Monday Is Awesome. When You're With Matt.

Holy schniekies, I got off work on time today, in the actual daylight of a gorgeous spring day. So, duh, I needed a drink.

I called Matt the Miller Man. And for the love of Mike, he wasn't busy. We made plans to have dinner. Yay! Dinner with my oldest friend! Huzzah! Since I've known Matt since seventh grade, I'm allowed to write "Yay!" just like 1983. We arranged to meet at The Dub, and have dinner across the street at The Blue Goose, and although I did not have one of their world-famous Swirls, I did drink a shot.

On a muthafuckin' Monday, bitch.

I don't know where that came from.

Anyway, Matt usually doesn't drink on Mondays, and I usually don't drink (shots) on Mondays, but since we're old pals, we broke the rules for each other. Olive juice, Matt. It was delightful. And damn, fresh tortillas ought to be a national landmark or something.

The combination of hanging out with Matt and eating fresh tortillas has given me this dopey grin that will not quit. Also, I'm blogging in bed, which never happens, and which I love, because I am more committed to this bed than the law allows. I seriously love to sleep. I love to lounge. It's the best thing ever. The next best thing to my bed is a hammock. Or a chaise longue. One of the oversized ones in the Crate and Barrell catalog. The only thing better than napping poolside is napping in the pool. Or in the tub. I fall asleep in the bathtub I suspect more often than the average American.

I have a vivid memory of falling asleep on a towel under the mesquite tree in my aunt's backyard out by the pool. I remember the grass below me and hearing the South Texas breeze blowing those thorny, supple branches back and forth over me while I tried to resist the sound, to stay wake, not sleep, with a sun-warmed and faded beach towel covering me to keep the surprisingly cool shade from giving me a chill. The wind in the mesquite tree sounded like the ocean. There's no kind of sleep as an adult that rivals the deepest sleep of a child. Every nap I take is just an attempt to recapture that so perfect nap that one day, beside the pool, at my Aunt Sue's.

Sweet dream, my lovelies.

I Know I Ought To Write Something, But I'm On A One Glass Of Wine And Scallini's Pizza High And Dancing With The Stars Is On So Whatever, Man.

I Heart The Damaged.

So if women are drawn to men who remind them of their fathers, what the hell am I doing chasing down all the soulless foreigners that Dallas has to offer?

My dad is a good man, and an American.

He didn't abandon me when I was little or anything. I talked to him yesterday. He wasn't a bum, a drinker, a drugger, a rager, or cold. FOR (father of ReadBecca) is a truly decent human being. He puts up with me even when I do things that remind him of my mother.

FOR drove me to the airport when I went to meet my Internet boyfriend. He didn't talk to me for a week before that, but he still did it, and he gave me an emergency credit card. Once, I thought I had cancer, and he picked me roses from the bed I refused to help dig. And FOR's funny.

So what is it that makes me completely ignore the good guy and go for the "interesting" one? Why do I think "emotionally unavailable" is "interesting"? And how did my Spidey Sense become so sensitive that I can pick one of these pricks out at 50 paces?

Why am I only comfortable in a completely unbalanced relationship? Is it because my brain has to work so much harder, at lightning speed, trying to figure it out? Is it really the sheer challenge of it that I like? Do I choose a shit every time just because I'm so damn smart?

I get up an extra hour early to journal three pages every morning. Recently I read all the pages I've written since January and I noticed something: I bitch about men the same way I bitch about my mother.

WTF, over?

The things that make me avoid all but the most limited contact with Crazy Linda are the same things that I unconsciously (semi-consciously) seek out in a man. Can it be so simple an explanation that daily contact with my unbalanced mother during my childhood warped my love instinct for life?

That is so not cool.

How did that influence trump that of my totally ok dad? All I can say is it's hard to ignore her. Seriously, she doesn't let up. Ever. FOR had to divorce her and she still kept coming back to wreak havoc. It's like when Michael Myers won't die. Except she's much louder, and has a lot more masks.

My dad has given me course corrections at the most volatile, potentially disastrous moments in my life. He saved my life. Twice. And he did it just by being there, even when he was a thousand miles away in Minnesota, and he used a promotional corporate tie tack to do it. I still have it. And to top that, FOR moved to College Station, TX, because I was there.

This is a man with emotional skillz.

My dad's good opinion of me is my most valued treasure. Disappointing FOR would kill me. FOR told me the most important thing you have in this world is self-respect. And FOR told me that any man who lets a woman ride on the back of his motorcycle doesn't really love her, because if he truly did, he would never put her in that kind of danger. He might risk his own life, but not hers.

I hate motorcycles.

Damn! They Broke Me.

Dude, I totally lost it at work today. We were so busy, I couldn't even powder my nose, much less eat lunch. I get really weepy when I'm overwhelmed. I also get weepy when I'm hungry. And when my hormones are raging. (Yes, and when I drink too much. And at movies and the Olympics and weddings and sometimes Law and Order: SVU.) It was the Trifecta of Tears today. The boss had to give me a hug and some Nutter Butters. I kept answering the phone, though, and smiling at patients' families the entire time I was crying. I'm no quitter.

Everyone is very nice and helpful. I just have no idea what I'm doing most of the time. I'm not used to that. At work, I mean. I'm totally aware that I have no idea what I'm doing in actual life.

Dang, it's three minutes past my bedtime. Sweet dreams, kids.