Patience

The Fella is really, really patient. I know because I test the limits of that patience with some regularity. But how can this be? you ask. You seem as though you are the definition of "delightful" and "easy to live with"! Why thank you, but ...

Nope.

I'm a bit of a neat freak. I'm a perfectionist. I can be a stress ball because of anxiety.

Also -- and this is the super fun one -- I hate being sick. I hate it when I need help or someone to take care of me, so I will run myself into the ground until someone HAS to take care of me because I'm no longer well enough to take care of myself. Yes, I know this is contradictory, but I can't help it. It's part of my charm.

Of all of my, um, charming quirks, it's that last one that probably tries The Fella's patience the most. Having a very neat and clean house isn't so bad. Having your life partner completely in denial about a rampant respiratory infection until she reaches the point where she can't get out of bed? Notably less enjoyable.

Which leads us to conversations like we had yesterday:

"Are you not able to breathe?"

"Who, me?" (For the record, this fooled NO ONE. We were the only two people here.)

"Yes, you. Is your breathing not good? I feel like you're having a hard time."

"No, I'm good." (This pronouncement was followed by a facial expression that he describes as the not-smile. It's supposed to look like a winning smile, but my "opposite of a poker face" can't pull it off.)

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

"No, I'm okay. I'm not coughing or anything. I'm just tired."

"And really cold?"

"Yeah... how did you know?"

"You're shivering. Please go to bed."

"But I don't --"

"YELLIE."

"I don't have time to be sick!"

"When has saying that ever actually kept you from getting sick?"

"This could totally be the first time."

"Go to bed."

"But--"

"Please?"

I went to bed. I feel better today. But the point is, should he have to ask me to take care of myself? No, he should not. Does he HAVE to ask me because I'm a garbage human and he is super patient? Yes, yes he does.

I feel like I won the lottery and he ... got a shitty door prize.

It's the Little Things

I sometimes get excessively excited about what are, in all actuality, silly things.  For example:

Target Temptation

Yesterday, The Fella and I went to Target.  I love Target. A LOT. I always go in there for one thing and then come out with a cart full of stuff, and I know full well that I'm not the only person who suffers from this affliction. It's just Target. They have everything I want. (So does Kohl's, to be honest, but Target has MORE of what I want and generally for less.)

But yesterday, when we went to Target? I ... I still can't believe this happened ... but ...

I only bought the things on my list. I needed two things and ... I swear this is true ... I BOUGHT THEM. ONLY them.

We were standing in the checkout line when I realized what I had accomplished. It was like winning an Olympic event, but instead of getting a medal, I was rewarded with my own money instead of the umpteenth bottle of nail polish I didn't need (or socks and a sweater or another Christmas ornament shaped like an owl).

SO EXCITING.

Moana Mania

The Fella and I also went to see Moana this weekend. (By the way, not that Disney needs my personal endorsement, but GO SEE MOANA IT'S AMAZING.)

This was a big deal for me because I've not been to the movies in years. I would have panic attacks in movie theaters.  I would have to wait for the movies I wanted to see to be available on iTunes or Netflix so I could watch them from the well-lit safety of my couch, because even though I love me some Captain America, my love for him could not compete with the terror and inability to breathe of a theater induced panic attack.

The Fella, who likes movies, has been incredibly understanding of my "um, no no no no" reaction to the idea of going to the movies, but he also knew that I ALSO had anxiety about not being able to go to the movies. (Anxiety disorders are so very, very fun, in case you didn't know.) He also knew that I really wanted to see Moana when it came out, because I've been talking about it for ages. 

"You know, they remodeled the theater," he said. "It's a lot different. Some of the things that you find triggering are gone. Look," he said, and got out his iPad to show me how the number of seats in each theater was smaller, how the seats were set up, and that you could reserve seating. He also told me the seats were bigger, and the aisles wider. 

So I agreed to try, knowing that if I couldn't stay through the movie? He would totally understand. (And can I say -- he's just the best, y'all. Everyone's partner should be so supportive!)

I won't lie -- I had a bad moment when the lights went down. An intensely bad, "Oh noo I should not have done this" moment. But then I remembered to breathe, and to close my eyes for a moment, recite the phonetic alphabet to myself, and then spell some things phonetically. Like Mike Ohio Alpha November Alpha. Or ... Yankee Echo Lima Lima India Echo. Tango Hotel Echo Foxtrot Echo Lima Lima Alpha. (By the way, I have no idea why this works for me. It just does.) 

The moment passed. I was okay. And the movie ... well, you need to see it. I want to see it in the theater AGAIN.

Just to revel in the fact that I CAN.

Getting Saucy Up in Here

I like to cook. I've mentioned previously that I not only didn't used to enjoy cooking, but I was also terrible at it. 

Then I got real and remembered that feeding yourself (and others) is something that needs to happen with some regularity, and as long as I followed recipes, I was pretty good. I was afraid to branch out, though. I measured everything religiously, afraid to stray because if I didn't follow the recipe exactly, it might be yucky, and I have perfectionist issues.

I don't know when it was that I realized that cooking is personal. For example? I love garlic. One clove of garlic is how much you put in a recipe that doesn't CALL for garlic. Recipes that call for garlic? Probably need twice as much garlic as the recipe says. I also like things spicy, so I'm going to need more red pepper than a recipe calls for. Also, if there's cheese? Yeah, I'm going to add more cheese because there is NO such thing as too much cheese. 

So I began branching out.

And then I realized that I didn't need recipes anymore for some things, like spaghetti sauce. I have my mom's guidelines for how to make good sauce engraved in my brain, but I don't need to write them down -- and I don't follow them exactly. I like capers. I also like to toss some red wine in there. She doesn't. That's okay -- both of our sauces are delicious.

I made a huge old pot of sauce over the weekend. I froze half, we used some, I saved some for pizza, and I had lunch leftovers.

This made me stupid happy. But when a coworker said, "What is that? It smells DELICIOUS"?

I was even HAPPIER.

May the little things make you equally as happy as they make me!

Take a Break!

Gooooood Morning Blogland!

Do you guys know that I just love you? Because I do. I don't know why anyone comes to see what kind of nonsense I'm writing at any given moment, but you do and I appreciate you so much.

Having said that, I'm going to be taking a break from this blog.

The Fella and I are starting a new endeavor. If you're friends with either of us on Facebook, you probably already know about www.afterwords.io, our site where we have begun discussing all things books and reading. I am VERY excited about this because it gives us both a site where we can dork out like Whoa, but like every new project, it is taking up time and energy and resources. I imagine that there will be a time when I can do both, but right now? I can't.

So please join us over at Afterwords, won't you? You can subscribe, and interact with us on Facebook (because we have a FB page, obvs) and hang out and talk books and reading and awesomeness.

Eventually, I'll be back here. I'll keep y'all posted.

All the hugs,

Yellie

Rewind: Love. Story.

This originally posted on 7/25/14, and it's one of my favorite things of everything I've ever written. I just love that Fella. 

The first time I fell in love, I was fifteen. There was a boy -- a lovely, amazing boy -- that I went to high school with who stole my heart.

He had no idea this was the case. He thought we were friends.

We were friends, but I loved him. I loved him in a way that I had never loved anyone before or since; it was wholly unselfish. I just wanted him to be happy. If I had learned that in order for him to be happy I would have to step in front of a moving vehicle, I would have done it. I simply loved him.

To this day, if you said this boy's name to my mom, she'd say, "Oh Yellie. You loved him," and everyone in the room would nod as if to say, it was so sweet and so ... not happening.

Because as it turns out? Life is not a love story.

Except, of course, for when it is.

*****

The good thing about being fifteen (and anyone who's dealt with fifteen year olds on a regular basis will probably agree with me here) is that it's temporary. You grow out of it and move on to other, moderately obnoxious ages like eighteen and twenty-one and thirty.

The better thing about being fifteen -- and every age before or after -- is  that you carry pieces of that self with you. Sometimes those pieces are large and become major portions of your character. Sometimes they're little slivers and mementos that you take out of your pocket and run your thumb over. Either way, you have them.

As we all do, I outgrew being fifteen, but my sliver -- my lovely memento -- was the memory of loving that boy. I went on, of course, to fall in love with other people because that's what you do. Relationships. Breakups. Love, with all of its different faces. It's a thing.

If I occasionally took the time to remember that boy and my fifteen year old self, it was with a sense of amazement, that I had ever thought that love could be that simple, and the wish that maybe somehow? It could be that simple.

And then? I'd throw myself into the next thing.

*****

That lovely boy and I became friends as adults. Twenty years had passed. Things had happened -- marriages, children, relocations, careers. Twenty years is a long time. He was actually more delightful than I had remembered him being -- funnier, more thoughtful.

This annoyed me a bit, to be honest, because it seemed that my fifteen year old self had more discernment than my adult self when it came to people.

Well, I thought, he's changed some. So have you.

So. Friends. Friends from afar, mostly, via the internet because -- you know, all of the life stuff and busy-ness that comes with it. We saw each other now and again, the way you do, but not often.

The thing was, though, that when I did see him, fifteen year old Yellie would tap me on my no-longer fifteen year old shoulder. "You totally love him," she'd say, flipping back her overly permed hair.

"Of course I love him, stupid. He's my friend."

"Yeah right," she'd smirk.

I'd think, I really can't do this again. Who does this?

Until the day that he told me that he was sorry, this might screw up our friendship, but he was in love with me.

Which, to be honest, made me want to punch him. That only lasted about three seconds, before I confessed to the same, but still.

*****

The last time I fell in love, I was thirty-eight. In an unlikely chain of events, the first person I loved turned out to be the best, most amazing person I've ever loved.

Of course -- and don't think that I don't point this out regularly -- I figured it out when I was fifteen. It just took him some time to catch up.

Life is a story.

Sometimes, it's a love story.