Today Bob and I divided our things. It went really well, with both of us fairly content with the results, and no heated debates about anything. I’m sorry to say goodbye to some beloved works of art, but I know they’ll be well-loved in their new home–or sold for a very good price to support Bob in his infirmity, whenever that becomes necessary, and hopefully not for a long time. I ended up giving Bob three pieces of mine, but he wouldn’t budge an inch on the empire chaise, on which I would look quite fabulous being fed grapes and such. He wants to sell it, and I said, “I just gave you $8,000 worth of art, could we consider it a trade?” To which he replied, “You gave me those pieces…” …”So give me the chaise!” We’ll see, no big deal, and we had fun arguing our points. I helped pack his pottery collection, most of which I had given to him as gifts for birthdays or whatever, and just broke down on sealing the box. He was on the phone at this point, in another room, and I was sitting in the living room, looking at the remains of our broken home, our cozy little environment that we spent so much time creating together. This is so not easy for me, transition. But didn’t I tell you that already? Like, again and again? Do you get the picture yet? I’m no longer excited about the unknown. I want regular sex and tea and the New York Times in bed every morning, with a big hairy man snoring away right there next to me. Big Chrissy took me out to dinner, bless him, to try to cheer me up, and then spilled a glass of ice water on my crotch, the second glass of water spilled on me by a date in the past few months–I found it charming, and refreshing, as I was burning up in the place, anyway. I know this transition will be over soon, oh I hope so, and I’ll be back to some kind of regular something. Like sex. Lots of it. But didn’t I say that already? Hello?? Call me!
Tales of Post-Twinkie Ennui