As you all recall, Zelda called Friday morn, asking me to take our son for the weekend. I had committed to go out of town for the weekend, and couldn’t actually take him with me on this particular trip; I was staying at someone else’ house, and couldn’t prearrange with them to bring my son. One doesn’t add to the guest list without consultation, and like that.

Zelda upped the ante. “I just thought it would be nice for Othello if his father was volunteering to spend time with him.” Pause, in which I failed to jump up and volunteer. “I just thought it would be nice if his father wanted to spend time with him.” Repeat pause. “Instead of palming him off on other people.”

I said, “Is this going to cause an urgent issue? Is this going to cause some problems for Othello?”

“No,” she said, “but it just sucks for me if you don’t.”

“I’m sorry; I’ve made plans, and I can’t take him with me this time. Next time, but that doesn’t help this weekend.”

She pushed a bit more, and I, gently, and without re-engaging, left the conversation and hung up. An hour later she called and left me a message, dripping in blunt-edged sarcasm: “If you care, your son has a place to stay for the weekend. I just wanted to thank you for all your help with this. I just thought it might be nice if I had a social life, too.”

Wow.

Oddly, this all made me feel really good. I didn’t enjoy the conversation, but I never, not once, not for an instant, felt any responsibility to jump up and take care of Zelda’s problem. Her last minute plan, her needs, her wishes for my behavior were not my emergency. I followed through on my plans with a clear, calm mind, noting in a quiet, peaceful way that I should chat with Othello next weekend — my weekend with him — about this and make sure that he’s good with what happened this weekend.

Heavens. I seem to be beyond Zelda’s reach, emotionally. I hope I can teach Othello this.

Ultrasound showed no stones in my gall bladder, no masses (like polyps or calcification or wandering Sinn Féin or something), and, dammit, no explanations. I’m still having milder bouts of pain, gas, and nausea after eating, and I’d just as soon understand what they are about so I can work toward their removal.

Grph.

In other news, Zelda called this morning to unload Othello, our son, on me for the weekend. I imagine this indicates that she is preparing to move along into something — someone — else. Good for me. I hope, good for her, as well. We’ll see shortly, I imagine. Meanwhile, time with Othello is time well spent.

She could certainly use some distraction, as Bridgette and I are about to become public knowledge; I’ve been offered adoption by her cats, with the rights and priveleges that a full pet of the cats should have, and have accepted that position. The change in residence is something that Zelda needs to know about for child care purposes. This should be interesting. I’ll be keeping my apartment until July for several reasons; fulfill my lease, make moving a slow and gentle process, and, hey, there’s still some place for Bridgette to kick me out to if she needs to, so the acclimatization process can be slow and gentle, as well.

Well. When I finally start moving about and changing things in my life, I don’t waste time, do I?

I noticed today that, in the past three weeks, I have stayed in my own apartment twice. And I have started to purchase half the groceries at Bridgette’s apartment.

Neither Bridgette or I seem to recall making any decisions on this, specifically. She just stopped asking if I was staying, and I stopped checking to see if that was wished for. I think keeping my apartment is a good idea, regardless; it’s good to have alternatives, and like that. Or, as she put it, “It’s good to be able to kick you out if I need to.” And it’s good for me to have a place to run away to, if I need to.

This has just been a very odd sort of relationship, all through.

About the first of the month, I put forth truly amazing amounts of effort on the Army physical training test, performing as I haven’t since I was 28 — 11 years ago. I did about 50 each, push-ups and sit-ups, each within a two-minute time span, and I ran two miles in 16:38, passing most of the kids in the unit on the way. I was, frankly, astonished. I’ve been working out harder than I thought, apparently.

All of which is only background.

That evening, I ate a bowl of soup and some garlic bread, nothing too challenging, and within an hour I was moved to curl up in a ball and die. I could feel my abdomen contracting rhythmically so hard that my spine ached. Inside of an hour I had two rather shit-yer-lungs-out bowel movements. Eventually, this passed.

But it has recurred about an hour after every meal I eat since then. I’ve had no dietary changes, no signs of ulcers or such, and I can normally eat porcupines dipped in acid and go for seconds. My guess was gallstones; my theory was that the rather intense use I put my body to last weekend knocked loose some of the stones that most Americans carry around, and that they’re now clogging the common liver duct. By way of testing the guess, I altered my diet around fat, looking for intensifications, and found them. I axed alchohol and coffee (much weeping) and acidic foods and found no difference.

Balls.

I popped into the doctor today, described the issues and my reactions to them, and he congratulated me on an excellent self-diagnosis. Blood was drawn and is being studied for signs of liver problems, and I’ll be ultra-sounded on Friday to get actual pictures of the f***ing stones, just to confirm everything. I’d really rather have been wrong.

When they decide I’m stoned (hah), I’ll probably try some of the alternative ways of cleaning out the works; the hospital’s methods are to do nothing or to cut me open. I tend to believe in less drastic solutions, and I’ll seek ‘em out. Intense yoga for the compression value comes to mind, some more physical exertion in the form of running, to help jog through whatever is loose but unpassed, stuff like that. And I’ll see.

I passed word of this to Zelda as a sort of conversation piece, and she asked if she could be my nurse when I was hospitalized. She brightened at the prospect, and appeared pleased with idea. I said, “I guess it depends on how angry you are with me that week.”

Nobody gets my jokes. Particularly Zelda. And, y’know, I’m not entirely sure that was a joke, although I do consider that Zelda is one of the best nurses I’ve ever met. Still, conflict of interest, and like that.

So. It occurs to me that, by and large, I have been posting under the “Private” setting. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy posting to my friends, it’s just that I feel that a person should be able to enjoy smearing goat butter where ever she likes without some voluble exhibitionist (that would be me) bandying the news about in public. So.

Gardening proceeds apace, turning a patch of asphault in the barrio of Corvallis into a riot of blooms and foliage. Bridgette’s cats have come to not merely accept my presence, but expect it and resent it when I fail to show. Mornings begin with my strolling over on the way to work, entertaining the cats and making myself tea, and passing time with Bridgette when she comes home from work, before I leave for mine. Generally, I pass by again on the way home and we sort of exchange roles as she preps for work and I come down for the evening. Very pleasant.

Bridgette recently showed uncommon personal ability (not unique to my experience, but rare) by noticing that she was the obstacle standing between herself and things that benefitted her (that would be relating to me) and so she — stopped. Didn’t look for outside assistance, didn’t make excuses, just fixed things that she was doing and got out of her own way.

Cool

We poked about for signs of panic, claustrophobia, over-involvement, and didn’t find any on either part. Hard to get used to not living from crisis to crisis. Hard to get used to developments being good things. Hard to get used to people around me taking care of their own problems (again, not unique in my experience, but the folk I know who do that live miles and miles away).

I think I like it, rather a lot.

And there’s nothing wrong with smearing goat butter, if the butter’s fresh.

Oh — right. “The Unnamed Interaction.” There has been some discussion on interpersonal interaction nomenclature; we have been doing something that is not just dating, although there have been date-like happenings. More than friends. Much more than insignificant others. Significant others … a bit premature, we both feel. My vote is for calling what we are doing a “mature relationship”, but Bridgette wants no part of anything that includes the word “mature”…which I sympathize with on principle. We have determined to enjoy a nomenclatureless interaction and simply celebrate that it’s working so well on so many levels.

But. I must point out that, if it quacks like a duck, swims like a duck, and seeks out the god of vengeance, Horus, like a duck would, one must suspect that it may be some form of waterfowl. Y’know, I gotta say this is some sort of early stage of significant other kind of relationship. But denial is a pleasant sort of exercise, and keeps the panicky stuff at bay, so I’m not pushing. Shutting up is my best skill, these days, and I’m honing it finer.

Most people are relieved.

Bridgette got home early last night, and I was over by 10:00 to spend a bit of time with her. I was very, very tired, but I find I’ve been missing my redhead. Turns out that was the reason she was home early; to have time spent with her. She’s been missing me, too.

*”I missed you. And that doesn’t even scare me. I don’t know which is more dangerous.”
*”You keep saying, ‘this could get really messy.’ It could, but it’s you and it’s me; we won’t let it get too messy. We’re good about this, and about each other.”
*”I haven’t let anyone this close to me for a very long time. ‘You must use this power only for good.’ Promise not to hurt me.” “No. I’m going to hurt you. I’ll hurt you bunches of times. But I promise it will always be a mistake, and that I’ll always be here to help rebuild the hurt, and that I will always mean well.”
*”I love you. Not in a mushy sappy way. Not (babble).” “Shut up. What I hear you say is ‘I care deeply about you, and your happiness is important to me, and your best intersts are a priority for me, and I want you around me and am happy when you are.’” “…yes, that kind of love.” “I love you too.”
*”[when I am assertive, straightforward, and direct] I scare other men off. You not only are okay with that, you like it. You understand me, and why I do things, and you even think it’s neat.”
*”I’m proud of you. You found that you were standing between where you were and something you wanted, so you fixed yourself. That makes you, and me, and … do you know anyone else?”
*”I might still be prone to getting panicky.” “Lots of room, babe. Get as panicky as you need, do whatever you need to keep the pressure down. We’ll cope.”

I did a lot of shutting up and waiting this past few weeks. I was smart. I was wise. I was smart and wise, all on my own. No agonizing. No false starts. I could see who I was dealing with, and what the real issues were, and dealt with them in a realistic fashion that I could handle and feel good about. I saw that there was affection and trust and knowledge and strength, and I just waited and kept presenting those things to be seen by Bridgette. And she saw them, and turned and dealt with her own issues to be able to take part fully in the relationship.

My god, I’m a mature adult in a mature relationship with a mature adult who is dealing with her half of the relationship.

This shows every sign of working out well.