November 17, 2012

Welcome to My World

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I'm giving you a break today over at The Selleck Stache.  You're welcome.  You don't get off so easily over here.  I'm freaking out, Tom.  And I'll tell you why:

Just yesterday, I finished my bridge over the sailor's troubled waters.  Just yesterday.  I.  Let.  It.  Go.  I swear I did.  I do not lie.  Lying is my biggest pet peeve.  A deal breaker in my world.

So I let it go.  Let him go.  Yesterday.

A friend even asked about him and I told her I had made it over.  And I meant it.  I did.

And then I cleaned my room last night.

I've lived in my Magic Cottage for just over a year and my room will forever be a 'work in progress'.  I think I like it that way.  But it was out of control.  Has been for quite some time.  Like over a year.  Every time I start to clean it, I 'hear' . . . clean it and they will come.  There.  I typed it out loud.  Doesn't sound as crazy now.  Except that it does sound just as crazy.  Because it is!  I've only told Beth this.  Even she cocked (speaking of - check your balls) her head and laughed.

I just jokingly told her the other night I was going to clean my room so they would come.  So it would come.  So he would come.  So something would come.  So far, only I have come.  (too much?)

When I finished cleaning my room last night, I just sat there and took it all in.  It's not perfect, but I'm happy with it.  And then I did the unspeakable.  The thing I know better than to do.





Accidentally.  I swear.  I was only kidding.

I sat there after taking it all in and said (out loud):  Ok, send them.  Or it.  Or him.  I'm ready.  And then I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all and half expected there to be a booty call text come in as the punchline.  So then I decided to beat The Almighty Universe to the punch and said (also out loud because I will never learn):  The next boy to text wins.  I cleaned it, so now he can come.  And then I laughed out loud a little more.

I wish I were kidding about all of this.  But sadly, I am not.  I'm that girl.

And then I put on my warm pj's straight from the dryer and got a good clean sheet night's sleep in my very clean bedroom.

I awoke early ready to take on the world.  Or at least the mound of laundry I created when I cleaned my room.  I heard my texter ring from the other room.

It was him.  The sailor.

My world stopped.

All I could hear were Ray Charles and Bonnie Raitt belting out 'Do I Ever Cross Your Mind' from my ipod speakers.  Nice touch Universe.  Not only appropriate, but one of the songs I put on his driving CD years ago and he brought up to me this summer.  Which was his way of saying . . .

Never mind.  Let's just move on with this story.

I opened my texter (yes, I still carry a flip Blackberry) and it read:

Thanks Edie

Brilliant.  Did it take him 3 fucking days to come up with that?  I texted him 'happy birthday' at midnight Wednesday.  (I left that part out yesterday, didn't I?  That's selective omission, not a lie.)  No pomp.  No circumstance.  Two capitals.  No period.  And he used my name.

Damn him.

I'm not texting 'you're welcome s' until Tuesday.  Late Tuesday.  All lower-case.  No period.  And I'll only use his initial.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

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