Okay, Monica, you can come fix me now...

"The parallel universe does exist, and it's in a 3-foot-by-3-foot cubicle."

I can't help but think back to early 2002, when B and I used to talk about how we could date each other if we lived in a parallel universe - only this time it's me with the extenuating circumstances (or the more obvious ones) that force that big if.

Needless to say, Irish and I finally rehashed the elusive conversation while sober. And we both probably said things that crossed the line we're walking, but it does feel safer, somehow, to have it all out in the open. One reassuring thing is that he admittedly agreed with C-List (whose comment he hadn't even heard), saying that sitting in reclined car seats, especially after drinking, is always a bad idea. The rehash took place in upright seats. So at least there's that.

He tried to kiss me on Friday. Not actively tried, just - we were outside his house where we'd been washing cars. He was bumping a volleyball around with his cousin and his nephew. I'd just come outside after changing from car-washing clothes to going-to-see-Nightmare-Before-Christmas clothes. I don't remember what I said to provoke it, but I distinctly remember him laughingly running up to give me a hug - and you know when you just know someone's going to kiss you? I felt that sensation wash over me, and I froze. But he didn't kiss me. But he later admitted that he almost had, that he'd had to stop himself. Then he apologized.

Which isn't to say there haven't been similar offenses on my part. Incidentally, he found it hilarious that I equate his begging me to hit him with foreplay.

Amanda & I made last-minute plans to go to Rocky that night, and I convinced Irish to tag along. We had fun - all of us, I think. In the car on the way home, he looked at me, smiling, and said, "I've never seen you so perfectly happy," and, as a result, "I can sum it up in three words: Sarah. Jessica. Parker." (His most beautiful woman on the planet.) He promised he'd never make a move on me, although, he said, if I were to make one on him, it would be really hard to say no - but that he would have to, he would stop it, maybe after just one kiss, just to know what that would be like.

I told you things were said that crossed the line.

Yesterday afternoon, we went to the mall to look at puppies. There's this amazing pet store there that lets you sit in a little room and "exercise" (translation: fall in love with and want to buy) the puppy of your choice. We chose a female beagle, who Irish affectionately named Daisy, after she kept trying to eat the flower adornments on my flip-flops. And the pet store employees let us stay in the cubicle with her for about an hour, either because they thought we were a couple seriously looking to buy, or maybe just because they could tell we needed it.

So for about an hour, we sat too close on black leather footstools, while this awkward, wiggly little bundle of adorableness climbed all over us and ran between our feet. His head on my shoulder, my cheek on his head, his hand on my leg. When we finally left, he started in with his "the parallel universe does exist" comment, and we both cursed the mall for its resemblance to reality, and then he jokingly pushed me over the back of a couch in between mall kiosks, and suddenly we were fine again.

But later we also breached the subject of what we're going to do about it. I mean, I feel better having it out there as opposed to bottled up, but that doesn't mean we can keep talking about it whenever we're around each other - we'll drive ourselves crazy, not to mention that it wouldn't be fair to, well, any of us.

I told him he had to come up with a plan because I had nothing.

"Well... Can we go to Vegas?"

"As in, 'whatever happens in'?" I laughed. "Sure."

I was in my car, about to go home, about to go out for dinner with Lui to talk about all our problems (maybe for another entry). "So that's the plan," he said. "We'll go to Vegas."

"And that'll fix everything? One weekend." Because, seriously? I doubt it.

"Only our Vegas can be Disneyland instead." He was referring to the trip we're taking after Christmas - I already have permission from Lui to go. And with that, he shut the door on me and walked up the driveway.

Suddenly, I knew how he felt the other night in the hotel. I rolled down my window and called after him, "Not fair!"

Twenty-two hours later (but who's counting?), I still haven't heard from him.

I remembered one more

Him: Lui's so lucky to have you. I mean, if anything ever happens between you guys, I'm just gonna go up to him and ask him, "What's it feel like to know you hold the world in your hands? ...What's it feel like to drop it?" And then I'm gonna walk away.

---------------------------------

Apparently, they like each other now. They went out tonight, for two-and-a-half hours, and apparently bonded. Lui says they didn't spend the whole time talking about me - but he won't tell me what they did say about me either. Whatever, I'm sure I can get it out of Irish tomorrow...

Advice en route to Portland

C-List reported to me last night from a Shakespeare-themed hotel in Ashland (I'm jealous):

"oh, I know you know what I'd say
telling you off isn't my style anyway
just... y'know... I think you're too smart for this ;)
I mean, for many more of the hand-holding, seat-reclining, hair-brushing-away-from-face sessions
specifically after a night of drinking
So why would I need to lecture you?"

Incidentally, thanks to her, Portland is my new evacuation plan - y'know, in the event that San Diego burns down, or Lui gets too crazy, or some other insufferable disaster occurs.

Ok, now I'm walking the line

So Saturday night, a bunch of us went out to TGI Friday's after work. With Sober October in mind, Irish & I were planning on having one drink, then watching everyone else get trashed. Then while at work, I decided I didn't really want to go after all - he'd met some girl a few days before, and they'd been hanging out that morning and he'd invited her to meet him at the restaurant, and I didn't want him to feel responsible for me if he would rather be with her.

"Don't be ridiculous," he told me. "You're much more important to me than she is, and if she can't handle me giving you a ride home at the end of the night, then fuck her."

So I decided to go. And somewhere in there, we also decided to drink. A lot.

After three Car Bombs, a shot of Tuaca, and a beer (I cut myself off and gave my beer to another member of my Top 5, whose current facial hair makes him look like the Princess Bride's Westley), Irish and I decided it was far too cold to walk back to my apartment, and decided to sit in his car to sober up instead.

My world was spinning, so he recommended I focus at a stationary point in the distance, which I did. He asked if I was ok.

"Physically? Yeah, I'm fine."

"And emotionally?"

"I'm fine."

"No, what's wrong? Just say it, Elle. Say what you don't want to say."

And you'll have to bear with me now, because although I remember the gist of the conversation, I don't remember many details. What I do remember is that I claimed to have no idea what he was talking about, and somehow made him say it first. I also remember the following details:

Him: Turn around and look at me.

Me: I can't; your face is too close up and I can't focus on it.

Him: Just turn around. The back of your head isn't nearly as pretty as the front of it.

-------------------------------------

Me: So all this drama with these other girls - [coworker], [crazy non-roommate], this new girl... Is it just to see how I'll react?

Him: No.

-------------------------------------

Him: I know you're not [fiancée]. Certain things about you remind me of her, but you're a totally different person.

-------------------------------------

Me: I have brothers who are older than you!

Him: So? What's wrong with dating younger guys?

-------------------------------------

Him: I hate that I look just like my dad.

Me: Why? There are less attractive people you could've looked like.

-------------------------------------

Him: Have I thought about what it would be like to kiss you? ...Yes. Would I ever do it? No.

------------------------------------

Him: So did you hear everything you wanted to hear?

Me: I guess so... Did you hear everything you wanted to hear?

Him: Yes.

-----------------------------------

Most of this conversation took place while lying in the reclined seats of his car (after the world stopped spinning), holding hands, or him brushing the hair off my forehead, or me putting my hand on his cheek. He also kissed my cheek when we finally said goodnight (4 a.m.), which was a first, though I've kissed his a few times now, never to have it mentioned after that first night at Barbie's bachelorette party.

I'm pretty sure the bottom line was, "I like you, you like me, we're never going to act on it, let's keep being great friends." We talked a little on Sunday and vowed to have the conversation again while sober, to make sure everything was clear. Then the apocalypse came to San Diego, and survival drama became more immediate than personal drama.

Irish & I hung out last night, and our conversation only turned to Saturday's conversation so we could both claim we didn't remember any of it. He dropped me off at my hotel, took the elevator with me, then hugged me goodbye. We pulled away and sort of looked at each other.

"Go home," he said.

Without missing a beat, I answered, "You and I both know what we talked about on Saturday," then turned on my heels and started walking down the hall.

"That's not fair!" he called after me.

I heard the elevator ding. I turned back, but couldn't see him. "Yes it is," I said, not nearly loud enough for him to hear.

First things first

Irish came over the other night (while Lui was working a graveyard), panicking because some guy had been hitting on his crazy non-roommate friend while they were playing volleyball, and had gone so far as to smack her ass in a manner that caused her to look to Irish for help. Supposedly two guys had had to hold him back, and by the time he got to my apartment, he was still bouncing up and down, clenching fists, talking about going down to Mission Valley to find this guy and beat him up.

Eventually, I got him to calm down enough to sit down, and so we ended up sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, across from each other with our knees touching, and he was begging me to hit him again.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Because it feels like foreplay. "Because I have no reason to hit you. You don't deserve it."

"Please, Elle, just do it. Nothing will change, I promise. You'll still be a good person. Just hit me."

"I can't."

This went on for some time, and was becoming comedic, when I finally asked,

"Why? Why do you want me to hit you so much?"

"Because I didn't want to go with her. And if I had gone, I would've been driving. And I drive faster, so I would've passed the truck. I let her down. And now I've let [crazy non-roommate] down. They needed me, and I failed them. So please, Elle. Just hit me. Because she can't."

"No. I'm not gonna hit you. You don't deserve it. You didn't fail, you couldn't have known. And I'm not her."

And then he grabbed my hands in his and leaned forward so his forehead was on top of all four of our hands. And he started sobbing - not quite crying, but shaking, and apologizing: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I asked you." And I rested my cheek on his head and just kept telling him that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have known, that he didn't fail anyone, and that I wasn't going to hit him.

Unfortunately, I think he has new ideas about doing everything he can to protect me, to break the curse of letting down every woman he cares about. Or something. And he's still trying to provoke me enough to hit him. But it feels more like a running joke now.

The text message that some of you got today

"Maybe not drinking during Sober October is something that has to be learned the hard way, at 3 a.m., in the TGI Friday's parking lot... Fuck."

I promise to elaborate tomorrow.

Go ahead: make my day.

I was helping my cousin Lev with some short-answer questions on an application for a teaching program.

"I would hook you up with my friend Libertine, who was also a poli sci major, and even worked in that field for a few years, and is now going to grad school for teaching... but she's totally disillusioned right now, so I don't think it'd help either of you."

"It's ok," he answered. "You're amazing as it is. I don't need anyone else."

The thing with the L-word

Irish has a thing for this girl at work.

She's a girl I really like, too, which means I hate myself even more for feeling personally rejected/jealous/confused (because shouldn't he not be over [fiancée] enough for this yet?). So he wanted to go get coffee after work yesterday, to talk about that, his inability to interact with women, and my & Lui's plan to better our relationship.

[Side note: in a previous IM conversation regarding Irish's inability to interact with women, I'd made a joke along the lines of, "And what the hell am I?" His response: "You're [fiancée]... kinda." It wasn't the first time he remarked on how much I'm like her reincarnated. I feel that this is probably not healthy.]

And because I wanted to make yesterday afternoon as spectacularly torturous as possible - first a bikini wax, then this coffee date to discuss things I'd rather ignore - I went.

It turned out not to be that bad, with him concluding that he shouldn't date people at work anyway because it could get awkward (although I did have to listen to some sappy bullshit about what a great smile this coworker has), with him more or less listening to me when I suggested he wasn't ready to date yet because if he was, the idea wouldn't freak him out quite so much, and, as mentioned in my previous post, with him telling me I'm going to be ok. So I felt like I was three for three, and as I no longer had the desire to ask him whether he's really just a pathological liar, we fell back into joking around like we usually do.

It bears mentioning that, a few weeks ago, Irish and I both came up with Top Five lists of people we work with, based on looks alone, and have given each other shit ever since about who we each find more attractive than each other. (This is friend behavior, right?) So yesterday we finally decided to revise the lists - or create new lists - to factor in personality. He went first, because there are only 22 women at our work and more than half are old enough to be his mother. And I came in an undecided first-or-second, sharing, of course, with the girl he's crushing on.

Then he had the task of naming all of the 40-plus males working in the store, so that I could narrow them down to about 10 maybes, and then refuse to make an actual list. It was a few minutes later, and we were talking about something else, when I finally rattled off, "You, Erik, Drew, Garth, Tristan." He got all excited ("I made number one?!" - I never did tell him whether or not he was even on my looks-only list, only ever joking with him that maybe on a good day, he could be number five), and then admitted that I was his number one, too, since he knows me better and spends more time with me than with the other girl. So I guess we were both stupidly pleased then. We agreed not to tell Lui that if we were going to date anyone from work, it would be each other. Later, when he hugged me goodbye, he called me "my number one".

But that's not the point of this story. The point is that as we were getting up to leave, we were making fun of each other or something, and - I wish I could remember what was going on, but - he said something along the lines of, "As much as I love you," or, "I still love you," or it may have just been "I love you", but with that casual, berating undertone that you use when you're testing that word for the first time. He probably thought nothing of it.

"I'm sorry, what?" I honestly hadn't quite heard, and was honestly taken aback. He repeated the playful dig exactly, and this time I definitely heard the L-word.

Imagine the character of Ursula (Phoebe's sister) on Friends. "...Okay."

The thing where Lui almost left

Friday night, after Barbie's rehearsal dinner, Lui wanted to make love (his words, not mine), and I wanted to go to bed. But I decided to be a good wife and give in, and we were standing there in the room kissing, and then I realized: we were standing there, and we were kissing. And Lui is a good 10 inches taller than I am, so standing up to kiss for prolonged periods really hurts my neck. And I've told him this, several times.

So we very quickly went from kissing to fighting.

And because I was tired, and really just wanted to be asleep, the fight was meaner than it should have been, and more brutally honest. I mean, I told him I'm not at all satisfied with our sex life. I told him I was waiting for him to leave because I wasn't going to be the one to do it. I told him I was unhappy, and, through my silence when he asked, let him believe that I don't love him anymore.

He was in the closet, sobbing, pulling on his jeans (we had been in pajamas already), when I caught him in a hug. I convinced him not to go just yet - he wasn't leaving, just going out for a while to clear his head, but still - and we talked for real: he's thought about leaving, even went so far as to ask his mom what if he came home (she told him he wouldn't be welcome, that he was married now and had to stick it out even in the rough times); I do still love him, but am at a place where I have a hard time seeing it right now; I feel like, since our relationship has always functioned with one care-taker and one dependent, we don't even know each other as adults. And we made some plans: we're going to employ the "Be, Do, Have" philosophy to our relationship - act the part of the happy couple, believe it, become it; the next morning while I was with Barbie getting manicures, he researched some options to fix his sexual problems (although what I haven't told him yet, but have alluded to in conversations with Irish, is that my emotional limitations may be having as much if not more of a negative effect on our sex life as his physical ones), and decided that, if all else fails, he's open to the idea of circumcision; I told him that I sleep better when he's next to me, and that he's my favorite pillow, and so convinced him to put his pajamas back on and stay. Then we made love, no standing involved.

The next day was great. Barbie's wedding was beautiful, and Lui and I had a great time dancing together and being together. My "walking buddy" kissed me on the cheek in one of the photos, then later went up to Lui and said, "How's it going, man? I kissed your wife." And Lui just laughed (he already knows & likes the guy), and was not the crazy jealous person he sometimes can be. And today we went to Disneyland and got those "Just Married" buttons from Guest Relations and wore them around the park all day - we think they even helped us get walk-in seating at the Blue Bayou.

I mean, it hasn't been a complete 180 - the problems are still problems - but the Be, Do, Have thing seems to be working pretty well. (It's very The Secret of us, don't you think?) I explained it to Irish when we went for coffee yesterday (more on this next post), and his reaction was, "The way I see it, there's two options: either everything will get pushed down and bottled up and one day you'll both realize you've been pretending all along and it'll end in an explosion... Or else it'll work." He was silent for a minute, looking at me. "I think you're going to be ok," he said.

The thing with the babies

I feel I should mention that Irish & I are giving ourselves breaks from Sober October, with the theory that if we drink nothing for 40 days, then start drinking again, we're going to binge-drink (this will probably happen anyway, but hopefully just that first night). So we're allowing ourselves one drink a week, or two drinks every two weeks, which seems to work better - unless a pitcher-with-a-straw can count as "one drink".

So last Tuesday, we went out to Friday's with a couple other coworkers after a late-night staff meeting, and each had one Irish Car Bomb and one beer. And while this may not be enough alcohol for him, it is for me, so when we were sitting in his car talking afterwards, I was at the point of alcohol consumption that breeds emoting and honesty, and for once we were talking about my life, not his.

I admitted that I'm not entirely happy being married (duh?), not entirely happy with Lui, a little bored, a little frustrated, etc. And I admitted that I won't be the one to leave if things get bad enough, that I'd wait for Lui to make that move. And I admitted that getting pregnant seems like "quite possibly the worst thing that could happen to me right now." (I'm not, by the way. But hypothetically.)

Irish pulled me to him so that my head was on his shoulder, and started smoothing my bangs off my forehead. "It wouldn't be the worst thing," he reassured me. "I'd be there for you, whatever you needed. And the kid would have uncles - three of them. Hell, I'd kick Lui out of the delivery room."

I really didn't know what to say, having been able to understand the sentiment, but not the extremity of his words. "...Thanks."

Damn you, C-List for showing me this site!

Cancer Horoscope for week of October 11, 2007

I think it will be important for you to be brave in the coming days. Probably not in the sense of rushing into a burning building to save a child, but rather in the sense of expressing yourself with forceful grace in situations where you have previously been asleep or hidden or ignorant. In order to summon that much courage, you'll be wise to heed the advice of Buddhist author Pema Chodron: "The essence of bravery is being without self-deception." Be rigorous as you uncover any lies you've been telling yourself.

It's past my bedtime

So, I can't really remember how this came up in conversation, but Irish just explained to me how we could never date because I remind him too much of [fiancée], and that wouldn't be fair. And also because I'm married, which should have been able to go without saying since we were speaking in hypotheticals anyway.

So for those of you who were worrying - don't.

I just wanna say this.

Some of you have expressed concern about my "non-relationship" with Irish, or about the feelings I may or may not have for him and vice versa. You've read about similar moments between me and W, less frequent and less intense perhaps only because he lives across the country. You know - because I flat-out say it to anyone who asks - that I'm a little dissatisfied with my marriage, a little bored, a little frustrated. And in a sense, based on what you read here, you're right to be concerned. But believe me when I say that when I reflect on the situation/my life, I surprise myself: I never would've thought I could be this faithful for this long. And here's why:

My past relationships have all been dysfunctional. Try to name one where I wasn't the other woman, or the rebound chick, or rebounding myself. I've had the gods' giving out of flings, one-night-stands, secrets, lies, and illegitimate (or even denied) feelings. Before Lui came along, I had never been in a serious relationship where I was actually treated with a decent measure of respect. I jokingly prided myself on being a homewrecker, and I certainly never thought I'd have a "home" of my own.

I left for France three years ago, telling myself I deserved better than what I'd been getting. Consequently, I swore myself to celibacy for the year; consequently, I didn't go out and drink and party as much as I'd been used to; and consequently, my relationship with Lui was founded on a pedestal of extreme respect, the ramifications of which include the fact that we did not have sex before we got married, our mutual refusal to get drunk in front of each other, and my personal refusal to do anything kinky or experimental in the bedroom - even though (or especially because) I'd done most of it before meeting Lui. It's a slippery slope of this reasoning that probably leads to the ennui I'm experiencing now, but I can honestly say I don't want to turn things around now and go there with him either. This is the eventual father of my children we're talking about, and I honestly believe we're better than that.

Unfortunately, the former version of myself, though usually dormant, does make her way to the surface every once in a while. She craves excitement, thrives on having stories to tell, and, as my brother Joey put it, "has a flair for the dramatic." Call it the Leo cusp on my Cancerian personality, but believe you me when I say I'm a woman possessed by an insatiable longing to live at a higher frequency than that of the little wife. There are days when I wake up and wonder how I ended up here and when and how I can get out. (If you ever see a postsecret postcard that says, "I love my husband... But I still fantasize about him leaving me, or dying in a freak accident, so I can get my life back," it's most likely going to be from me.) This week's Grey's Anatomy and Knocked Up both really freaked me out because George O'Malley and Paul Rudd's character (note that they're both men) both vocalized pretty much the way I feel: once you're married, you're stuck.

With all that in mind, I consider it a fucking miracle that I haven't cheated on Lui yet. And it hasn't been for lack of opportunity - two summers ago, when I came home from France, I could have snapped my fingers and been right back on that piano. But I didn't. Barbie made out with two not-her-fiancés at my wedding. And I'm not judging - she can still sit poised with her head in the toilet and tell me I "don't have to stay" if she wants to, and I won't think any less of her or call her a hypocrite. It's just that, well, I kind of figured that if one of us was going to make a mistake like that, it was going to be me.

So don't be worried about me. Be proud of me, because I do see the bigger picture here. I get it. And my non-relationship with Irish is doing a really good job of feeding that other me, keeping her happy and sated, while I'm busy facing my real life and working on my marriage. So you guys have gotta trust me on this one - if there was any real danger of a real affair, I would be stupid to talk about it ad nauseum like I do. This too shall pass, and all that jazz. And seriously - what's the worst that could happen?

I wish I knew how to quit you!

"You" in this instance being my old job.

My crazy ex-boss called me a few weeks ago and left a message about the possibility of contracting me to put together the Choir's newsletter. I called her back, asked for details, and then didn't hear from her again... until Tuesday, when she conveniently called while I was on my lunch break at work. She offered to pay me $250, which will surely work out to something like $25/hour, so I couldn't really say no. Problem is, she wants it by next Friday, and she and her staff are totally non-helpful, lazy, hard-to-track-down people.

So I'm sitting here, with the program newly installed on Lui's computer, staring at an old template, not really knowing what to do next. Because I can't insert the new articles without writing them, can't write them without the necessary information, can't get the info if people won't throw me a bone. And of course everyone I need to talk to is out of town, or in a meeting, or at a doctor's appointment. And then it'll be the weekend. And then on Monday, there will only be four days until Friday. I foresee all this going poorly.

It's good money, Elle. You need it. And it's resume-building. You need that too.

Sucks.

Welcome to Sober October, everybody!

There is now in existence a picture of me eating rainbow-colored, penis-shaped lollipops with my childhood babysitter.

All things considered, Barbie's bachelorette party was pretty tame. We got too drunk too early, and she and I spent half of dinner in the bathroom - her puking, me verging on crying because, to put it bluntly and quickly, marriage is hard. Barbie had two pieces of genius advice: "You don't have to stay," and, "It feels good in the butt."

Then we sobered up a little and made our way to an Irish pub where a live band was playing. We flirted with the drummer, noted how old the crowd in the Gaslamp seemed, and Barbie's sister (the aforementioned babysitter) and I busted out the penis pops.

Then Irish called, as he'd promised he would - a reverse-drunk-dial because, by this point, he totally owes me. And somehow I convinced him to come down and meet up with us, which he did, just as Barbie and I were working to convince these Naval officers to buy us a round of Irish Car Bombs. (I'm sorry, are all the Irish things getting confusing? Between the pub and the person and the drinks?) I was, at this point, simply maintaining a nice buzz, but probably seemed a lot drunker than I felt, because I couldn't exactly walk straight.

"I'm here to babysit," Irish explained to the officers.

We walked back to our hotel shortly after the Car Bombs (thinking about it, I may have been the only girl to successfully down mine), and Irish followed, as it was on the way to his car. "No boys allowed upstairs," Barbie's sister cautioned as we walked through the glass doors of the Westin. So Irish and I sat down on some marble steps in the lobby. I felt a little dizzy, so I put my head in my hands, and he demanded to know what was wrong, unwilling to accept that it was just, you know, the alcohol.

"Fine, I'll go first," he said. And then he told me the truth - that he'd been an unwanted child of his Irish parents, who had beaten him until he was four and got adopted by his aunt and uncle; that the women he calls his "sisters" are really girls his aunt used to nanny for; that the house he now lives in is the one he grew up in... etc, etc, etc. And that nobody outside of his family knows this version of the story, because he's afraid of how they'd react. "But since you're replacing [fiancée] - or, not replacing, but taking her place - as the one person I can tell everything to..."

The look I gave him after I'd heard the real story must've been heartbreaking, because he's still talking about it now, four days later. "Why'd you lie to me?" was all I said. And he went on again about the unknown reactions, and his image as a tough guy, and the general embarrassment the whole thing could cause. I told him I didn't think it would be that bad, but then, I am a girl who has no secrets. "So now you go," he said.

He told me the next day that I'd said Lui thinks our marriage isn't working - which isn't entirely true; it's more like he worries about it. He told me I'd almost started crying and that he'd quickly changed the subject. I don't remember, don't know how much I believe. And like Monica says - and I paraphrase - even when you're crying, you should keep telling people you don't ever cry.

More of the story was related to me the next morning as well: "You kissed me on the cheek last night," Irish said over breakfast. (Bad as that sounds, it had been prearranged that he come to pick me up downtown while Lui was at the Chargers game, and we'd stopped at a Denny's on the way home.)

"Yeah, I do that sometimes... Is that ok? Because if it wasn't, I'm sorry, and I won't do it again." He back-peddled for a while, saying of course it was no big deal, even relating an anecdote where a middle-aged customer had kissed him on the cheek once because he'd helped her pick out what she was going to have for dinner that night. (But then... why announce it to me like that?)

I'd remembered this cheek-kissing business - I'd also remembered that after he'd walked me up to my room and we were standing in the hallway, we hugged like four times. What I genuinely hadn't remembered was why.

"It was after I'd told you that everything was going to be all right - at least on your end - and that if you ever needed anything, you can call me, day or night, while I'm at work, whatever, and I'll drop everything to be there for you."

Well in that case... Of course I fucking kissed him.

[Don't worry, kids. It's officially Sober October - for me, Irish, and Monica, at least - which means we're not in danger of anything like this happening again for about another month.]