Pee-Tah: The Best Boyfriend I Never Had

I think I told you recently that Pee-tah came back to Nashville and was moving in with me for a time until he decided what he wanted to do with regards to his living situation.  All of that happened and for five glorious days, we were roomies.  During those five glorious days, Pee-tah decided that Nashville would be his permanent home for a long while and got his own apartment and now we are dating.

Here’s why none of you can be excited about that:  Pee-tah and I both have a keen interest in making out with boys.

But here’s why I am excited about that:

1.  In the five days that Pee-tah lived with me, he vacuumed my house three times.  At least I caught him three times. There might have been more vacuuming that I missed.  All I know is my carpet has never been so shiny clean before nor my clothes so fur free.

2.  Pee-tah has wireless innernet and a television at his apartment.  Because we are dating, he gave me a key to that apartment.  That means I can go over whenever I like and take advantage of his wireless innernet and television.  That also means we can have movie night at his house whenever we want.  We did that right after he moved in, before his boxes were even unpacked.  We chose Flashdance because Pee-tah had never seen it and I didn’t remember it.  I wish we had remained at status quo.  Man, that movie was B-A-D.  However, we agreed that our tastes are similar and we never have to watch it again.  Also, we never watch True Blood.

3.  I still get the whole bed to myself.

4.  I get an allowance from Pee-tah.  When I need cash, he gives it to me.  In return, I cook for him.  We recently had this conversation:

Jimmie:  “Do you have $10 I can borrow?  I have no cash and I have to pay someone back for something.”

Pee-tah:  “Sure.  Here’s $20.  Keep the extra, you might need it.  We’ll call that your allowance.”

Jimmie:  “Thanks!”

And then two days later: 

Jimmie:  “I bought you a chicken.”

Pee-tah:  “Um, thanks?”

Jimmie:  “It’s me, earning my allowance.  I’ll make chicken salad. Do you need anything ironed?”

See how good we are to each other?

5.  I never have to dress up for Pee-tah or shave my legs, despite our boyfriend/girlfriend status.  He likes me just as I am.

6.  I am a good influence on him and him on me.  For example, I taught him how to play a card game called Spite and Malice.  I warned him that playing this game would cause bad words to just fly right out of his mouth.  He did not believe me as Pee-tah NEVER says bad words, NEVER.  But after playing Spite and Malice with me, Pee-tah learned to say the F-word and also other words like damn, shit and this-card-game-sucks-donkey-balls!  In return, Pee-tah cleaned out my pantry and made it organized and since it looks so nice in there, I’m going to try to keep it that way.

7.  He’s taller than me.

8.  When he buys me practical gifts like a fire extinguisher or some safety lights, I truly get excited about it and never fling about the words “no really, it’s FINE.”  The fire extinguisher is my all-time favorite gift.  I’m not kidding.

9.  When I tell him I “have a headache”, we both know I’m telling the truth.

10.  Finally, Pee-tah always, always, always answers the phone when I call.  And I do the same for him. We communicate.

Having a gay boyfriend is the best idea ever!  I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.

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Unsuspecting me.  How silly I was. Driving innocently to work, listening to the radio, not at all aware that a bomb was coming.  I was singing at the top of my lungs, surely butchering Fall Out Boy’s latest hit when the radio made the swift transition from top forty hit to classic love song, arguably the best song ever written.

For a brief moment I was filled with happiness.  I loved the top forty song.  I loved the classic love song.  And then in a space just as brief, I was thrown into the grips of something deep and excruciatingly lonely.  My breathing became labored as tears began to flow, flooding my eyes so that I could barely see.  I dashed at the tears, trying desperately to stay on the road, to make it to work where the business at hand would remove any trace of the emotion I could not control.

Recently my sister cut my hair.  It was a dramatic change and when I went to work that next Monday, everyone was complimentary.  One man walked up behind me and as he complimented the cut, he touched the curls at the back of my head.  As his hands fluffed a lock or two, my eyes closed and my body stilled.  I didn’t know how much I missed that touch until I had it again.  When his hand dropped, I was left with a longing I could not explain or understand, not for the man but for the hand.  He remained completely unaware of how I was affected. I wish I had.

For three years I’ve lived the life of a single woman.  It’s the longest I’ve lived this way since I started dating at age sixteen.  Mostly I’m not lonely.  I’m really not.  Mostly I am happy.   I have a lovely life.  I’m very blessed.  But . . . .

I wonder – is this it?  Is this what it will be until the end?  God, is this Your plan?  I’m okay with that, truly, but I’d like to know definitively, just so I can stop nurturing hope.  I’d like to stop looking, wondering, “Are you him?  Are you the one?  Have I been waiting for you?”

It is impossible to make no comparisons between myself and everyone who has what I think I want.  I’d be lying if I said otherwise.  It is impossible to make no comparisons between my life now and my life when I had what I thought I wanted.  For a brief time, I did have almost exactly that, and when it ended it was the greatest personal sadness I ever carried alone.  My heart is now healed and while there is a scar or two, it isn’t for the man but for the feeling.  I miss the feeling.  I miss the hands in my hair and the happiness of a love song, even if it only lasts three minutes.

Well-meaning people will give me advice after this.  “Live your life now! Do things you love!  Go out, go be Jimmie, do what makes you happy!”  I love you, but I don’t need your advice.  I do those things.  I have a very full life.  Come spend a week with me.  See for yourself.  There is no pity, no injured martyr complex, no falseness in it.  I live. I love.  I do these things for me alone.  I am happy.

Well-meaning people will give me their opinion after this.  “It isn’t always easy, you know.  It’s work.  More work than anything I’ve ever done.  Be thankful you are where you are.”  I love you, too, but your life is not my life.  I know the work.  I’ve done my damnedest to do that work.  No one could fault my work, and even though I know it was work, I want the chance to work it again.  I want a fair shot at the work this time.  Fair play was not my lot the first go round, but I’d like for it to be my lot in the next one.  Maybe I’d just like a next one.

I’d like something to call my own.  I’d like someone to have my back and let me have theirs.  And while I’m asking, I’d like for it to be permanent.  But if that is not in the cards for me, if there is to be an end of hope, how do I let it go?  Do I wait for it to wither and die, curled like a dried leaf and crunched into a thousand dusty pieces when someone finally steps on it?  Or will it just gently fade away into oblivion?  And when?  When will it go away completely, because the lingering strands of it by turns buoys me and destroys me and I’m not sure how much longer I can take it.  God, what is Your answer for me? Please, just tell me.  I can take it, because at least then I will know.

Peter Gabriel, I raise a toast to you.  Whatever you wanted to accomplish with your song, it worked in me.  Well played, man. Well done.

Breaking News! (And Other Assorted Stories)

“How do you stand it?” asked Slim. “It’s so quiet in here!”

I get that a lot when someone new comes to my house. Remember I don’t have a television and you should also know that I don’t have internet either.

You know what else I get, though? People, who upon arriving at my house say that they would die without the noise, falling asleep on my sofa because they are just so relaxed in my marshmallow house. Slim is one of the many whom I’ve found laid out under the fan, hand resting on a sleeping Murphy’s head, snoozing. It only takes about ten minutes for that to happen and then suddenly, everyone is converted to my way of living.

Well, not everyone. Luke is not converted. Luke actually has a giant man-television in his bonus room on which he watches football and other assorted man-TV. Sometimes when I drive by his house and see the glow of the television, I get sort of . . . . jealous. I miss the mindlessness of television on occasion. I miss the laziness of it after a long day, when holding up a book with two whole hands is just too much work. I texted Luke about it one night.

“Hey, can I come watch tv with you sometime? I promise not to talk during any football games and I can bring food.”

Turns out those were the magic words. “Come any time,” he said, “and I like chili.”

One Sunday evening soon after that I ran into him in his yard. “Tonight is the season finale of True Blood,” he said. “You should come watch it.”

“What’s True Blood?” I asked.

“I’ll explain later,” he says. “What are you cooking?”

That evening I put on decent pajamas, ones that cover my whole body, and a hoodie and traipsed over to Luke’s house. I first made my nosy inspection of all his rooms, his washer and dryer and his closets, having never been through his entire house. Then I perched on his futon sofa, highly anticipating a fantastic, lazy, mindless television experience.

That is not at all what I got. Firstly, I learned that True Blood is a vampire show and secondly, I learned that there is all kinda nudity and sex in it. Luke sort of knew that but after about two full-on nudie, really uncomfortable, not-much-left-to-the-imagination-sex scenes, he tentatively said, “Erm, I didn’t realize there would be so much of . . . . that . . . .” as he waved his hand in the general direction of the television. I could barely look at him and we both did that nervous giggle – a very tepid and strangled heh. Heh, heh, gurgle, heh. It only got worse when we saw some full frontal male nether parts. We both sat there, crimson and quiet.

So that lasted for an hour. He flipped around the channels after True Blood and then I got to experience Duck Dynasty and that was eye-opening. Also, cleaner. I enjoyed it very much. We ate M&Ms and watched television and for one half hour, all was marvelous, mindless and lazy. I am a Duck Dynasty convert.

I have other news to share with you. I have no nifty segue, though, so I’ll risk the jarring leap and just jump right in.

You remember my sister, Martie, right? The one who is practically my twin? I mean, look at us. Could we be more alike?

Martie’s musical talent:

La, la, la!
La, la, la!

Jimmie’s musical talent:

Decidedly not la, la, la

Decidedly not la, la, la

Martie’s children:

Pooh

Pooh

Tigger

Tigger

Jimmie’s children:

*crickets*

*crickets*

Martie’s pets:

Rock

Rock, weighing in at roughly 71 pounds

Roll

Roll, weighing in at 72 pounds or so

Jimmie’s pets:

Murphy, weighing in at 9 pounds

Murphy, weighing in at 9 pounds

Seamus, weighing in at 14 pounds, give or take a bag of treats or two

Seamus, weighing in at 14 pounds, give or take a bag of treats or two

Martie’s husband:

Coach

Coach

Jimmie’s husband:

*crickets*

*crickets*

 

Martie’s hair:

Glorious, Full, Thick Mane of Horse Hair

Glorious, Full, Thick Mane of Horse Hair

Jimmie’s hair:

Dandelion Fluff

Dandelion Fluff

Erm . . . huh. How bout this one?

Jimmie’s blog:

Jimmies World

Martie’s blog:

Is That A Hair In My Biscuit?

That’s right, folks! Martie has a blog and you should totally read it! Especially this one, as it’s my favorite.  Plus, she has a contest going and you could potentially win cool stuff.   We will link to each other often, so get ready. You now have two of us! Heh. Heh, heh, gurgle, heh.

Slim, Definitely Not Shady

I have a new co-worker I need to tell you about. First, though, I should tell you that I’ve had a promotion of sorts. What that means for me is I now do more brand new work that I’ve never done before so I’m sort of hanging on by a thin wire all the time, but it also means that I can contribute to my 401K again and that one day I might have more than $16 in my savings account. Retirement would be a lovely eventuality, and I’m sad to say that I have no faith in our government to actually pay me the Social Security I have so earnestly contributed to all these years.

Anywho, my promotion was a result of some job openings and some restructuring and all of that led to a new co-worker, whom I’m going to call Slim. Slim came to us highly recommended and during his interview we could see he had a heart as big as Christmas. We could also see that he had a stomach nowhere near as big as Christmas because Slim is what you would call lanky. (heh heh, Slim . . . )

Once Slim began working with us, it became safe for me to ask all kinds of personal questions, something I do with great regularity of anyone who lets me. So Slim was being trained and in his training I launched into my nosy queries to which he voluntarily replied. Turns out he drinks two pots of coffee for breakfast, is not married, has one lovely daughter and once I caught him coming up the back stairs with a giant Coke in his hand, I found out that he eats a Snickers for lunch every day.

Y’all, I was astounded! No breakfast? No lunch aside from a wimpy candy bar and a 48 oz sweet tea? And then! Someone gave him a cupcake and he let it sit on his desk for THREE DAYS! How do you not eat the cupcake for THREE DAYS? Needless to say, I lectured him extensively about his eating habits so now he’s added a banana to his daily lunch rotation.

Slim has also been walking a lot with me and Daisy. When Daisy and I walk, we like a normal human pace of about 3-4 miles per hour. Slim likes to walk the inhuman pace of 5-6 miles per hour. While Daisy and I walk, Slim circles us and looks over the fences and prances backwards for a while and generally has to short-step it so he doesn’t leave us behind. As he contributes to our pace, I contribute to all the talking. I ask all my nosy questions and as much as they can wheeze out, they do. I have genuine affection for my co-workers and I can tell that they luff me, too.

One night this week it was far too dark to walk on our Greenway, which is not lit at all. We decided that my neighborhood would be ideal for walking as there are a lot of street lights and also there was food to be had at my house afterwards. Slim made himself at home after the walk. Because he’s what you call lanky, that meant that he paced inside my house and then outside my house and told me all the stuff I need to do to make my house safe for winter.

“You do have a cover for your water spigot, don’t you?”

“You’ll close off all these vents, won’t you?”

“When are you going to pressure wash? You need to do that before it gets too cold.”

“Good Lord, when was the last time you cut your hedges back? Can’t even get in your house, it’s so covered up.”

“We need to get some trees planted this fall, so they can take root over the winter. Be gorgeous in spring.”

It was a lot to take in. I was just trying to get the noodles done.

After he did my home inspection, he sat down at the table and announced, “I’ll come over one Saturday to help you do all this. You’ll need to cook me four fried eggs, some bacon, some ham, one biscuit and some grits and then we’ll work till dark.”

Again, I just stood there, spatula in my hand. “One biscuit?” I asked, wondering where the man was that only eats a Snickers and washes it down with 48 oz of sugar.

“Yeah, I don’t really like biscuits,” he said. “Too heavy.”

So it looks like I’ll be doing some yard work soon and I’ll be cooking some breakfast. Anyone want to come over?