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All of this waiting made our Heather...
| ... just a bit irritated. But alas! (continue) |
 |
What happened next, was....
Understand that our lovers BOTH hate flying. Quite a lot. So,
Madame Corinna goes to great lengths to provide her love with
many pursuits and distractions during his flight, which always
arrive in a rather large box, with a wide array of surprise silliness,
the occasional low-flying smut, and more than a little romance.
The airplane package before last looked like this.
|
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|
And the last bit of goodie inside the package for this flight was this, which when the seal was broken, read:
"Run!
As fast as those little feet will carry you!
No, you stupid wanker: run the OTHER way." |
 |
And so, our devilishly handsome and beamy beau stopped upon seeing
his chickadee, waved the paper, opened it, smiled and walked out,
where...
... he tried to run, but she grabbed him, yelling in his face
for holding up traffic like a total moron. Scolding him for keeping
everyone else from their pursuits -- more important things to
do than smooch some silly girl, like getting to Very Important
Business Meetings, funerals and ascerbic Lysol-perfumed hotel
rooms so they could spend the weekend shopping at the Mall of
America -- from their activities of great import. Everyone clapped,
thanked her profusely, then gave the sheepish bald guy the dirty
looks he so clearly deserved.
But he figured he might as well get some hot girl-on-geek action
out of the deal, at least. |
 |
 |
 |
You know what happened next.
But what you do NOT know is...
...that in the middle of all of the kissing and the embracing,
our Mr. Price took Madame Corinna's face in his hands and told
her he loved her right to her face. Then wash, rinse, repeated this outcry about 367 times.
To this, our heroine responded by saying, with a Rat Pack wink,
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, baby. Aren't you cute. To hell with this
hearts and flowers crap, let's get home and get horizontal. I'm
so too cool for you." (continue) |
... on the uncomfortable monosyllabic grunts of two people who have
slept together but have strong, shared allegiances to Ayn Rand
and Nietzsche, who otherwise no interest in one another, they
shared a freezing cold shower in stony silence, the obituary section
of the paper and antacids.
(continue)
While driving behind Miz Daisy, her braids flapping in the breeze
like Dumbo's ears, her sexy boy's cargo shorts over her overlarge
calf muscles, Mark thought to himself and later remarked,
"My girlfriend often looks like the big dyke she is, but hell,
she's still got a great ass. Observe my beachfront suavity! Fuck
this sunny weather, bring on the rainy gloom of Seattle! She'd
better give me a blow job later. Damn, are my thighs chafed."
(continue)
They biked, they beached, they swam, they snuggled, they enjoyed
hurling various two, three and four word phrases at one another,
as many lovers do:
"Get off my lawn. Begone, foul beast. You're convenient. I'm all
mine. Stop fucking touching me. SHIT. You suck. Personal space
bubble! What was I thinking? Mybarelyacceptablecomerecepticle.
Now, let's go screw."
(continue)
As many do, this evening culminated immediately in bed. Because...
... those fucking Italians always have to make the food so heavy.
And sleeping sure beats talking or having really great sex with
the person you love. Boy howdy.
(continue)
Mark's phone rang, and he spent some time on it talking to his
father.
Mark immediately started speaking in the secret code he and his
father had devised long ago for serious emergencies.
"I'm having a great trip. She's fantastic. How are you?" (Translation: "I'm stuffed! This woman is a nightmare! Help!")
Mark's father imparted him with the perfect exit strategy: "Go to the comic book store, my son. Spend days there if you want:
she'll be running away in no time. It works every time, this,
I promise you." (continue)
There was another bath somewhere in there. Come to think of it,
there was more rather mind-blowing sex in the bath.
Clearly, they were bored and wanted to avoid conversation with
the extra bonus of washing each others collective cooties off
within mere moments of rubbing the cooties on. (continue)
... he simply had no report with our canine friends, and had never
met the dog with whom he might develop such a thing.
And it wasn't going to happen with this one, either.
 |
 |
| "Muahahahaha. She thinks we're playing, but little does she know
I am gouging your little buggy eyes out!" |
Mark attempts to force the vegan-householded Sofia to eat chicken. |
(continue)
Photo taking, because we both...
..want to be sure we have plenty of evidence to bring to the police
station when we file the restraining orders.
(continue)
There is something I may or may not have made patently clear,
which I feel should, in fact, be incredibly clear.
I have found the great love of my life here.
Did you hear me? No?
I HAVE FOUND THE GREAT LOVE OF MY LIFE. For real.
And vice-versa. And we both somehow managed to do this at pretty
much the exact same time -- down to the week -- in our lives we
were both saying, "To hell with this shit."
Amidst all of the billions of people in the world, and despite
having to meet half a country away, quite spontaneously, despite
gawd knows what goes on with time and space, WE DID THIS.
And that, my friends, is a motherfucking miracle. Especially considering
my life. WE RULE.
So, you know what? You bet your sodding ASS I am going to gush
about this like an overactive geyser. Darn' tootin' I simply cannot
bloody shut the fuck up about this. And yes, sometimes it's gross
and barfworthy and insular and I have no doubt it sounds silly
and adolescent as all getout, but I'm not sure it sounds any less
silly or over-the-top than half the rollercoastery, melodramatic
depressive crap that is personal writing all over the web.
I have spent more than half my life, and all of my adult life,
very convinced that the closest I had to a great love of my life
I got when I was WAY too young to appreciate it. And that the
insanely brief time I got it for, which ended in blood and trauma
and hell was all I was going to get in that regard, and that that's
just how it goes. Which isn't to say I haven't had a few excellent
romantic and sexual relationships, because I have. Pivotal, even.
And very dear to me. But they weren't the stuff to file under
anything smacking of The One. And they happened well after I abandoned
the idea that that notion was even anything real.
Not only do I know quite sincerely I was wrong, about that not
existing, and about having already had it all too briefly, but...THIS
IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT WAS. It's better than anything I bloody
imagined, in the escalated bits and in the mundane bits. And while
I do wish Mr. Price had hurried it up a little and found me before
now, this is still good enough to make all the previous relationship
crap -- all the people who tried to fix me, who wanted only the
parts of me that interested them, all those looking to me as a
human liferaft or as a shiny accessory, all the really ungodly
betrayals, and the heartbreaking disappointments -- I waded through
100% worth it.
And if any of y'all don't like it or it bores you, that is really,
truly, TOO FUCKING BAD. (And yes, since you asked, this is my way of telling those of
you who have not good-naturedly commented or have even sent emails
all but requesting that I edit my LIFE so that you have reading
in a tone or genre which pleases you better to fuck the hell off
and go read about someone else's life if mine isn't up your alley.
And yes, I have been more than a little vexed with these requests,
and yes, I'm a little aggro about it because being this in love
does, in fact, make me a tad hypersensitive and overprotective.)
Because, gawdammit to hell, I am going to savor this for every
motherfucking second we have it for. Because so would you, believe
me.
(Those of you out there in the cheap seats who are psychology
geeks may at least entertain yourselves with the wonder of my
pathology wherein falling completely in love manages to make me
both ungodly sweet AND more than a little hostile. In my defense
-- and I say this to give you a momentary break from my sarcasm
-- it really is pretty weird to find the best thing ever, feel
happier than you ever have, want to earnestly share it with everyone,
and at the same time, from some people both immdiately in your
life, and others who merely watch, field anger and some severely
shitty behaviour because you had the Chagall to be HAPPY.)
While I have, to date, yet to be embarrassed by, you know, everyone
seeing my naked bum on the Internet, I, indeed, have managed to
completely humiliate myself with goony love-blubber, again and
again, in the same venue. Under the eyes of some staff at the
ACLU even! My landlord! Exes! Probably my first-grade teacher
who reads this regularly just to validate that she was right about
me! AND I DON'T CARE! (Okay, maybe I care about the ACLU folks.
But I'm going to keep embarrassing myself anyway, even if I later
have to eat crow for doing it, for, in the immortal words of Linda
Rondstadt, love has no pride. And I AM going back someday, come what may, to Blue Bayou, for that matter.
Dangblastit, I absolutely deserve to have a chance in my life
to make a complete, giddy ass of myself for the best reason possible.
Know what else? Huh, do ya? I wish the vile curse of something this good and this spastic
on EACH AND EVERY FRICKING ONE OF YOU. (continue)
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