Buildings & Books, Flowers & Food

Tis an odd and wonderful thing to spend days in the same place. To regain a sense of direction and comfort and pleasant routine. I rise and dress, dabbing my precious oil on my fingers to press into my shoulders and slip over my wrists, breathing in what I have decided will be my signature scent.

I enjoy the click of my shoes on the curving marble stairs as I descend, offering a greeting to the receptionist before departing my hotel and passing familiar shops and restaurants and beautiful buildings. Two blocks later, I become part of the crowd on La Rambla, noting which street performers are new this morning. (If you're early enough, you can watch as they smear on make-up and dress in their elaborate costumes.)

I arrive at La Boqueria and cross the street, breaking right before entering the narrow aisle between various stalls. I walk for a row or two, seeking a break in the mass of humanity, and slip inside to sigh over the juices and order something mixed with mango. The orange mango the first day was magical. The papaya orange yesterday, while good, wasn't as glorious. Today's kiwi mango was a return to everything juice should be. Hence, the mango has achieved avocado-like status in my affections.

I rejoin the crowds as I sip my juice, wandering toward the next metro stop (or the one after that if the sun feels perfect and I'm not finished being outside yet). I semi-expertly feed my ticket into the machine and wait for the doors to open or turnstyle to unlock before plucking my ticket out from the slot and tucking it back in my bag. I buy a water from the vending machine if I have time before the next train and then I ride to my current place of business. There, I learn until it is time to descend into the subway system again to return to the Ramblier environs.

(This photo, by the way, pretty much captures how I feel about the mango+other juice. Like sparkles of light glimmer around it while a heavenly choir of angels sing a perfect chord for its wonderful goodness. My mouth waters from the moment I see it snuggled in crushed ice and I reach eagerly for the plastic cup as the vendor pushes a straw through the lid. I perched it on the stairs to the subway just before finishing the last gulp and throwing the empty vessel in the trash with one last, longing glance. It's what gets me out of bed in the morning, people. God bless the juice and those who make it available to me.)

I decided to explore the Gothic Quarter before returning to my hotel and I took various photos of the narrow streets and tiny shops, grinning at the neon lights around the tattoo parlors and glancing at the shops with scarves and beads. I got a little lost, beginning to fret a little until I saw the cathedral and wandered around it admiringly. It's apparently still having some work done and I spent long moments in front of it looking at the sign and the map in my hands and the map by the sign. And the sign and the map by the sign and the map in my hands.

Deciding I was reasonably likely to go the wrong direction anyway, I glared at the map once more before turning and walking in what I hoped would bring me to the Plaza de Catalunya. (It would, actually.) Along the way, I found a bookshop and couldn't resist going in. Because books are happy so you should call your store Happy Books.

English books were on sale (2,95) so I selected two, holding them close to my chest as I wandered the rest of the shop before paying for my reading material and walking once again. I watched a crowd form around a group of young men who I think were going to dance, but the mass of people encircled them completely before I could see. Still, I smiled at the spectacle and began my internal debate over whether or not I was hungry.

I have a terrible habit of postponing meals until I'm nearly sick with hunger when I travel alone. Because I had books (and a journal, actually), I ordered myself to find a restaurant so I could watch people and read a novel and have a snack. A snack called pizza, actually, I decided and began to search out spots in earnest.

Disappointed with my failure, I approached my hotel and decided I could eat at the tapas place next door again. The asparagus with brie was yummy last night, but the chicken skewers were less than perfect as a source of protein. Yet I nearly bounced with glee upon seeing the menu for the section of tables adjacent to the tapas ones. I found a table (and then moved closer to the heater as I was becoming cold in my short sleeved dress) and ordered a pizza and soda while looking at my hotel about 15 feet away. And I grinned at my luck even as I poured the flavored oil atop the thin crust and cheese.

I finished with chocolate mouse and tart berries and cafe crema before beginning to shiver and asking for the check. Charmed by my book (A Spanish Lover, Joanna Trollope) and completely satisfied with my day, I climbed the marble steps to my floor, entered my straightened room and flopped on my bed to write a post.

Because as my eye would tell you via nary a single twitch in the last 4 days, Spain is good for the soul.

Spa(in)

I did go for more juice this morning.

Then there was metro - learn, learn, learn - metro.

And then...I went to a ridiculously expensive spa and can report that you do, indeed, get what you pay for.

After days of small rooms and skipped meals and cramped metros rather than clean cabs, I decided I needed a treat. And after browsing spas online, I kept returning to the Barcelona Spring treatment at a hotel nearby. So, after a wince at the price, I booked it. And winced again at the price.

Still, I've never regretted splurges on spa treatments while traveling for work. There's something about pausing to be utterly self-indulgent (I usually hover around 85%). So I went to Floor -1 in a very posh hotel and settled into a low sofa, awaiting my welcome tea. (It was not as good as the juice. But I survived.)

I was taken to the changing room after a woman took my shoes (on a tray - my poor flats were outclassed) and gave me slippers. I left my skirt and sweater in my locker and decided to take a shower as I had time before my appointment began. Emerging from the giant stall, nice and clean, I giggled as I donned disposable underwear (my first ever thong, by the way) and tied my silky robe closed before going to the Relaxation Room. I had water and a piece of stone fruit I was unable to identify and crossed my ankles as I reclined on my lounge chair and watched the black chains that formed a sort of wall drift and shimmer in the candlelight.

My therapist, an adorable British girl, fetched me and took me to the lobby of my treatment room and settled me into a chair for my foot treatment. She explained things but I tried to be attentive, but the pressure on my sore soles was delightful and my toes wiggled affectionately.

I followed her behind the curtain and took off my robe, arranging myself in a prone position on the towel-covered massage table.

I am a cough drop, I decided as she began to scrub my skin with a salt mixture scented with lime and mint and containing menthol that made my skin tingly. I pictured someone unwrapping me from my crinkly protective paper and popping me in his mouth. I would release soothing vapors - soothe sore throat and clear nasal passages - and click gently against the inside of teeth.

I flipped over when asked, becoming all cough-droppy on the front as well and blinking my eyes open when she said we were finished with this part.

"OK," I agreed and grinned when the head of the table raised so that I could easily slip off the table and into the shower in the corner. She gave me instructions - push this button, turn this knob, be sure to get the scrub off your neck and feet. I squinted, mostly blind sans glasses, and nodded and sleepily entered the room where purple lights glimmered from the ceiling.

"Oh," I said, happily surprised when depressing the proper button caused it to rain. I looked up into the purple glow, realizing the entire ceiling was dripping warm water onto my skin. I closed my eyes to listen as I kept my face turned upward, delighting in the sensation before slicking my hands over my body to remove the scrub.

"I'm all silky," I told my therapist once I'd emerged, dried off, exchanged disposable panties for a dry pair and settled myself on the table once again. "I miss the shower already," I sighed and she patted my calf before promising this next part was 'the best bit.'

After taking a deep breath as instructed, I perked up and decided if I could smell a single scent for the rest of my life, this would be it. Delicate and sweet, a gentle waft of mint and eucalyptus and something else I couldn't place permeated my brain, leaving it bathed in peaceful contentment. She began to rub the oil on my skin, starting at my feet, and alternating hot stones with firm pressure from fingers and palms.

It felt endless - like there was infinite time to relax and stretch and let muscles lose their tension and have my tummy rubbed with the perfect oil as my breasts were covered with a soft cloth. I ended up under the fluffy towel, her hands in my hair as she pressed points in my scalp and gently smoothed the stands.

I am an olive, I decided as I bundled back in my robe and slippers and returned to the relaxation room and the shimmering black chains. I'm marinating in my oil, growing supple and rich and delicious. I debated whether I - as an olive - would have a pit or pimento while I nibbled on nuts and gulped my water. Finished, I shuffled back to the changing room and returned to that shower, sleepily standing under the spray and washing my hair and rinsing my body before wandering out to pay.

And I was too blissed out to wince over the price, even after I added a bottle of oil so I could smell like this again at home.

Barcelona, by Katie

I'm having a wonderful time. Want to try it? Here are some tips.

1. Leave Madrid, remembering the delicious food and pretty streets and delightfully amusing colleagues, on an early-evening flight to Barcelona.
2. Land, toss your heavy duffel over one shoulder and laptop bag on the other and wince at the protesting muscles. Debate over whether or not to check said duffel on trip home and decide it's better to be 10% more miserable walking through the airport than to add 20 minutes to your trip at the end.
3. Discard other thoughts as moving past customs. Wear smug expression while walking immediately to the ramp that will exit at the taxi queue.
4. Hand over giant duffel, settle in seat and give the hotel name and address - in broken Spanish - to friendly driver.
5. After a lengthy ride through some sketchy neighborhoods, begin to question your decision not to stay at conference hotel. Begin to nibble on lip.
6. "Esta alli," you offer helpfully, pointing across the street as your driver looks for numbers on La Rambla Catalunya. Sigh with happy relief upon seeing the gorgeous building and admiring the upscale touristy neighborhood. You'll be safe here.
7. Check in, once again with the smug expression for the deliciously cheap price of your single room, ride elevator to your floor and wait patiently for the second door to open after the first barrier slid apart.
8. Wait less patiently.
9. Gesture at door to open! Try to remember magic word to open things.
10. Poke at door with index finger as sign of disappointment and anger, blush and hang head when door swings open, waiting with far more grace for me to push it open.
11. Arrive at door to room, briefly admire tall ceilings and open door. Step inside and realize you're already halfway to the wall in your 3x11 accommodations for the next week. Still, it's lovely - giant windows and pretty tiles in the shower at the end of the room.
12. Hit head on TV by bed. Bump elbow on blow dryer hanging on bathroom wall. Decide to pretend to be a giant in the small space. Giggle while deciding where in the world to put your giant clothes and giant bags and giant toiletries.
    
13. I decided to be a friendly giant. You should be whatever kind of giant makes you happiest. (You're welcome.)
14. Shower, thinking rain showers aren't for giants who don't wish to get their hair wet tonight, but admire your fresh and clean smell from the lovely bath products.
    
15. Unpack clothes. Take 2 steps to bathroom to unpack toiletries. Take 3 steps to bed to place items on headboard and relax into sleep.
    
16. Toss and turn. Turn and toss.
    
17. Remember to take any relevant medications.
18. Toss and turn some more.
19. Watch news. The news hurts. The great and terrible thing about international travel is that it makes global events more personal. For me, it shrinks the worlds so that while my understanding of their suffering is certainly not complete, it is incrementally larger than before.
20. Finally sleep and dream about destruction. I do not recommend repeating the sleep portion of my trip.
21. Awaken in the morning. Not know or care what time it is. Instead, read email and blogs. Browse through guidebook and say 'ahh...' when you finally realize where you're located with respect to your touristy map. Finally arise and dress to wander around.
22. Admire exquisite weather. Admire fabric of your dress (or clothing if you choose not to do Spain in nothing but dresses). Admire the architecture.
    
23. Continue with admiration, stopping to take photos, until you reach the market. Suddenly remember you're very hungry.
24. Enter crowded market and shuffle through crowds, look longingly at the rows of transparent plastic cups, filled temptingly with bright colors of fresh juice.
    
25. "Juice?" a boy offers and you nod wordlessly, looking at the selections of kiwi green and strawberry red, soft banana yellow and multiple shades of orange. Think it's like having a ridiculously sexy man in front of you and you want him. Almost too badly to know where to start. The boy offers orange-mango as you're stricken with indecision and fruit lust. Nod again and watch as he takes 2 coins from your fingers and hands you the juice with a happy striped straw poking temptingly from the top.
    
26. Bring straw to lips. Suck. Pause. Swallow. Swoon. The juice is rich and pulpy, sweet and fresh. Become barely aware of your surroundings, pretty as they are, as you enter a deep bonding experience with the juice.
27. The juice must not be lonely! Buy croissant and consume while standing out of the way and watching the people walk by. Be more protective of juice than bag containing today's portion of cash and 2 credit cards.
28. Uh oh! Memory card full. Must return to hotel.
29. Sigh longingly over flowers. Frown thoughtfully. I'm here for a week. I could have flowers. Find stall empty of customers and select sweet pink flowers pictured above. Grin happily at the woman as she wraps the stems in shiny foil and places them in your arm.
30. Worry over where to find a vase.
31. Serendipity! Enter a place called Habitat and peruse vases. Select 2 that are rather pretty and have at least a 10% chance of making it home unbroken.
    
32. Return to hotel to arrange pretty flowers. Admire flowers. Love flowers. Consider singing songs to and writing blog posts about flowers.
    
33. Transfer photos, check camera and realize you're late for your work thing.
    
34. Successfully buy metro ticket. Find proper line. Sit (go with smug again) and ride toward your destination. Because you're awesome. And the flowers are waiting at home. And you can go get more juice tomorrow.
    
35. Work for a bit. Learn interesting things for several hours.
    
36. OK. Enough of that.
    
37. Return to metro and back to your section of town. Begin wishing for pizza.
38. As it is late for lunch (~16.30), snag a table by the window and quickly decide (from the English menu!) what I want.
    
39. Read work stuff and make notes while waiting. Sip Coke Light with lemon and my mineral water while watching people walk by, sometimes pausing to watch the street performers. Smile and sip and work and bask.
    
40. Devour pizza because A) it's delicious and B) you're very hungry.
41. Return to hotel (and flowers!) with vague plans to go out again.
    
42. Accidentally fall asleep after taking many pictures of flowers.
    
43. Sleep remarkably well as dusk turns to night.
44. Awaken to shower and change.
45. Write blog post because this is too delightful not to remember.
    

Spanish Supper

We arrived at the restaurant around 8:45PM. For dinner. When I would normally have a last bottle of water, take my anti-depressant and be relaxed in pajamas, finishing up work or giggling over a sitcom.

Instead, we entered a lovely restaurant that was all but empty. For it was fairly early for the evening meal. Still, we had animated conversation (that grew increasingly animated on my part, honestly, as I worked my way through more than my share of a nice bottle of Spanish white wine) over culture and differences and colleagues and growing up.

"They're very smart," he noted of the octopus. "I've snorkled and harpoon fished for a long time, and they're a very clean, intelligent animal."

"That does not," I told him, looking dubiously at the plate of medalions, purple skin still visible on some edges and white meat sprinkled with paprika, "make me want to eat them."

He apologized, looking abashed and I waved off his expression and bravely popped a piece in my mouth, trying to enjoy it though all I could think was 'smart, clean octopus; smart, clean octopus' I'd tried to suggest the asparagus, but ended up with calamari and octopi. That, having skipped lunch, I was hungry enough to eat.

"No cabezas," my dining companion ordered when my plate came. I tried to demur but my stomach turned at the sight of the poor shrimp and their tiny black eyes. So the waiter soon returned with headless shrimp and cod that I consumed with intoxicated, inelegant greed.

And I giggled over stories, both told and heard. I sipped the after-dinner drink that was super-strong after asking if we drank it all at once or slowly savored.

"We're not Mexican," he replied, frowning at me and I blinked at him in surprise. "They drink tequila all at once, don't they?" he asked and I nodded and began to laugh before sipping my tiny glass of something pink.

I am now drunk - barely able to remove my dress and tights and flop on my bed in my oversized t-shirt. I'm drinking water and taking Advil in hopes of avoiding a vicious hangover - I don't drink enough lately to tolerate 1/2 bottle of wine and tiny glass of something pink. Still, it was fun. And we don't start tomorrow until 10:30. So if I do need to vomit, at least I have time to do so!

Art & Agua, Flores y Fences

I headed east today, my goal to walk north on Paseo del Prado to Plaza de Colon and return south on Calle de Serrano (like the chile, I kept saying to myself). It was ridiculously perfect - a balance of sunshine and shade, crowds and space to move freely, architecture and gardens. I kept looking around, stunned at how wonderful I found the city when I expected it to be much like others I'd visited in Europe.

And perhaps it is similar, I decided as I passed the building that holds some of the greatest art in the world. I had, after all, planned this trip quite differently, arriving on a Saturday and taking the weekend to reacclimate and wander around before working on Monday. So far, the results are stunning. My headache yesterday was moderate. I'm sleeping very well. And I feel good - not sad or unsettled or queasy or sore. In short, I'm taking to Madrid like a duck in the Parque del Retiro to water.

I'm wildly boring on days like today, though utterly content to wander and look and idly think thoughts. But it's hard to find write interesting text when I spoke only to the man at the newstand for postcards and water and the woman in the park for another water. I walk and smile at people. I pause to capture images on my memory card and continue on to look at the decorative details outside old buildings or peer at art hanging on perfectly lit walls.

I did congratulate myself on a couple of travel tips. First, I had breakfast at the hotel (mostly because it was included with my room as an apology for yesterday's unpleasantness) and enjoyed the croissant and ham and cheese, slurping coffee to try to snap myself awake when I briefly considered returning to my room for a nice nap not 30 minutes after waking up.

I also carried my mini hipster from Vera Bradley and find it a perfect little travel bag. Credit cards and cash go inside. Lip gloss, coins and hotel key in the front zipper pocket. Map and water or camera go in the back pouch for easy access. The strap goes across my body and I tend to keep it slightly in front of me so it's protected from random thieves (which I've never seen but are always mentioned in my travel books). (Plus, my mom has this odd fear that someone is going to "get me" so I assure her that I'm very careful.)

I did, however, curse myself for attempting the giant Parque del Retiro. I predicted I'd get lost and decided the day was too lovely to mind such things. But after a couple of hours of wandering and watching, I wanted to leave and went isquierda when I should have went derecha and my sore, blistered feet ended up on the exact wrong side of the park, leaving me to whimper and retrace my steps to cross the lovely paths once again.

After extremely careful consultation of my map, I took a shortcut and returned to my hotel to once again strip, shower and download photos. I do have dinner plans with a colleague tonight - perhaps something more bloggable will happen then.

Mad(rid)

Mad At
It was non-trivial to get here. Despite my careful planning and packing and eager anticipation to take what is more a vacation than business trip, nothing seemed to go as planned during my arriving travel.

I had to leave before my parents arrived, outraging Chienne and making me sad.

US Airways had a broken plane, leading to a 3 hour delay that effectively ate my layover where I'd planned to grab a snack, change currency and generally settle.

After serious stress about that, I ended up demanding they rebook me on another airline and did make my flight (having time for cash and a bottle of water) before boarding.

The plane was uncomfortable. While the middle section was encouraged to spread out and utilize the empty seats for greater comfort, I was in one of the two edge seats, smooshed against a Spanish stranger who kept poking me in the side with his elbow.

We arrived in Madrid early (yay!) but parked at the airport for ~30 minutes before pulling up to our gate. My muscles screamed in protest, mainly because the seat belt sign was on for the entire flight. So I'd been squished in my window seat (that didn't have a window by the way - it was more a plastic-wall seat) for upwards of 7 hours.

Immigration was easy - I don't think I've ever been allowed into a country with less fuss, including my own.

The cab ride through dawn was likewise pleasant. So I was starting to feel pretty good about the city in general, catching my breath with the charm of the cobblestone streets as we neared my hotel.

But said hotel had given away my room. So I pitched a fit, eyes filling with tears and threatening "bad review online. Very bad!" Despite my bad behavior, she booked me in a sister hotel for the same rate I'd had there (which was admittedly cheap) and added free breakfasts. Then she sent me on my way with a map and directions to walk the several blocks to what I hoped would be my home for the next few days.

Madly Affectionate Toward
Even as I hefted my duffel bag on one shoulder and laptop bag on the other, I felt my mood shift as I walked through the soft light of the dreamy morning. More than happy to be charmed by the cool breeze and blossoms on trees and pretty balconies on lovely buildings, I slipped camera from bag and took a few photos as I followed the simple directions and nodded at the few people on the sidewalks with me.

I arrived at my hotel where she had a room ready and apologies prepared.

"No," I shook my head at her. "You've both been perfectly lovely and I'm just being grumpy. I'm sorry. And thank you for giving me a room - I need a shower and nap so I can be less evil."

I admired the recently renovated building and found my room, a quiet interior habitacione with 3 windows in the tiny space and a gorgeous glass-walled shower. I immediately stripped and took advantage of the latter, sending an email to my parents wrapped in a towel before falling into bed and peering at my map to devise a walking route for later on.

I slept for four hours, longer than I'd planned by far, but decided to embrace the relaxation of muscles and deep, dreamless rest that I was enjoying a great deal. I finally felt awake, brushed my teeth, dressed, straightened my hair and set off with my map and camera to wander Madrid.


And it was pretty much perfect. The weather is wonderful - warm but not hot, sunny but with plenty of shade. Spanish people and tourists were out in force, admiring the scenery, consuming food and drink and conversation. There was laughter and fun and even when I got lost (twice - I have no sense of direction at all), I still found pockets of people dining outside and pretty buildings and fountains and even the signs that name streets.

So I enjoyed the sound of my yellow flip flops on the sidewalks and the swish of my dress around my knees and eagerly gulped water ('please be still, please don't sparkle' I begged the bottle before twisting the cap) as I smiled at the children playing and the couples kissing and the various people basking in the sun. I took pictures and saw sights and considered stopping for a drink or meal or just to watch, but enjoyed the movement so I continued to wander until my feet grew sore.

Returning to the hotel, I washed my face and tossed my shoes in the corner and flopped on my comfortable bed. And wrote a blog post about how anger shifted rather easy to affection.

Thou Shalt Not Steal

"Jeep?" I questioned, more confused than annoyed as I peered at the lights on the dash but failed to hear the pleasant rumble of my motor that indicated I was ready for mobility. "Hello?" I asked and turned the key again, pressing on the accelerator for good measure.

Nothing happened. So I frowned and thought for a moment, coming up with absolutely no magical knowledge on fixing what ailed my vehicle and turning the key twice more before calling the dealer.

"It's not even paid for," I told them pitifully. "And I come in to get oil changed! Approximately when the little sticker on my windshield says! So why won't it work?!"

"I don't know," offered the service guy and I glared out at the parking lot before asking him for a tow truck. I had to call myself, thanking the woman when she said it'd be an hour to hour and a half, ending the call and slumping in the driver's seat before trying the key again and glaring at my adorable car.

Then I called my dad.

"It sounds like your battery," he offered, not unsympathetically. "It doesn't seem like it'd be bad so soon though."

"Can't they check?" I seethed. "When I take it to the stupid dealer for stupid service? You don't deserve new oil," I told the Jeep, growing furious that I was trapped. "I stopped for cat kibble and dog treats and tights so I was ready for my trip and you and Mom had pet supplies during your visit. And this is what happens! I get trapped at Target!"

After putting it in neutral and trying (nothing) and rolling down my windows (that worked fine), I settled in to wait in the mild afternoon, watching people come and go with carts and bags full of items. They came and went. Parked and returned to pull away.

Dad called again. Asking if the tow truck had arrived and wondering how I was going to get to the dealer.

"What?" I asked, confused. "I'll go with the car. In the tow truck."

"I don't know if they'll take you with it," he warned and I exclaimed that I was not staying at Target any longer than absolutely necessary!

After 20 minutes, my phone rang again.

"Hi, Dad," I sighed and listened while he said he'd found something online.

"This lady also had a 2008 Compass," he reported. "She went to one store and the car started then went to the next and everything lit up but it wouldn't start. And they said it had to do with the anti-theft system and the wireless control module."

"The Jeep - My Jeep - thinks I'm trying to steal it?" I clarified. "That's why I'm trapped here? Anti-theft protection?"

"Probably," Dad replied cheerfully. "But you didn't do anything. And they should fix it for free according to the website."

After another 30 minutes, I called the tow company again, reporting it had been 85 minutes. I thanked her again when she said it should be soon and emerged from my car to wave at the driver about 10 minutes later.

After asking permission, I did climb in his giant truck, turning in my seat to watch him efficiently load the Jeep on the raised bed and chain it securely. He climbed in and we set off, chatting about the towing business and wait times before finally arriving at the dealer. I watched an ambulance speed by and confessed that the only other times I'd been towed had been after totaling my cars. Twice. So this was actually better.

I walked in the service entrance, still texting Adam and Sibling about my unplanned afternoon, and told the guy that my Jeep was being placed over yonder. He nodded and I glared warningly and told him my dad had seen something online about the anti-theft systems and went to sit in a reasonably comfortable chair inside. I had warned him that I would not wait longer than 2 hours and would then need to borrow transportation or be given a ride.

After watching the news (does your NBC station play news all afternoon too?) and reading a Newsweek cover to cover, I grew impatient again, relieved when the service guy appeared to indicate it was the wireless control module. I briefly considered throwing a fit, decided it wasn't his fault and nodded when he said they'd soon have the dash put back together.

I called Dad and made his day by informing him of his wonderful knowledge gleaned online. I shook the service manager's hand several minutes later and walked out to my now-functional Jeep. It immediately started and we set off for home, some 5 hours after I'd planned.

On the way, my phone rang and I answered, expecting to hear Dad's voice yet again. Instead, it was Citibank.

"Do you have your card?" they asked and I confirmed that I did.

"We need you to verify some purchases," the representative continued.

"You're protecting my card from me," I clarified and after a moment she agreed. "Interesting," I sighed. "My car is also protecting itself from me too."

Chalk on Sidewalks

Somewhere over...
I walked the dog this morning, having pulled on mismatched gloves and a university sweatshirt to wander through the mild morning. I glanced at the neighbor's driveway and was relieved when I felt my lips curve, appreciating that the was an arrow pointing to the end of the sidewalk rainbow chalked on the sidewalk. And there was a pot of gold being directed to its proper spot by said arrow.

It's beginning to thaw and I'm beginning to feel better under the increased dose of anti-depressant. I was running late this morning, but I made it to work. I attended meetings and completed tasks and did not argue or whine or otherwise flip out.

Well. Until I did flip out. To the point where Adam jogged across the floor to close my door and shush me from the yelling about idiots that I was doing into the phone.

"I'm sorry," I said later. "I know I'm supposed to control myself and I know I'm supposed to be steady and not emotional but I hate that guy."

So it was a busy day but I grinned when the guy in the office next door dropped off a saw. "So you have a weapon," he offered when I gave him a quizzical glance.

"May I use it on myself?" I asked and he paused, turning to close the door behind me and reached to hold my hand while giving me some affectionate advice. And another colleague passed me in the hall, squeezing my shoulder and grinning. "Deep breaths," he advised and winked before walking away.

Not Anatomically Optimized
I haven't been carrying my camera lately so I had to draw the creature that charms me around the block. He looks silly and lovingly drawn and I pause to make sure I don't step on him as we walk by that section of sidewalk.

"He," I told Chienne (who was ignoring me to sniff at residual snow banks), "is not anatomically optimized for mobility." And I grinned at the thought of how his loopy legs barely touched this body at the tiniest of points before reaching toward the ground on very round feet.

Still I appreciate the effort. And the immobile creature cheered me even as I hurried home to throw on clothes and speed to work, still arriving late to our group meeting.

Since my brain appears to be not optimized for mood regulation, I wanted to thank you for your comments and encouragement and assorted good wishes. It's very kind of you.

Life, Death and Rx

There is something almost grotesque about it. As I stood behind the man in the motorized scooter and waited to relinquish my prescription to the man behind the counter, I shuddered with an incomprehension of our existence. What it all means under the bright lights, among the busy aisles, of the giant Walmart on a Saturday morning.

"I'm sad," I told Mom this morning, having forsaken my plans of a trip home and making a phone call instead. She listened and advised and I clenched my teeth because I just want it to stop - the comments and questions, arguments and tasks, from work and family and friends. I just need to rest, wrapped in a blanket of solitude so that I can be better again.

"Make sure you get your medicine," she said firmly, worry hovering at the edge of each word and I nodded, promising that I would. Unsure of when the pharmacy opened and conversely certain I was unable to endure a lengthy shopping trip, I walked the dog and cleaned my house, feeling distant from my actions even as I watered plants and vacuumed carpets and bagged trash. Unable to bring myself to even make a list, I put on jeans, zipped a sweatshirt over the moderately clean shirt I'd slept in and set off to obtain pills.

I smiled weakly at the man in line ahead of me as he struggled to move out of my way. He hadn't put the device in reverse and the scooter bravely tried to climb the counter when he urged it forward. He finally pushed the right button, grinning when the beeping signaled his backward motion and waved as he set off to shop.

"Hi," I replied to the man behind the counter, behind him various mixtures of compounds in white containers. I handed the crumpled paper that had resided in my console and various pockets because I'd not prioritized this trip to fill it. It's for anxiety - the written prescription - and I watched as he entered it in. "I also have refills," I noted, thinking of the lone capsule at the bottom of my bottle at home. "Fluoxetine." I waited while he frowned at the screen and nodded. "I need both," I confirmed. "40 and 20mg. 3 months of each."

He told me 20 minutes and I thanked him, unable to gather the energy to smile, and walked away. I stood for a moment, toes at the edge of the gray aisle beside the faux-hardwood that marked the pharmacy area, feeling terribly alone and confused and miserably sad. I sighed, absently directing my attention to those around me, wishing one of them could help me. Make me better. Exhausted and discouraged, I forced myself to retrace my steps toward the front door and instead of retreating to my car, I tugged a cart away from the lines in the foyer and began to shop.

I admired the pecan pies in the bakery before picking up bread. I stared at the wall while the trainee in the deli sliced honey ham, managing to smile when he confided I was his first customer at his new job. "Good luck," I offered sincerely and thanked him before setting off to find milk and eggs and the V8 Fusion juice I've grown to enjoy. I looked at books, plucking two from the shelves even as I wondered if I'd muster the attention to read them. I hefted bottled water under the cart, selected treats for the dog and a new scratching toy for the cat and returned to the pharmacy to once again take my place behind scooter man.

"We meet again," I offered when he turned to smile at me.

"Mine isn't ready yet," he replied, motioning me ahead of him so I joined the rather lengthy line as the young worker glanced at the amber containers before tucking them in the white bags, tops folded over and stapled before being placed in waiting hands. I stood beside the man, not wanting to cut in line when it was already rather lengthy. So I watched as the middle aged woman took her bag and pushed her cart to the left. As the elderly woman discussed her medications with the pharmacist who emerged from behind the high counter to help her. As the boy waited with his mother and stared at the toddler with his father behind them.

And then it was my turn. So I gave my name and waited while she pawed through the transparent plastic bags until she found mine. And I stared at the trio of containers, each containing something that might make me better - make life easier - and blinked when she stapled my bag and handed it to me. I placed it in the cart atop my groceries and glanced back when the pharmacist told me to call with any questions.

What's the point? I wanted to reply, for that's my current question. What are we doing here, peering in refrigerated cases and pulling boxes from shelves? And why is it so damnably painful sometimes?

Instead, I nodded and thanked him, grabbing a bottle of shampoo from the shelf as I moved toward the cashiers before taking my purchases outside, the thin white bags surrounding them whispering something incomprehensible in the wind of this moody, cloudy day.

Talk to me.

Lawyer: Have you even been deposed?
Katie: I have not. But I have watched multiple Law & Order reruns so I'm pretty certain to be awesome at it.
[Katie laughs.]
[Lawyer does not laugh.]
[Lawyer obviously has no sense of humor.]
[Katie clears throat, embarrassed.]

****

Spanish Colleague (SC): Do you like meat or fish?
Katie: Either is fine, thank you.
Katie: Oh, wait.
Katie: I don't like it when the creatures are served with their faces still on.
Katie: Last time I was in Barcelona, there were shrimp staring at me from the paella.
Katie: I did not like that.
SC: Is cod acceptable?
Katie: As long as I don't have to make eye contact with it.
Katie: Again, thanks for offering to take me to dinner in Madrid!

****

Adam: Yes, I've asked them. Patience, my student.
Katie: Patience is a waste of time. I have that on a t-shirt.
Adam: I believe you.
Katie: You should! Totally true.

****

Smallest One: Can I sit next to you in Heaven?
Aunt Katie: You can sit next to me anywhere, love.
Smallest One: Even in Heaven.
Aunt Katie: Sure, even in Heaven.
Smallest One: How long do we stay in Heaven?
Aunt Katie: I think once you get there, you're able to stay forever.
Smallest One: Can my cat come too?

So...

This is one of the moments after you reveal something intimate and then don't really know what to say next.

So.

Hi.

Disclosure

If I were to admit that I reached age 32 without having sex, one might call me shockingly virginal.

If I confessed to having 3 men in some state of serious undress in my bed on the first, second and third dates, all within the span of about 2 weeks, one might call me a bit of a hussy.

I could argue with neither as both are true.

The most common question, of course, is why?

The first answer, for longtime readers, makes a sort of sense. I'm wildly introverted, trust few people and would rather acquaintances work for my attention so I'm able to grudgingly let them know me. And while I find sex and intimacy completely fascinating, it also seems important. A profound connection with someone you love, at least in some variation of the word. So while I don't judge those who indulge in sex of the less profound variety (and rather like hearing stories, actually), I've not been able to do it.

And, so, well, I've not done it.

Despite long-suffering crushes and some reasonably serious (in that they lasted a long time, not in that there was physical stuff) relationships, I've remained untouched.

As for the second part, I decided, apropos of aging, that it was time to gain some experience. Perhaps, I decided, it would make me less neurotic! Or outgoing or settled or sure of what I wanted in terms of romantic relationships. After all, I didn't ever decide not to have sex. It was more like I neglected to engage in it. So with a little focus, I set about accomplishing my goal.

It started in October (or maybe September - I don't tend to procrastinate when there's an important task to complete) and I'd soon identified a likely candidate and acquired some very nice lingerie. I began reading Cosmo again to brush up on my 'how to' knowledge and invited a complete stranger to spend the weekend at my house. (I reasoned that it was mostly like getting a massage. And instead of money for a backrub, we'd exchange orgasms and call it 2 days well spent.)

He came. Things happened (I'll tell you tomorrow - I have it written out). And he left about an hour after he arrived, neither of us having accomplished the stated objectives.

Then there was Will (and, simultaneously Doug). (Not in that there were 3 of us together, but in that I was dating both of them during the same weeks in time.) And while there were several desperately sexy encounters with Will, there was not intercourse. I can sum it up by saying I wanted but didn't feel I should.

It's the exact opposite with Doug. I feel I should - he's attentive and sweet and supportive and wonderful - but the desire isn't there. I love him - think he's adorable and funny - but I panic when I think of him inside me. I just can't. So now we're friends. Which means we still go to dinner and I give him rides to the airport at 4AM and he brings over dinner and wine but we don't kiss goodnight.

"What's up with the boys?" Sibling asked last night over dinner and I opened my mouth to answer and closed it before shrugging. Because I don't know.

She asked if I might be pregnant as I've been rather tired and moody of late and I smiled and shook my head, oddly flattered that she thinks I'm normal enough to have sex.

On the off-chance that writing this out helps me understand it better, I'm telling sexy stories. And, I suppose, opening myself for questions or suggestions. (Other than 'why?' because I'm not sure that I know.)

Sexy Sunday, Sans Satisfaction

Late November, 2010
"Yes," I replied simply when he said he might have a few hours to spend before his Sunday evening plans. We were in a feedback loop that was sending nothing but positive signals - naughty photos, sexy replies, suggestive looks and lengthy strokes of palms over naked skin.

Will arrived for our third encounter, opening the door based on my email-issued open invitation. I'd left it unlocked, literally as well as figuratively, wanting him to take anything he liked. He greeted me, and Chienne, of course, waiting while I threw her a new squeaky - a fat cow that she pranced around to show him - and we settled close together on the loveseat. There was football on television and a fire flickered in the hearth, all lights otherwise extinguished in the foggy light of a late afternoon.

"I'm cold," I told him, shivering as I faced him and slipped my legs - clad in soft, black tights - over his lap. He rubbed them briskly, helping me smooth a blanket from the waist down and slipped underneath it with me. We talked, trading work stories and he'd occasionally glance at the game while I had focused only on him. The weave of his oatmeal-colored sweater, blue shirt peeking out at his throat. The stubble, impossibly appealing, on his jaw.

"I haven't shaved," he noted when I reached to touch his cheek and I imitated his sound I so love - a pleasured murmur, a sort of gentle hum of response. He would shift sometimes, adjusting the position of my legs and nudging his hands higher until I was nice and warm again. I nudged the blanket to puddle to the floor, absently pushing the hem of my dress lower out of habit.

I smiled when he lifted an eyebrow and lifted it once again, exposing more of my thigh.

"I don't know why I keep pushing it down," I told him, knowing I wanted his hands there - and everywhere - but was caught by habits much more reserved.

"I'll just keep pushing it up," he replied and I shivered and smiled. After several more trips of the hem up and down my thigh, he asked if he should just remove the whole dress.

"I'd just end up under the blanket instead," I decided, offering an expression of helpless apology and watched him nod with amusement.

I need to ask him what signal I give - how he knows when it's time to lean closer, reach higher, lift my right leg to rest behind him on my loveseat that suddenly seems much too small and move his chest closer to mine. I breathe faster each time, curling my toes and gripping his shoulders when warmth spreads throughout my system. I close my eyes when grips my hips to shift me closer, felt myself near orgasm when he lifted his body from mine as I was semi-reclined and moved his hands - such intensely sexy hands - behind my knees as he stood between my legs and yanked me to toward one arm of the loveseat.

"There's not enough room," he told me, eyes heavy-lidded and focused, and I may have told him he was viciously attractive, feeling my thoughts dissolve as I lost track of anything but my response to him. I remember staring at my legs when he eased them to rest on his chest, my ankles just above his shoulders.

"Are you flexible?" he asked, already deep voice husky and soft. "That's OK," he assured when I must have looked worried that I was inadequate. "You don't have to be." And his hands offered a reassuring squeeze to my hips after sliding firmly up the outside of my thighs.

He braced himself above me, perhaps asking what I wanted while I might have accused him of teasing me.

"How much longer?" I asked, knowing he had to leave and always concerned about timing.

"Fiften minutes," he replied as I yanked insistently at his sweater, responding with sighs and squirms when I felt this pressure of his body against mine. I forgot that my head was jammed in the corner of the loveseat. That he must have been uncomfortable with no room to put his legs. "Ten," he teased into my throat when I lifted my chin to give him room. "Five?"

"How is it getting so much worse so fast?" I replied, pressing against him when he rubbed between my legs - the pressure and pattern making me clench - until his hand moved and hips provided the pressure I needed and I breathed there, surprised when he echoed the word and pressed harder.

He didn't kiss me, but I listened to him breathe, my soft sounds and panting gasps providing counterpoint.

Just as I've no idea how he knows to begin in earnest, I'm lost as to when he decides to stop. I do know I tingled everywhere, throbbed between my legs, as I stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the fire while he was in the bathroom. I pushed hair back from my heated face.

"I should go," he told me and I nodded, swallowing my pleas for him to stay. To come upstairs. To keep doing things to me. I couldn't resist inviting him back, offering that the door would be open. He smiled, remaining non-committal, and I sat in arousal so sharp I was both baffled and fascinated that I was experiencing it. I slipped out of my tights and, fetching manicure scissors, snipped until the cotton panel was gone, replacing them over my legs and letting my hand drift shyly between, all heat and wetness now exposed.

I slept that way, clad in only a pretty black bra and the now-crotchless tights Will favors.

But he did not return.

Almost...: 2nd "Date"

Thu, Nov 18, 2010 at 4:46 PM
Will

Real quick... I plan on writing more a bit later tonight - but are you feeling better? Also on a side note it looks like there is a chance that my appointments for tonight will reschedule so I very well could be free... hint hint.

Thu, Nov 18, 2010 at 4:56 PM
Me

I am feeling better, thanks for asking, though I'm still sleepy and a little achy. Probably from napping most of the day.

If you do find yourself free tonight, I'd obviously love to see you if you're OK with doing something fairly low-key. But email works too if you find yourself professionally occupied. I'm around either way as I canceled my evening's plans since I wasn't up for being charming and professional.

5:55PM
Me
As far as hints go, there's a chance I could have reacted a bit too enthusiastically to yours. I am now showered and "dressed" in very soft black sleepy pants and the white camisole in the photo I sent. My pillowcases are in the dryer and house is semi-clean.

Come over. I'll even dry and curl my hair.

6:43PM
Will
Mmmm showered and dressed, now we're talking ;) and I suppose I could work with sleepy pants and the very nice camisole... seeing as you were not feeling good.

****

He arrived after The Big Bang Theory ended and my stomach flipped when I saw his profile through the front window just before the doorbell rang. I scampered toward the door, nudging Chienne out of the way, and zipping my black sweatshirt over my white camisole.

“Crisis of confidence,” I told him of my bulky sweatshirt and followed him to the living room where he greeted my ecstatic canine. We sat on the loveseat, reminiscent of our positions after our first date and I battled disappointment when he didn’t pull my legs on his lap. I finally reached for his hand as we chatted, relaxing as he appeared more sleepy than anything.

“Your socks don’t have patterns,” I gently scolded, touching his ankle with my bare toes and grinning with delight when he pulled at the hem of his jeans and showed me the design on the sides.

The discussion turned to sex, though the details of our conversation escape me as I was having an intense debate over when to invite him upstairs.

“I can feel the wheels turning,” he offered affectionately. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m ready,” I decided, both brave and excited. “Let’s go upstairs.” Nerves, of course, defeated me until Will reminded me of my script from one of our emails and I blushed when I recalled a detailed invitation that involved cooking and watching a movie in bed. “I don’t want dinner,” I told him, “and I don’t have a suitable movie for us to watch upstairs.”

“TV shows then,” he suggested.

“I’ll introduce you to The Big Bang Theory,” I decided, heading upstairs to start the first DVD of the first season while he was using the powder room downstairs. We coaxed Chienne out of the master suite and closed the door, leaving the room lit from the light from the en suite bathroom and glow of the television.

He was confident, having lost shoes and coat upon entering my house, and tossed aside the comforter and climbed in bed.

“Do you have a side?” he asked and I indicated he was on it even as I moved around the bed to enter on the far side. He scooted toward the center so I returned to my side and slipped in next to him, still clad from shoulder to ankle in black material. He was in jeans, shirt, sweater and socks though, I decided, and hoped we’d eventually shed some of the layers.

He pulled my left leg over his hips as I rested on my side facing his reclining form. He played with my thigh and the back of my knee while I wondered out loud what to do with my hands.

“How’s that?” he asked, being a bit cheeky, as he pulled up his shirts and placed my hand on his warm tummy.

“It’s good,” I murmured, positively thrilled to begin to explore the jutting angle of his hip and soft skin covered with silky hair. We stayed that way, smiling at jokes from the television occasionally as I relaxed into the experience.

“Be right back,” I told him as I moved to the bathroom and wished personal matters didn’t get in the way of more intimate personal matters. After washing my hands, I unzipped my sweatshirt and had it off one shoulder before hesitating and tugging it back together.

“I got it unzipped,” I informed him when I returned to nestle on his shoulder and moved my hand under covers and clothing to find his skin again.

“I saw that,” he replied and I nodded before breathing deeply and telling him he smelled good.

“I should have taken it off,” I confessed a few moments later and he turned his head to look at me. “There’s no easy way to do it now,” I explained.

“Well, that’s not true,” he said as he nudged one side off my shoulder and helped me from the bulky fleece. I immediately pressed myself against him, hiding the pretty black bow and barely covered torso. But he cuddled me closer and continued to watch television, leaving me free to mentally adjust.

“Could you take this off?” I asked, tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt and watching him sit up from the nest of pillows to remove it.

“This one too?” he inquired, motioning toward his button down and I nodded and murmured something about being efficient when undoing his buttons and pushing the fabric away from his chest.

I spent long minutes exploring, rubbing my palm over his shoulders and down his chest, feeling the soft hair tickle my hand. I slipped my fingers over his sides and onto his back, breathing against his chest and feeling my right arm fall asleep where it was located beneath me. But my left hand was so happy – smoothing the skin of a very cute boy – that I didn’t say anything when I felt him relax into my touch.

“OK,” I finally said. “What do I do with my arm?”

And he made this sound that I love – a thoughtful, teasing hum – and eased me to lie supine. He shifted and I caught my breath when he moved above me, eyes heavy-lidded and sensual, expression gentle and focused, all broad shoulders and long arms.

“How’s that?” he asked when he rested between my spread legs and I wrapped myself around him and murmured that it was perfect. He pressed against me, smoothing his hands on my legs and helping me raise my knees a bit higher around his hips. We pressed and held and I needed him just a bit higher but so badly wanted to be responsive and sexy that I just enjoyed the feeling of him thrusting against me, fully dressed, and felt a twinge of failure when he rolled from me and said, “That was nice but I don’t think you liked it that much.”

It sucks to be transparent. And he was wrong – I loved it – but he was correct in that I did not orgasm. It was just a lot to process and I couldn’t let go and I was struggling to push his shirt out of the way and my sleepy pants – though soft and thin – were bunching around my upper thighs.

“I want these off,” I finally offered decisively. When he requested clarification, his deep voice warm and almost amused, I indicated his shirt and my pants and we tossed both aside, he with a bit more supple grace than I displayed, before looming over me again as I arranged my legs around his knees and he covered me again. I don’t remember when he took of his jeans, but I smiled as I remembered rubbing a worn patch on his knee with my index finger when we were sitting downstairs. I was inordinately fond of the idea that the same pants were now lying in a heap on my bedroom floor and that his belt and the denim wouldn’t be in my way the next time I explored around the waist of his boxers.

We eventually paused and, noticing the DVD had ended, I stopped it and powered off the DVD player. Conan was on so I curled my legs underneath me as I waited for him to return from the bathroom. He returned to the center of the bed, long limbs and lean elegance, and we arranged ourselves under the covers again. We watched television – well, he did – I mostly watched him or closed my eyes to bask. It was kind of impossibly wonderful.

“I’m memorizing,” I told him once. I didn’t elaborate but whether I’m waiting for our schedules to align so I can see him again or whether he moves on and I’m alone again, I want to remember how his skin felt under my fingers or the pressure of his thigh between my legs. The scrape of stubble against my neck or his slow blinks and sidelong glances as we both grew sleepy.

I went to fetch him a cough drop when he couldn’t find one and there was a vague scent of cherry and menthol when he took one of the two I brought. I allowed Chienne into the room at the same time, finally tiring of her cries and scratches at the door. She mostly left Will alone, embarrassing me only when she almost stepped on his crotch before he successfully fended her off. I was eventually sandwiched between a familiar dog behind my knees and a novel human in front of me.

I asked if he had brought condoms, simply out of curiosity and nodded when he indicated he hadn’t.

“I didn’t think we’d have sex tonight,” he told me. “Not that I would have said no.”

“I have some,” I offered and he smiled and said he thought I might. We stayed silent for a few more moments until I said I was going to take off my camisole and subsequently struggled from it before hiding against him again. He let me, using the gentlest of pressures to trace intricate patterns on my left breast until I shifted to allow him more room.

“Really?” I asked as he tugged at the leg I’d rested over his and continued to nudge me until I was on top of him.

“Really,” he confirmed, shifting his position and sliding his hands to my hips. Just as I was growing concerned that I was too short or built incorrectly, we moved in the right way at the right time and connected.

“There,” I breathed and nodded when he confirmed, burying my face in the pillow beside his head as he lifted his hips and pressed at mine. The pressure was perfect – firm and rhythmic and sexy – and I left my hair fall around my cheeks as we rubbed against each other for long moments. Finally, gasping, I lifted my body from his and offered that I did, surprisingly, like being on top.

I don’t remember the order of the next two events, but I do remember him asking what I wanted to try next.

I think I asked if he’d touch me again.

“How?” I asked and he shrugged.

“How do you want it?”

“I think,” I offered after considering it, “I want you behind me. Will that work?”

“It will,” he replied, helping me get settled before slipping his hand between my legs to explore again. “You’re really turned on,” he said, fingers slippery on my flesh and I swallowed hard against another rush of arousal.

“Yes,” I agreed, closing my eyes and arching my neck and feeling him return the pressure of his head against mine, grounding me against the familiar feelings of impending orgasm.

[Redacted content. For multiple reasons.]

It must have been after that when my touch eased lower and I asked if I could do something for him. I touched and stroked for the second time – the first happening at some point I can’t exactly recall in the hours we spent in bed together. I remember saying it hadn’t felt slick enough after the first experiment and how he’d replied.

“That’s because it wasn’t. You’re the PhD, right?”

And because I do, in fact, have a doctorate, I told him I wanted to taste as I began touching him again and confirmed that he wouldn’t mind. He pushed the covers aside and slid out of his boxer shorts before I took them and tossed the fabric toward the side of the bed – I would later remember their location as he was dressing. I’m helpful like that.

I do like giving oral sex – something about the texture and temperature and focus just works for me – and I remembered his earlier disclosure about preferring attention to his shaft and wrapped my fingers around it even as I took the tip in my mouth. I paused to press kisses into the shaft, licking gently before returning to the head and slipping it against my tongue again.

The issue is that he is rather big and I am quite inexperienced and therefore not at all sure I’m doing it right but uncertain as to how to gain skill. I was relieved when he offered whispered compliments and thrilled when his hips began to move or when the hand on my back clenched. I wanted him to come, thought I tasted something new at one point, and was lost in fascinated arousal when I felt him grow harder, wider, in my hand.

We rested together for a bit and I listened to his breathing become deep and even and the occasional click of the cough drop against his teeth. I thought of the moment when he rested over me and said I should think of him like a shiny new toy, just there for fun and ready to be discarded upon boredom.

“I don’t do that,” I replied, more than a little sad as I thought of the future. “I have Care Bears from childhood down the hall. Once I like something, I want to have it for my very own and keep it.”

“I know,” he sighed, not at all unkindly and paused when I asked if he’d do me a favor. He agreed – he will tell me when he’s done exploring whatever may be between us – and I looked up into a face I’m finding increasingly handsome with each meeting and thought of his strong hands pushing my wrist into the mattress next to my head as he thrust against me, perfectly matching so many of my fantasies, and how he smiles and questions he asks and stories he tells. And the dread of any painful ending was drowned under waves of affection and arousal and happiness that – for now – I’m completely smitten.

Feb. 26, 2011 - I still smile and shiver to think of it, pleased that it happened, happy I wrote it out and mostly unconcerned that it's over.

Effortlessly Sexy: The Perfect First Date

[I am intensely busy at work right now and can't seem to think of anything other than my to-do list. But I do have some posts that I didn't publish with the goal of telling the dating story in order. I may not end up doing that, but I do like what I wrote here.]

November 1, 2010
"Oh," I thought when I opened the door to my evening's escort and made a brief but fervent wish that he'd heed my email instructions and kiss me goodnight. Intimidated and attracted, I decided I'd just avoid looking at him all that much at first and allowed him in to greet my prancing puppy while I slipped black flats over my gray tights.

He said something about the length of the dress I'd told him I was planning to wear. The belted black piece of fabric hovered around mid-thigh and I'd gone through a quick yet intense debate over changing into something a bit more demure. I firmly told myself it was fine and if there was ever an evening to wear the garment that had been hanging in my closet, lonely and unworn, it was this Wednesday with this man who offered conversation funny and flirtatious, thoughtful and tempting.

In fact, as I glanced toward the door while waiting for him to arrive, I felt an abnormal but fluttery anticipation rather than my typical dread of dating. I'd wondered if he'd stand me up, but decided that was fine as I'd asked him to pick me up at home. I'd just change into pajamas and work. But the doorbell rang and I tugged the door open, feeling an immediate sense of infatuation - when I find a person so completely compelling that every detail whispers perfection that I helpless against admiring.

Examples? Certainly -
- When I fumbled the opening (Something like, "Would you like a drink or shall we go?" Thinking frantically that then I'd have to look at him and get nervous and awkward and panicked, decided we must leave now. "Actually, let's just go - Chienne will jump on you and it's already dark and we should just go. Now."), I glanced up to see his lips curve in amusement before he acquiesced.
- He opened my door and waited to close it until I arranged myself in the seat and pulled my skirt down - one gallant action I find has an easy charm about it.
- Before entering the car, he draped his suit jacket over the back of the driver's seat. And I melted a little and had to take a breath to gather my thoughts.
- He arranged himself behind the wheel and fumbled a little with the key, giving me a blessed moment to smile and relax before I set about admiring how tall he was, the elegance of his hands, the sound of his voice, the subtle scent of his car. (Seriously - swamped with infatuatation.)
- He commented on my hemline which made me blush and smile and argue that it was, in fact, likely too short though I appreciated that he didn't think so.

"I'm nervous," I felt compelled to confess once we were seated at one of my favorite restaurants - an out of the way place divided into several small areas with only a few tables apiece. We'd argued amiably over politics on the drive - his fault by virtue of asking if I voted - and while I loved the way he thought, I didn't always share his perspective. But once we were out of the darkness and into the restaurant, facing each other across a small table, I kind of wanted to hide behind my menu and wondered if he'd lend me his so that I could build a small fort between us.

"Why?" he asked and I shrugged and tugged at my dress under the table, tucking my feet farther under my chair. He looked away for a moment to think before asking me a question. Grateful for the distraction and easing into conversation, I leveled out and relaxed a bit, pushing the sleeves of my cashmere cardigan up my arms and playing with the oversized, handmade ring on my left hand.

We drank wine and talked of topics serious and silly. I smiled and decided that while he was completely handsome, I was no longer desperate to find someone to love me and resolved to simply enjoy his company. As I settled, I followed habit and drifted into sweet and friendly because that's what I know how to do.

"I didn't tell you, but you look very nice," he offered and I believe I blinked at him, startled out of friendliness and back into infatuation. I hope I smiled and thanked him. I'm nearly certain I tugged at the hem of my skirt under the table.

"Would you like a bite?" he inquired after our meals were set before us and I indicated that I would. When I reached for his fork, he shook his head and leaned a bit further forward. "Don't be shy," he urged and after I made a face at him, I took a deep breath and leaned forward, taking the bite he shared.

My only other moment of bravery came after I returned from the powder room and recalled that I wanted to see his socks. (Email conversations can be randomly revealing.) I nudged his foot from under the table and smiled as I assessed the fabric around his ankles. And pulled my skirt back down to cover my knees.

We talked through dinner and I beamed at him when he agreed to share a dessert. I wasn't really ready to see the evening end though the older couple who'd had another table in our little room had come after we arrived and left before we did. We both had early mornings and I knew I should let him get home, but I found myself eagerly offering to show him around when he asked a question about my house.

"An after-dinner cocktail?" he asked and the hair I'd tried so carefully to curl bounced when I nodded. Newly confident when he accepted, I told him a story on the drive home, resting my arm against his on the armrest and taking comfort from the warm pressure, quiet interest and amused acceptance of something that should have been embarrassing and awkward.

"I'm glad I told you," I offered, handing him the bottle of wine when I couldn't quite open it. I poured two glasses and handed him one before walking from kitchen to loveseat and curling in the corner so I could pretend to watch the news. He sat next to me and we sipped wine for a moment and talked of things I now can't recall.

At one point, he turned toward me and I swallowed the concern that he was uncomfortable on my small furniture when his left knee found its way under my right thigh.

"I'm invading your bubble," he noted with a grin and I smiled back at him, flattered and flustered. We continued to talk as the news ended and Leno began. By the time he told me he didn't like Jimmy Fallon, he'd scooped up my legs and draped them across his lap and was slowly rubbing his hand over my soft gray tights. I have a particular fondness for men's hands and he women's legs so it seemed to be working out quite well.

"You have nice calves," he offered between a slow and easy volley of questions and answers. I think I thanked him - perhaps told him I was fond of taking walks - but my clear memory is watching the tip of his long fingers trace over the curve.

"I wanted to feel pretty," I murmured at one point, feeling warm and safe and happy while we discussed my choice of outfit.

"You are pretty," he responded and I looked in his eyes and reached for his opposite hand so I could play with his fingers while feeling the warmth spread inside me.

In what must have been hours but felt like mere moments, we slowly stopped talking as we shifted closer. I wet my lips and swallowed against the tingling tightness in my throat and squirmed with arousal as he urged my skirt higher and continued to touch me. Glancing tickles behind my knees and long, firm strokes from ankle to hip. Our foreheads touched as heads bowed and I found it somehow reassuring even as I wished I was forward enough to shift and kiss him.

It was so good though - the warmth easing into heat and drifting toward need - and I closed my eyes to focus on it, think through it, worry over whether or not to ask him upstairs, but would lose focus and flutter my eyelashes open to watch his hands - the contrast of masculine strength and elegance against feminine curves and softness.

"I like Carson Daly even less than Jimmy Fallon," he told me and I nodded, thinking I really, really liked what was happening, easily ignoring Carson Daly while sharing space with a man I found impossibly fascinating.

The backs of his fingers brushed my breast where I'd cuddled his hand against my chest. His right hand drifted up, bit by bit, until the tips of his fingers brushed between my legs when I parted them. My breath caught when he put my hand on his leg and I remember thinking - perhaps saying - that I was being shamefully selfish, but was too overwhelmed to focus on what I might do for him.

I can't recall the catalyst, bathed in a glow of arousal and anticipation, but he leaned forward at one point, tucking my right leg behind him and leaning his head toward mine. I bent my knees and pulled him closer and we kissed - a slow, gentle exploration of lips and exchange of breath - and despite my desperate desire to memorize every moment, I seem to have stopped being able to think.

He left around 1:30AM, far past my bedtime, after one last embrace in my foyer. I'd more or less made him promise I could see him again, knowing our schedules were difficult and a little terrified he'd change his mind about wanting to rub my legs and share kisses and conversation in the future.

I suppose I remain a bit concerned - I very much want to do that again - but I'm completely pleased with the memory. I fell asleep, body still tingling, and was late to my meeting the next day. Throughout a day of reviews, I leaned against the wall and curled in my chair drowsily and thought that a man - a smart, interesting, gorgeous, sexy man - had his hands on me. And my lips would curve as I slowly blinked and wished the hem of the dress I'd worn to work was just a touch shorter than my knees so I could tug at it.

Quiet Beauty

I glanced over at my kitchen table today and stopped to stare at the sunlight streaming through the sliding doors, glimmering in the glass vase that held a few cheerful daisies.

I felt a happy relief when Egypt and her people gained freedom. There is something stunning and powerful about the peaceful protests, the release of fear to demand certain rights. I so admire them. And so hope they find a way to balance change with stability.

My shoes made muffled sounds as I walked through the forest on the paved path. The thin layer of melting fluff muted the already quiet morning as the geese flew and honked overhead.

Sprout's whiskers catch the sunlight as he curls next to my pillow during a midday nap. I blink at him upon waking, reaching to smooth his fur before his green eyes turn to mine and he rumbles a purr.

I feel ever-so-slightly better at work. More settled and peaceful and hopeful that eventually I'll find my bliss once again.

It's academic.

I stared at the car, caught somewhere between befuddled and amused, as it began to honk at length at the gate that would not open. I knew the driver should back up and use the visitor's exit if he had no card to wave at the reader. The gate only knows it's supposed to open when it sees a card - as an inanimate object, said gate had no awareness of or sympathy for his honking demands.

The older driver looked disgusted with the very idea that the device would not bow to his will and rolled down his window as I approached on a nearby path.

"Hello," I said to him, standing back a bit and bending my knees so I could peer in the window and think that his little bow tie looked rather jaunty even on someone so angry.

"I can't get out," he told me, frowning darkly and I nodded.

"I think you need a card," I replied gently. "Are you visiting?"

"I don't have a card!" He glared and I blinked, surprised at his anger toward me.

"Then you should back up and go over to the booth," I offered more sternly. "The man there may be able to help you." And I frowned back at him because his supposed tenure, academic pedigree and jaunty bow tie were no excuse to be mean to me. So I nodded with what I hope was regal grace when he offered a gruff thank you.

Then I rolled my eyes as I walked in the building for the second afternoon of meetings.

In a room of 60 people, there were 3 of us who were on the young side of age 40. And while I've no doubt that I and my fellow youngsters are smart, the truth of the matter was we bought our way in. Invitations were granted only to the elite in this field, but industry representatives were included but individually uncontrolled. So there I was, representing a powerful company but with meager credentials of my own, taking notes and pausing to think and chatting politely with people whose papers I'd devoured in grad school.

"You," I thought of one man, "write like crap." His speech was as dense and indecipherable as his papers and I spent most of his talk glancing around to see if anyone knew what he was trying to say. But his lab does brilliant work and the conclusions I think I could draw were both relevant and interesting. So I reminded myself that some of the most talented speakers don't have anything of interest to say and sometimes the effort required to understand brilliance is worthwhile - different skill sets are quite important.

I looked around, observing squabbles and underlining points in my notes. And I thought of the people - the endless hours, countless errors and breathtaking feeling of discovery - who stood behind each of the figures presented or points discussed. And realized that until my fellow attendees retired or decided to delegate, subordinates aren't getting invited to these special events.

So I shifted in my uncomfortable chair and glanced around the ugly classroom where we'd met and decided maybe industry isn't so bad after all. Because I have no particular desire to join these meetings again. And wouldn't it have been terrible had I worked a lifetime to get in the door and then immediately wanted to rush out to honk at the gate so I could escape?

The Illusion of Independence

I will admit it's a bit disheartening. Looking outside and seeing families bundled in bright colors, diligently working to clear snow from relevant surfaces. I work alone, frowning over my shovel and smiling proudly when my snowblower clears the way.

Adding insult to injury, Chienne enjoys hopping over her gate and running away, prancing around the neighborhood and greeting the families outside. See, I think to myself, even the most faithful of companions remains with me from necessity alone.

So while I didn't mind asking Doug for help after deciding the sidewalks would be far too hard, I did feel a certain sense of failure over my inability to handle the details of the life I've chosen.

We talked that night and he sounded tired. He agreed to help, of course, but noted it would have to be late the next day, after he handled the responsibilities of his own life and choices. I frowned at the very idea, bristling against the thought of adding my burden to his and decided I would clear the sidewalks alone even as I despaired at the depth of the drifts.

I worked from home again, taking calls and tending to tasks and steeling myself to face the cold. My mood was aided by the bright sunshine when I emerged and I squared my shoulders and made my most determined face and cheered above the rumble of the snowblower when we began to make progress through the waist-high snow. I returned to the house having finished 3/4 of the sidewalk, preening with pride but tired from the shoveling and shoving and snow.

Doug, I decided, could do the smallest portion by the picket fence. But after finishing more work, I set out again, walking the snowblower up to my neighbor's driveway and pushing downhill toward my house. It was slow going - rocking the bin up and down to break through the wall of snow- backing up and moving forward and leaning on the machine to add my weight to gravity as we inched forward, spewing snow.

I reversed again, deciding to get a running start at the immovable 5 feet that remained between me and the driveway and promptly fell on my bottom when the wheels spun. I giggled after deciding I was unhurt, looking around at the walls of snow that surrounded me, unable to see the street or my yard in my soft, white cocoon. Unable to make additional progress, I reversed up the hill and walked in the street until I reached my driveway.

"So close," I muttered, squinting what remained between me and victory. So I shoveled and dug and started the snowblower once again. And in my urge to finish - to win - I pushed too hard and the chute atop my friendly snowblower popped off against the presssure of the snow.

I nearly wept, so horrified was I to have harmed my only ally.

I brought the machine back to the garage and downloaded the manual, finally understanding how to repair my injured buddy. Once healed, we returned to the small mound that was left and completed our work. A person could walk down my sidwalk, surrounded by snow and without much room on the path, but I had completed a route. And though I panted with exhaustion and stretched against the ache in my back, I felt ridiculously proud.

Patting the snowblower fondly, I returned to my house. And the dog I locked inside.

After a difficult meeting at work on Friday, I felt like a miserable failure and came home to have a panic attack. My heart raced, hands trembled and I couldn't catch my breath. I frantically googled relaxation techniques and finally calmed myself with the realization that life can be hard. And I can move past it.

Today I felt tired and a little sad. But I walked the dog, smiling as she tried to peer over the mounds of snow. I ran some errands. I came home to do some work. Then I called my pastor to arrange a lunch next week. I read a beautiful sermon that brought me a sense of peace and purpose. And nodded upon reading a bit of 2 Corinthians. "The Lord told Paul, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'"

Deep

Chienne and I cocked our heads to the left as the garage door rumbled open and we beheld what was outside. She looked up at me and I glanced down at her, smiling at her expression of confusion, and patted her head.

"Wow, huh?" I asked and she turned her attention to our neighborhood, fully blanketed in snow. That part is not unusual. It's the part where it's taller than my dog and well past my knees when we stand inside and stare, somewhat bewildered.

I looked at the snowblower, red and happily waiting to be started, and decided the machine was not tall enough to handle the high drifts of snow. So I grabbed the shovel I rarely use and experimentally poked at the fluffy white mound nearest to me, tossing it aside and blinking as the gusting winds created a giant cloud of fluff. I tried again, accomplishing the partial clearing of approximately a square foot before following the dog in the house.

I closed the garage and emailed Doug, asking if he might have some time to rescue me from the snow that surrounds my house. Then I did some work. And took a nap.

Feeling guilty because my responsible neighbors were dutifully clearing their drives and sidewalks, I emerged once again and started the snowblower. Once I coaxed it through the first stripe, it was somewhat easier. So I chipped away at the snow, 6 inch columns at a time, and was delightfully proud until I reached the street and was unable to tackle the drift at the end of the drive.

Deciding I'd deal with it later, I had the drive mostly complete before I decided to take another break and decide on my plan of attack.

After some strategic shoveling and brute force shoves of the snowblower, I managed to stumble into the street and did a victorious wiggle in celebration. Then I shoveled and blew until I thought my Jeep could probably get out if it had to. It might have to hold its breath and suck in its sides, but it's feasible.

Then I looked at the sidewalks. Or rather the snow where the sidewalks should be. And I tried to make progress with the snowblower. And got stuck. And tried to shovel. And got tired.

So I came in. Emailed Doug again. And reported that I did the driveway! But could he maybe help me with the sidewalks?