Wanted

More time. Or a personal assistant. Or a clone.

While we're at it ... a window in my home office. The complete elimination of the words "awesome" and "amazing" from the English language. Followed immediately by removing the repeated tendency to use the word "issue". Since when did a problem become an issue? Okay, Websters does list "emotional problem" as one of its definitions, but it is one of about six others. Just stop using "issues" so much. My head is going to explode. It's obvious I've got a problem with it.

Someone to scratch my back for more than 7 seconds. A professional back-scratcher/masseuse/hair washer/scalp kneader/hair stylist at my beck and call 24/7. The ability to afford one of those would also be nice.

A way to stop that crazy robin from flying into the great room window. The looney bird's repetitive attempts create a tap-tap-tapping sound that rivals the beat-beat-beating of Poe's clever little demonic organ. I have tried hanging dark towels in the glass, tried screaming at him through the open window below, even hitched a scarecrow-like voodoo doll on the stucco wall beside his target. Nothing works. He is determined to beat his little breast into that window until ... don't really know why. Maybe his fellow bird community have tweeted the equivalent of "amazing" and "awesome" one too many times, poor guy.

More laughing. Less scandal. Less attention to scandal. More made-up words. Like nipplitis, and quinsensines. Don't ask.

You to excuse me, this post has become tiresome.

The Man I Love

I love a man whose strength is limitless. Enduring, shouldering, reassuring, adoring, all for one unifying purpose. Selfish and selfless are his yin and yang. His dreams are lucid. They have paved my blissful path. Always together we walk.

The man I love gets me there each and every time. He makes me scream with passion but wishes I would shut the hell up! He shushes me to no avail. I find it very comical. And ironic in the sense that he doesn't want me to arouse the children, and yet habitually breaks the beautiful silence of 6 am with the noisiest preparation of coffee and breakfast cereal known to mankind.

My love knows no boundaries for the man behind the curtain. He plays the part of  the brooding boss, the diehard disciplinarian, the nutty professor, the soapbox politician, and the clever comedian all with equal ease. He is my soul. He is creatively resourceful, and can fix anything, but he’s never changed a diaper.

We discuss songwriters, dreams, holistic alternatives and karaoke. He is shy with me, gentle to a fault, and we giggle over corny jokes and bad puns. We turn ourselves on with new music swaps and book recommendations. He seeks me out when he is feeling down. I look to him for guidance.

My man is a confusing whirlwind of delicious drama. He is pulp fiction and I wait with bated breath for my latest edition. He is my Calgon, who takes me away to another world where I am frightened, enlightened, mystified, curious, wary and forever enthralled. He is a puppy, sticky sweet. He morphs into a maneater, insatiable. I want to run to him and never break our embrace and simultaneously lock him in a drawer and throw the key out to sea. If I believed in such rubbage, I'd consider his mind and mine eternal soulmates. Tete-a'-tete, we'd battle our demons, chipping away at the mess and inching closer to serenity. Instead, we are simply humans doing the best we can with what we have inside our ever-expanding noggins. When he's not making me crazy, he makes me very happy.

The man I love is hockey-player huge and hairy. He is obsessive-compulsive and speaks in tongues. He would die for those he loved, or at least take a bullet. My fantasy is to sit on his shoulders and have him walk me around. It would be hysterically funny to watch since we would both inevitably fall to the ground due to his physical awkwardness under pressure. He'd fall on me, crush me to death then have to be committed. I think I need a new fantasy. I do love him and all.

The man I adore has yet to be.