ability to play late into the night after a brief evening nap. He pooped twice after his bath (Z. not J.) and I decided that it was time to take the mountain of dirty diapers out to the dumpster.
Since J. and I communicated over the internet for two months before actually meeting, he knows that I tend to be a little sensitive about guests in my home who create more work for me. I believe that I also had told him that if I wanted someone to take up residence on my couch and not help me with any of the housework, I would fly the FOB town to Houston. With that in mind, he grabbed his shoes and happily marched out to the scary dumpster in the unlit portion of the parking lot.
This morning I got a call from the apartment manager, that insists on pronouncing my name wrong in the most annoying Southern accent I've ever heard, saying that they were issuing me a written violation for disposing my trash in the laundry room.
What?
Come again?
My trash was found where? How do you know that it was mine?
"Well, maaaa'am, the maintenance man opened the bags and found four pieces of mail with your name AND apartment number. The mail has FOOD and PIECES OF HAIR on it (at which point I vomitted a little in mouth thinking about that and felt sorry for the maintenance man) so we know that the trash is YOURS!"
Yikes. I have no idea how my trash ended up there.
I couldn't even find the laundry room if I needed to use it. I have a washer and dryer in my apartment and I can almost guarantee that J. didn't put it there. He gets lost just trying to find my apartment. Branching out to other areas of the complex, at night, isn't really his style, especially to dispose of poopy diapers and leftover shrimp gumbo.
I've heard of identity theives, but trash thieves? That's a new low.
Edited: Turns out J. did place the two bags of trash in the trash can next to a Coke machine after walking around in circles for ten minutes. If he had gone further into the room with the Coke machine, he would have seen that there were coin operated washers and dryers. He didn't want to admit to me that he couldn't find the scary dumpster so he disposed of the trash in what he thought was a public garbage can.
Management at my apartment complex made it sound like I had dumped the entire contents of both bags and redecorated the laundry room with Pampers. I actually think the whole story is very, very funny. The metaphor, "The path to Hell is paved with good intentions," seems fitting here.
It seemed last night that my nipples were staging a revolution for the indiginity of being hard for six straight hours. When I've lived in extremely cold climates, I wouldn't see my skin for days, sometimes weeks. I would just add or take off layers to suit my body's preference for 'awake' and 'asleep' time. No such luck at the office, especially when you walk outside to 100+ degree heat. I almost passed out in the lobby when I reached the front door on the way out to the parking garage. Today, I'm still wrapped in the accountant's old sweater as I type this, giving my boobies a welcome siesta.
Well, as I came home, I changed, listened to the six voicemails that I had on my cell phone, once I found it from under the pile of Zac's toys in the living room. I went for a walk/run, Zac fell asleep, domestic bliss was had everywhere. Deepseadiver J. came over at 8:30pm and we hung out, marveling at Zac's ability to play late into the night after a brief evening nap. He pooped twice after his bath (Z. not J.) and I decided that it was time to take the mountain of dirty diapers out to the dumpster.
Since J. and I communicated over the internet for two months before actually meeting, he knows that I tend to be a little sensitive about guests in my home who create more work for me. I believe that I also had told him that if I wanted someone to take up residence on my couch and not help me with any of the housework, I would fly the FOB town to Houston. With that in mind, he grabbed his shoes and happily marched out to the scary dumpster in the unlit portion of the parking lot.
This morning I got a call from the apartment manager, that insists on pronouncing my name wrong in the most annoying Southern accent I've ever heard, saying that they were issuing me a written violation for disposing my trash in the laundry room.
What?
Come again?
My trash was found where? How do you know that it was mine?
"Well, maaaa'am, the maintenance man opened the bags and found four pieces of mail with your name AND apartment number. The mail has FOOD and PIECES OF HAIR on it (at which point I vomitted a little in mouth thinking about that and felt sorry for the maintenance man) so we know that the trash is YOURS!"
Yikes. I have no idea how my trash ended up there.
I couldn't even find the laundry room if I needed to use it. I have a washer and dryer in my apartment and I can almost guarantee that J. didn't put it there. He gets lost just trying to find my apartment. Branching out to other areas of the complex, at night, isn't really his style, especially to dispose of poopy diapers and leftover shrimp gumbo.
I've heard of identity theives, but trash thieves? That's a new low.
Edited: Turns out J. did place the two bags of trash in the trash can next to a Coke machine after walking around in circles for ten minutes. If he had gone further into the room with the Coke machine, he would have seen that there were coin operated washers and dryers. He didn't want to admit to me that he couldn't find the scary dumpster so he disposed of the trash in what he thought was a public garbage can.
Management at my apartment complex made it sound like I had dumped the entire contents of both bags and redecorated the laundry room with Pampers. I actually think the whole story is very, very funny. The metaphor, "The path to Hell is paved with good intentions," seems fitting here.
Monday, August 21, 2006
8/21
First day at the new job....
5am: Zac decides to wake up and scream. Then scream some more. Then make me his bitch by screaming so long that I go into his room, pick his crying butt up out the crib, and bring him into my room. Where he starts to play.
5:45am: I take the baby-that-wants-to-play back into his own room. He can play in there dammit!
6am: Z. stops screaming and goes back to sleep. I go back to sleep for 58.23 minutes
6:58.23: Wake up and get into the shower
7am: Zac wakes up while I'm shampooing my hair. Give yourself extra points if you think he woke up screaming, cuz he did.
7:15am: I decide that it would be a good idea to distract Zac with my actual cell phone (rather than his play cell phone, and yes, he has a play cell phone and, no, comments about me indoctrinating my child with a toy cell phone would not be appreciated) while I blow dry my hair.
7:30am: Leave the house sans cell phone. Can't remember where he was last playing with it.
8am: Arrive, bright and chipper at my new place of work. Find out that the receptionist and I are the first ones to arrive in the office.
8:10am: Try to find my new office by walking through a maze of hallways and closed, locked doors. Get asked if I'm the new legal intern.
8:25am: The head boss comes in, unlocks my office, and spends the next thirty minutes on the phone with the contract IT guy getting my computer login password. Finally end up logging on.
10:30am: Finish talking to the head boss about the "streams of income" into the organization. Glaze over. Consider intraveneously administering Diet Coke into my blood stream.
10:45am: Finally break down and put on the sweater that the accountant left behind last week when she was in this office. Realize that it is 62 degrees in my office and I can't feel my feet anymore. Ask the receptionist to call maintenance.
10:47am: Holy crap! The maintenance guy shows up and starts tinkering with the thermostat. At my old job, it would have taken a work order, a couple of weeks wait time, and a sigh when I would have been told that I there was nothing they could do about the temperature.
11:16am: Wonder when lunch is.
11:17am: Get asked by a different co-worker if I'm the new legal intern.
5am: Zac decides to wake up and scream. Then scream some more. Then make me his bitch by screaming so long that I go into his room, pick his crying butt up out the crib, and bring him into my room. Where he starts to play.
5:45am: I take the baby-that-wants-to-play back into his own room. He can play in there dammit!
6am: Z. stops screaming and goes back to sleep. I go back to sleep for 58.23 minutes
6:58.23: Wake up and get into the shower
7am: Zac wakes up while I'm shampooing my hair. Give yourself extra points if you think he woke up screaming, cuz he did.
7:15am: I decide that it would be a good idea to distract Zac with my actual cell phone (rather than his play cell phone, and yes, he has a play cell phone and, no, comments about me indoctrinating my child with a toy cell phone would not be appreciated) while I blow dry my hair.
7:30am: Leave the house sans cell phone. Can't remember where he was last playing with it.
8am: Arrive, bright and chipper at my new place of work. Find out that the receptionist and I are the first ones to arrive in the office.
8:10am: Try to find my new office by walking through a maze of hallways and closed, locked doors. Get asked if I'm the new legal intern.
8:25am: The head boss comes in, unlocks my office, and spends the next thirty minutes on the phone with the contract IT guy getting my computer login password. Finally end up logging on.
10:30am: Finish talking to the head boss about the "streams of income" into the organization. Glaze over. Consider intraveneously administering Diet Coke into my blood stream.
10:45am: Finally break down and put on the sweater that the accountant left behind last week when she was in this office. Realize that it is 62 degrees in my office and I can't feel my feet anymore. Ask the receptionist to call maintenance.
10:47am: Holy crap! The maintenance guy shows up and starts tinkering with the thermostat. At my old job, it would have taken a work order, a couple of weeks wait time, and a sigh when I would have been told that I there was nothing they could do about the temperature.
11:16am: Wonder when lunch is.
11:17am: Get asked by a different co-worker if I'm the new legal intern.
Friday, August 18, 2006
8/18
Proof that I'm not raising the biggest-baby-known-to-mankind... Today Zac went in for his long-awaited (by me) MMR/Chicken Pox vaccination. Ever since our scare with the full-body rash last week, I've been wondering how many other scary diseases I could get my child vaccinated against. The bubonic plague? (a particular favorite of mine and all other PCVs in Mongolia). Dysentery? (no, that's actually water-borne. Shit). Yellow fever? (only if we need to go to Africa sometime in the next twelve months). Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever? (no, caused by a tick. No vaccinations available. Bastards.)
In Mongolia, the Peace Corps gave us a book called, "Where There is No Doctor". It was the most horrifying book you could ever hand a scared 21 year-old in a foreign country. The whole idea of the book is that you could diagnose and treat yourself in rural areas where there was no doctors - hence the title. I liked to torture myself by reading the infectious diseases chapters and frequently referring to them in conversations with other Peace Corps Volunteers. They thought I was insane. Later, I would be, but at the time, I was fascinated by dracunculiasis - the Guinea Worm disease. Basically, you get it by drinking water fleas that have been released into the drinking water supply. The water fleas go into your body, develop into larvae, chill out in your small intestines for a year or so, then migrate down into your lower extremities, where an adult female will burst out of a blister (totally "Aliens" style) and release her eggs anytime you are in contact with water. The CDC, in all of their bureaucratic glory, write: "When someone with a Guinea worm ulcer enters the water, the adult female releases a milky white liquid containing millions of immature larvae into the water, thus contaminating the water supply."
You can't cure the disease. Once the worm has erupted from your skin, you can wrap it around a stick (which probably really pisses it off) and pull it out a couple centimeters a day and hope that you don't die of a massive, secondary infection.
Awesome, right?
Once you get that image in your head. It doesn't matter that you've never lived in Sudan or even know what continent Sudan is on. You just start thinking about a worm, wrapped around a stick. Next stop is "Snakes on a Plane" paranoia. I promise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the doctor today, I found out today that Mr. Z weighs 22 pounds 10 ounces, is 30.5 inches tall, and has a giant head. Well, that isn't the technical term for it, but he's in the 50th percentile for weight, 45th percentile for his height, and the 75th percentile for head size. The Doc said that his brain is "clearly developing nicely". Well, duh. One look at his coconut and you would know that!! It's nice to hear that he is perfect in everyway, especially after defending him all the time to complete strangers how like to declare, "He's sooooo BIG! Look at his smile!! The dimples!!! What are you feeding him?" I like that question because it makes it seem like I'm filling him up on Big Macs, fried pork rinds, and dark beer. No of that, "Tastes Great - Less Filling" bullshit from my prodigy.
No way.
I have a brain to develop here! He is definitely getting Guinness.
In Mongolia, the Peace Corps gave us a book called, "Where There is No Doctor". It was the most horrifying book you could ever hand a scared 21 year-old in a foreign country. The whole idea of the book is that you could diagnose and treat yourself in rural areas where there was no doctors - hence the title. I liked to torture myself by reading the infectious diseases chapters and frequently referring to them in conversations with other Peace Corps Volunteers. They thought I was insane. Later, I would be, but at the time, I was fascinated by dracunculiasis - the Guinea Worm disease. Basically, you get it by drinking water fleas that have been released into the drinking water supply. The water fleas go into your body, develop into larvae, chill out in your small intestines for a year or so, then migrate down into your lower extremities, where an adult female will burst out of a blister (totally "Aliens" style) and release her eggs anytime you are in contact with water. The CDC, in all of their bureaucratic glory, write: "When someone with a Guinea worm ulcer enters the water, the adult female releases a milky white liquid containing millions of immature larvae into the water, thus contaminating the water supply."
You can't cure the disease. Once the worm has erupted from your skin, you can wrap it around a stick (which probably really pisses it off) and pull it out a couple centimeters a day and hope that you don't die of a massive, secondary infection.
Awesome, right?
Once you get that image in your head. It doesn't matter that you've never lived in Sudan or even know what continent Sudan is on. You just start thinking about a worm, wrapped around a stick. Next stop is "Snakes on a Plane" paranoia. I promise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the doctor today, I found out today that Mr. Z weighs 22 pounds 10 ounces, is 30.5 inches tall, and has a giant head. Well, that isn't the technical term for it, but he's in the 50th percentile for weight, 45th percentile for his height, and the 75th percentile for head size. The Doc said that his brain is "clearly developing nicely". Well, duh. One look at his coconut and you would know that!! It's nice to hear that he is perfect in everyway, especially after defending him all the time to complete strangers how like to declare, "He's sooooo BIG! Look at his smile!! The dimples!!! What are you feeding him?" I like that question because it makes it seem like I'm filling him up on Big Macs, fried pork rinds, and dark beer. No of that, "Tastes Great - Less Filling" bullshit from my prodigy.
No way.
I have a brain to develop here! He is definitely getting Guinness.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
8/16
It took me a full minute to remember what day it was. That is the problem with not working...I lose track of time faster than Zac can poop on the carpet. Jenna e-mailed me today asking if I was ok and, honestly, I'm pretty dang good, all things considered.
Yesterday was my last day of work at the Houston Food Bank. I was supposed to finish last Friday, but with Zac being sick two days last week, I ended up extending my work until this week. And, really? Who needs a week vacation. Oh wait - I know - I do. Between stress headaches and just plain stress, I'm wound pretty tight. I would consider maiming someone to get the hell out of Texas for a while. While it was hard saying goodbye to all my coworkers at the food bank, I felt oddly detached from everything. It's like I can see it happening, but it's happening to someone else.
I also have something else to confess here, mostly because he asked me if I had already done it yet. I had to sheepish admit that I hadn't told more than 2-3 people that he and I were hanging out. Well, DeepSeaDiver J. and I talked last week. I hadn't expected to hear from him. I was listening to the Norah Jones, Dolly Parton duet, "Creep on In," thinking about how some people just seem to get into my brain and not leave on their own accord. Basically, he said he had overreacted. His phone died and after not calling me for four days, he figured that I was so mad at him that he didn't try to call. When he got his phone fixed, I was like, "Whoa! I hadn't planned on hearing from you again!!"
He asked if he could meet me, so we met downtown at a Mexican restaurant. I'll say this, his pictures didn't lie, he's really handsome. And tan. And tall. And thinks that I'm beautiful. And likes to tell me that. We hung out again last night with Zac and I met his two daughters, K. and M. Zac decided to have a massive separation anxiety attack at his house that led to a complete meltdown. I realized that I don't really take Zac as many places as I think I do. Really, he spends most of his time at my apartment, daycare, or Grandma and Grandpa's house. He's been to SJ's house twice, but other than that, the kid just likes to play with the musical turtle in his crib and crawl around naked in the company of those he loves.
It's understandable.
So, J. and I had an agreement early on that if we were ever to start dating, that we would only date each other. No more blind dates for me, at least for a while. It's time I give a relationship room to grow, without scheduling (or even double scheduling) another date. I was getting ready to hang up my saddle, whether things worked out with J. or not. I've made some male friends through my adventures and I'm looking forward to getting to know them better.
That's the story. Now, pardon me while I go take another nap.
Yesterday was my last day of work at the Houston Food Bank. I was supposed to finish last Friday, but with Zac being sick two days last week, I ended up extending my work until this week. And, really? Who needs a week vacation. Oh wait - I know - I do. Between stress headaches and just plain stress, I'm wound pretty tight. I would consider maiming someone to get the hell out of Texas for a while. While it was hard saying goodbye to all my coworkers at the food bank, I felt oddly detached from everything. It's like I can see it happening, but it's happening to someone else.
I also have something else to confess here, mostly because he asked me if I had already done it yet. I had to sheepish admit that I hadn't told more than 2-3 people that he and I were hanging out. Well, DeepSeaDiver J. and I talked last week. I hadn't expected to hear from him. I was listening to the Norah Jones, Dolly Parton duet, "Creep on In," thinking about how some people just seem to get into my brain and not leave on their own accord. Basically, he said he had overreacted. His phone died and after not calling me for four days, he figured that I was so mad at him that he didn't try to call. When he got his phone fixed, I was like, "Whoa! I hadn't planned on hearing from you again!!"
He asked if he could meet me, so we met downtown at a Mexican restaurant. I'll say this, his pictures didn't lie, he's really handsome. And tan. And tall. And thinks that I'm beautiful. And likes to tell me that. We hung out again last night with Zac and I met his two daughters, K. and M. Zac decided to have a massive separation anxiety attack at his house that led to a complete meltdown. I realized that I don't really take Zac as many places as I think I do. Really, he spends most of his time at my apartment, daycare, or Grandma and Grandpa's house. He's been to SJ's house twice, but other than that, the kid just likes to play with the musical turtle in his crib and crawl around naked in the company of those he loves.
It's understandable.
So, J. and I had an agreement early on that if we were ever to start dating, that we would only date each other. No more blind dates for me, at least for a while. It's time I give a relationship room to grow, without scheduling (or even double scheduling) another date. I was getting ready to hang up my saddle, whether things worked out with J. or not. I've made some male friends through my adventures and I'm looking forward to getting to know them better.
That's the story. Now, pardon me while I go take another nap.
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