Confession:

I’m in love with my boss. Have I mentioned that? I am 100% crazy in love with my boss! And not the “I think he’s a great leader, role model type love”. No, the I want to do naughty naughty things to him type. Ya. Its bad. Before you ask the obvious – “No” he’s not married, nor has he ever been married. “Yes” he is single. He is 33 or 35 somewhere in there and…AMAZING…sigh.

However, he will only technically be my boss for about 8 more days because he’s a political and will be ousted come January 20^th along with half the Washington, DC workforce.

However, I haven’t quite worked out how to get from the “brilliant and attractive employee” to “brilliant and attractive girlfriend – or if not girlfriend, at least Saturday night fun date!” Someone suggested that on our ritualistic morning stroll for coffee I casually slip into the conversation that I’d like to marry him and have lots of sex and babies.

Anyone have any other bright ideas how to bridge this gap?

And before you go there - yes, I realize that I am the personification of Katherine Heigl circa 27 dresses sans hyper organization (she was even a bit of a redhead in that movie!). My brother was kind enough to bring this to my attention. Note he referenced Katherine Heigl - NOT Bridget Jones. All the disfunctionality...none of the cellulite!

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In other news.....

I learned this week – a blender does not equal a mini food processor.

While this may not be news to some...who are more profecient in the kitchen than moi....It was a bit of a failed culinary experiment.

I got a little too ambitious with a spinach cream sauce I was going to make in order to brighten up the whole wheat penne I was planning to have for dinner. I thought, well….recipe calls for the 6 oz of baby spinach, garlic, grated parm and goat cheese to be “food processed”. So, in all my redheaded brilliance, I (who do not own a food processor) thought:

“A food processor…has blades that spin. I don’t own a food processor. Unfortunate. BUT I DO have a blender! Blenders have blades that spin…therefore…blender = tiny food processor!"

Um…not so much. Lesson learned - not all kitchen appliances are created equal. So now we know...and frankly, knowing is half the battle.

Juliet was on my mind.

I wondered what she would have done if Romeo had left her, not because he was banished, but because he lost interest. What if Rosalind had given him the time of day, and he'd changed his mind? What if, instead of marrying Juliet, he'd just disappeared?

I thought I knew how Juliet would feel.

She wouldn't go back to her old life, not really. She wouldn't ever have moved on, I was sure of that. Even if she'd lived until she was old and gray, every time she closed her eyes, it would have been Romeo's face she saw behind her lids. She would have accepted that, eventually.

I wondered if she would have married Paris in the end, just to please her parents, to keep the peace. No, probably not, I decided. But then, the story didn't say much about Paris. He was just a stick figure a placeholder, a threat, a deadline to force her hand.

What if there were more to Paris?

What if Paris had been Juliet's friend? Her very best friend? What if he was the only one she could confide in about the whole devastating thing with Romeo? The one person who really understood her and made her feel halfway human again? What if he was patient and kind? What if he took care of her? What if Juliet knew she couldn't survive without him? What if he really loved her, and wanted her to be happy?

And what if she loved Paris? Not like Romeo. Nothing like that, of course. But enough that she wanted him to be happy, too?

If Romeo was really gone, never coming back, would it have mattered whether or not Juliet had taken Paris up on his offer? Maybe she should have tried to settle into the leftover scraps of life that were left behind. Maybe that would have been as close to happiness as she could get. 

Maybe I was reading too much into the story. Romeo wouldn't change his mind.
That's why people still remembered his name, always twined with hers: Romeo and Juliet. That's why it was a good story. "Juliet gets dumped and ends up with Paris" would have never been a hit.

I’ve been having dreams.

Mostly about Fuckhead.

In my dreams we talk. I’ve been asking him a lot of questions but I always wake up before I can ask him the one question to which I want to know the answer to: Do you miss me?

Last night was the worst of all. In my dream, he was married to the she beast and they had just had a baby. I cried (in my dream) and I cried and I screamed and I screamed. It wasn’t a fun night. That’s absolutely the last time I allow myself to fall asleep without some kind of artificial somnial enhancement to block such dreams from my head – Ambien being my personal drug of choice.

I assure you, this isn't some deep seated unconcsious desire for some kind of cinema-esque reunification. I don’t want him back. I don’t. I promise. I don’t want a pot smoking, un-motivated, emotionally dependent man still attempting to relive his frat boy glory days.

But I do miss being happy and completely in love – that kind of love that you read about, that you hear about, the kind of stuff that inspires tales such as “The Notebook” – emotions that you never thought possible until experiencing them; that love the brings along with it the possibility of all things and the strength to handle anything life throws into your collective paths.

I had that and it's dissapation has left quite a large hole.

Frankly, it's probably best that I don’t sleep long enough to hear the answer to that one question.

P.S. I'm thinking about starting to password again - what do you think? I just hate that the more noteable ex's in my life have access to these pages and I find myself holding back more often than I'd like to admit. So what's your opinion? Passoword or start a new blog all together?

Army’s parents are in town. And yes – I will be meeting them this weekend.

I’m very conflicted about this whole “let’s play happy family” scenario that will consume my Friday and Saturday evening.

Personally I don’t see the point. I don’t see the point of me meeting them if he’s leaving in two weeks. Why even attempt this family integration when the relationship is rocketing towards a cliff? Why did I even agree to this potentially and inevitably tortuous affair?

I suppose it’s because I’m trying to be the caring, giving, NICE person that I know I have hidden SOMEWHERE deep down inside and sigh…that’s what you do. When your friend’s parents come into town, you meet them, you have dinner, you entertain and try to keep your language and the stories of their child doing jell-o shots on top of a bar last weekend – under wraps.

Frankly, herein lies the problem: no surprise, it has to do with Fuckhead.

Fuckhead’s family LOVE-D S me. They L-O-V-E yours truly, and rightfully so. They astutely pointed out that moi was the absolute best thing that ever happened to their Neanderthal of a son and integrated me into their lives like built in hardware on a MAC.

And cynically speaking, I don’t want this to be one more thing in this on paper “perfect” relationship that isn’t as shiny, or bright, or sparkly or “special” or whatever as before. I don’t need another family. I don’t want another family. And I still HATE the idea that a she-beast who’s never ventured beyond the confines of the greater Albuquerque metropolitan area has no doubt been integrated into the family that I miss and that I loved. As bitter and resentful and unattractive as that sounds.

And don’t tell me that I’m not “giving them or him a chance” – because frankly today, I just don’t care.

Not to worry dear readers. I will smile. I will charm. And be the dutiful girlfriend. I just don't feel like being reminded all weekend of what I Don't have.

Somehow I'm predicting a lot of alcohol in my immediate future.

Army is leaving. He’s not going off to war, not to some distant dessert covered country but to Tampa. Where people go to die. Prehistoric man had Tar Pits to dispose of their elderly. We have Florida.

I’ve known it was coming. Since our first date I knew. What I didn’t know was that he’d still be around seven months later or that I would want him to stay. So, I’ll ask you again. What do you do when your relationship is ending? When you have a date when you know it will be over?.

How do you function when the dark cloud looming off in the distance for so long, has found its way directly overhead, attempting to block the sun at every turn and threatening to storm before you’ve remembered to open your umbrella?

To be honest, over the course of this relationship, my feelings towards this man have fluctuated more than a schizophrenic politician on a teeter-totter:

“He’s perfect – but I’m not over Fuckhead”

“He’s wonderful – but I don’t think I’m cut out to be a military wife”

“He takes care of me – but he’s leaving and I’m going to have to learn to live without him”

“He’s PERFECT – but is he perfect for me!?”

Because I’ve known that he’s leaving, it hasn’t exactly inspired me to open the emotional floodgates and give this relationship a real chance. Perhaps this is one time the Canadian got it right.

Nine months before he left for law school, he started to withdraw. He bucked all my attempts to continue a relationship even in the face of inevitable separation. Still retaining some semblance of romantic optimism at the tender age of 24, I was very much of the “no day but today” school of thought. The “let’s be happy today and not worry about tomorrow” mantra. He didn’t want me to get any closer and risk making it any harder.

So who was right? I still cried. But maybe not as much as I would have? I still loved him, but maybe not as much as I could have? Did we wasted precious time together or did we soften the blow?

While logically I know that it’s self defeating to keep worrying about the evitable and to let it spoil the time you have left; part of me hopes that whatever walls and barricades I’ve managed to build, will still be standing after the next two weeks.

Frankly, with the cloud of separation growing at an exponential pace over all my attempts to keep my blue skies blue – its hard not to feel frustrated. And angry. Even if it WAS/IS good that we met and event if he WAS good for me and what I needed circa a broken-hearted January….I’m just tired. I’m tired of the leaving and the goodbyes and the tears and building back up: a little stronger and a little thicker.

Then again, maybe its classic Scarlett – only wanting something that I can’t have. Either way, I’m sick of the walls and the floods and the storms and the survival and the reconstruction.

Isn’t there anything that lasts forever?

I admit it – I cried.

I cried when I gave her the box. The box I’ve been hiding under my bed for the past seven months. The box with your fraternity t-shirts. Your college sweatshirt. Your books. Your clothes. Your shoes. Our pictures. Your gifts. Your cards with all your broken promises written inside. Everything that reminded me of you. Everything you left behind.

It was my last hold out. My last reason to say “remember me?” “remember what we had?” “Look at the pictures! – Remember how happy we were!? How we had everything? How we could do anything?”

And I let go.

I gave her the box. I don’t CARE what you do with it. I don’t want to know. - I told her. Don’t tell me – and take it now before I change my mind – before I decide to keep holding on. Take it. And go.

I loved you....and go.

A wise (and I might add, beautiful) woman once told me “you have to put out positive things into the universe in order to receive positive things in return.”

Unfortunately, I haven’t quite been able to implement this piece of advice, which I know to be good and right and the very recipe for healthy and normal self (just add a pinch of Martha Stewart sunshine and stir). I've tried! And I smile, and the anti-depressants kick in and life is good for an hour or two.

But, I do still cry. I can’t help it. There is usually music involved, something about love, or loss or….trees(?). It really doesn’t take much. But I HAVE erased all traces of DHT, Corrine Bailey Rae and Gabriel Mann from my iPod. That’s got to give me a FEW sunshine points, no?

I’m sure you’ve all had images dancing in your head of your darling Scarlett staying in night after night with no one but Ben, Jerry, Van Gough (bottle half empty) and the cast of the OC (still alive and well on my TiVo) to comfort her. And while, on the surface, this ensemble could be construed as a rather…lively… way to spend an evening, it's not QUITE an accurate description of my daily routine.

Fortunatley, the universe has its own rosey colored plans for me, dispite a lack of deposits its 'positivity' accounts weighed against a hefty portfolio of doom and gloom.   For starters, I’ve gotten some wonderful, quality friend time in recently! Barbie time, XO & G time has been wonderful if slightly emotional and intoxicating. I’m hoping our encounters in the near future will take an upturn turn ala the sunny spring weather!

Job is great – I’m busy, which I love. Kicking ass and taking names – what I do best (professionally anyway)! And since the federal government has deemed me fit to handle super secret stuff, I'll be starting my new position in June after a much needed vacation. So that's DEFNITELY something to look forward to. 

And then there’s Army – who is nothing short of perfect. He’s gotten the friend thumbs up, the very decerning cat vote, and even my father thinks he's brillant. Our relationship is insanely open and honest, and sickenly healthy. Weekends on the Eastern Shore, hiking, movies, grilling, drinking, dancing and all around general fabulousness.

And sometimes it feels right. And sometimes I’m happy and I laugh. And sometimes, I forget, and I let myself start to care, but then I stop. I stop because I’m scared. I stop because he’s leaving. I stop because I’m not quite whole.

Maybe he won’t turn out to be the Sandy to my Kirsten, but right now, he's definitely the Zack to my Summer**.

But here's a question: how do you fully enjoy the Newport colored sunset when you know it will eventually disappear? And puh-lease don't tell me 'live for today', because that philosophy only REALLY works in Jonathan Larson musicals.

 Frankly,

*If you get this reference (and no - I'm not referring to the case of South African Zin delivered to my apartment yesterday afternoon), give yourself cool points for the rest of the month! You're set!