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One day was all it took. And he’s back and my emotional life is screwed. The Ex Im’d me yesterday – and a fairly long conversation (admittedly with pauses – I DO work at work) ensued. I stood my ground, weakened, and then *may have agreed to go see a concert by “our” artist with him at the end of June. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I logged on this morning, with the intention of a little more e-flirting and me telling him the concert was a bad idea. And he’s not there. I sign on my other screen name (shudup, you have more than one too), and there is he. He’s blocked me? I thought HE was the one who wanted to be friends and HE was the one who swore he could keep it there. Despite the one miscommunication where I talked about the concert and he talked about sex, I was almost ready to give it another try. But he’s blocked me? Talk about confusing signals. I was the one who said I was done with him, needed to not try to be friends.

And now my mind is on overdrive.

  1. Maybe he just didn’t realize maybe his computer has me on auto-block and for whatever reason yesterday was on the fritz. He did ask what I was doing online on that name (never mind I’ve been on that name almost daily for the past month).
  2. Maybe the conversation yesterday scared him. Reminded him how easy it is for Us. Not *just to be together and talk and flirt, but how easy it is to fall back. NOT something that would be good for either of our emotional healths, nor for the two hour drive keeping us apart.
  3. He just doesn’t realize and doesn’t care.
  4. He does realize and doesn’t care.

I realize it is probably number four. But this is TheEx. The one I thought I would marry, if not two years ago, then possibly in the future when he has grown up and realized that I was the perfect one. I know that part of it is the First Love Syndrome and that I just need to Move On. But this was the guy I was introduced to with this “this is the guy you need to meet/marry/make babies with”. And I believed it. And part of me still wants to. Because part of me, still loves him. And then he Cheated. And Lied. The cheating I was able to deal with, but the lying. The lying tore at my soul. How can you do something like that to someone you love? So, after six months of trying to make it work, I walked away. I packed up and left to another state and friend’s arms. We had a slight relapse last year, and again, I realized it was dangerous and packed up and left. I’ve always been the one to cut contact, even if he was pushing for it too. It was always my decision.

And yet, still, to this day, without having responded to his overtures to talk to me in the past six months (three drunken phone calls around Valentine’s Day notwithstanding), if I’m home alone, and there is a knock at the door at a time when I’m not expecting anyone – I wonder, just briefly and not all the time, but just for a flicker… if its Him.

They call me ‘Betty’. In a teasing fashion – after Betty Crocker. Because at my age, in this time, I like to cook. Not all the time, and not necessarily fabulous dishes – but I can make a mean stuffed pasta shells dish, sourdough waffles, homemade mac & cheese.

It makes me remember cooking with my grandma, “helping” ever so much by banging on pots and pans on the floor. Of her measurements consisting of holding my hand and putting spices in them. “This much”, “this little”, “just keep tasting”. It reminds me of how little time I actually had to do that. To learn the recipes that she had perfected over years of cooking for a huge family, where leftovers were unheard of.

I can’t make her rolls yet. While most of my recipes are easy and quick (or at least are after the third try) the rolls have a certain knack and take a good half day. My mother had to be married to my father for five years before she learned all the secrets – for me to make them now, alone in my apartment… seems wrong. Like I’ve broken the tradition. That being said, when my mother visits I beg her to make them. To make the apartment smell like Grandma’s. One more time.

She left us last February. She was an only child in a family where all of her parent’s siblings had multiple children. Like me. I was the only child of her first born. There was a connection. Even in the last year when she had no voice – her eyes would say exactly the right thing, at exactly the right time. I didn’t go home for her last Christmas. Or her last Thanksgiving. I was busy “settling into my life” 10 hours away. I was the only part of our family to live outside our home state, and often couldn’t get back for holidays – new jobs, new apartments, no funds, no time, etc.

Their house will always be home to me. The one house that stayed the same throughout all my years – a very important thing when you consider I moved about 5 times (always to new states) in about 7 years. Before college. But that house will always be home, the tiny kitchen with the now new cabinets. The glass milk jar filled with peppermints for upset stomachs and nightmares. The downstairs library with swinging saloon doors that always smelled slightly of mold and still, to this day, is one of my favorite spots on earth.

That house will always mean family to me. It held so many family reunions, holidays, dinners. And there was always something on the stove, in the oven. Cooking, for my grandmother, was part of family. I look back, and I’ve always cooked. But, now, I realize it was last March that I started cooking more, actively trying new recipes, digging through her old cookbooks, deciphering her handwriting. Because every time someone I cook, I can still hear her “you take about *this much” as she places ingredients in my hands to measure them out.

I feel like cooking tonight.

Its okay to believe in Prince Charming, but you have to believe in midnight too.

disarming (adj): tending to allay suspicion or hostility; winning favor or confidence siren (noun): a seductive or tempting woman, esp. dangerous or harmful

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