Define Your Connection, Please

Hello dear people, and I hope this finds you well. Another night, another correspondence fired off into the ether. (I refuse to use the word -blogosphere- except in derision. What a grody word.)

The dogs are curled on the floor by the baseboard heater on an old blanket I dragged out of the hall closet. I don't go in there very often, as it is one of the many storage areas filled with the X's stuff. However, as I have arranged to go skiing very early tomorrow I needed to find a few items, so delved into the closet looking for gear. I'm happy to report I found some goggles (although I think they are motocross goggles, but so what, they look the same) and long johns (though they are Mens Large, but so what, who's going to see me sashay around in them?).

Far from sashaying, I am bundled in bed wearing the damn voluminous things and a sweater, baseboard heater on high. Chilly in my little corner of the world; hence the dogs curled on the floor with me in the only warm-ish room in the house. I don't have the heart to kick them to the living room tonight. It's cold and one of them has been wounded, likely in a regular skirmish of the ongoing war with forest creatures that sees them run maniacally over and under logs barking at birds. Daft buggers.

The Mexican dumpster rat has a dime-shaped abrasion on his inner leg, just discovered tonight by accident. It was likely this nasty scrape which had him acting all moribund on Friday morning. By Friday afternoon, he was back to chipper, and both the vet and I missed the cut and proclaimed him healthy. Poor little Jojo had to have a thermometer shoved up his anus at said visit, which he did not enjoy in the least. If only he could talk, he might say Look, you seelly beetches, somehow I scrrrraped my leg so just dejame en paz, claro?

For the record, Jojo is not Mexican, but an American. Rescued from a high-kill shelter in Little Rock, Arkanses, he is a 7-year old whippet/terrier cross who has been with me the last 3 or 4 years. He looks like a cross between Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian god of the dead, and Gidget, the Taco Bell chihuahua who passed away last year at the age of 15. RIP, Gidget.

Jojo will live, I think. He licks his wound thoughtfully, almost proprietarily. Yummy. But no sign of infection, and I'm not taking him back to the vet for another $70 visit just to be told a scab should form but keep an eye out for infection. Well duh. For now, he seems content to lick his cut and periodically wedge himself under my bed, the sneak.

In other news, I am woefully under-organized. I had high hopes for the Christmas holidays for getting organized; then visions of Getting It Together this weekend. Instead, I puttered around the house and went to Staples to buy supplies to Get It Together and made tortilla soup and breakfasted both days with friends I hadn't seen for a long time and got my period 5 days early and hung out with my gentleman caller, who faces yet another imminent upgrade in title.

Going on week 11, he is proving to be...well, lovely. We're both in a state of startled and pleased. I don't know the word for that. Happily surprised, enjoyably taken aback. Go figure. Tonight I ventured we be each other's Good Time, as we do have a lot of fun together. I'd be tickled to be known as someone's Good Time, it's a fine recommendation. Anyway, we're both a little facetious when it comes to the Naming of the This Thing. Made queasy by the BF/GF terminology (what are we, 16 and like, going steady?), and chilled by the use of Partner, Companion, Significant Other, and other words that sound like census form categories.

Luckily, we're still a ways away from such pronouncements, as we're not in the display/introduce mode of the relationship. Yet. However, we did a) watch a movie together the other night and b) go for a run together yesterday afternoon. Yes, kiddos, it's getting serious!

However, as he is an intensely private individual, I shall not natter on about him other to say that I like him very much. I hope that we continue happily a while yet, regardless of terminology. He did allude tonight to the shelf life of what we're doing (or have claimed to be "just" doing as we did start out with purely lustful, short-term intent and are now perplexed.)

I know what he means. I planted it there in the original Fuckbuddy Protocols, as the raison d'etre for the bi-weekly chats. Fuckbuddery doesn't last. Being beaus or gentleman caller + lady friend is a temporary state, and calling each other My Good Time might be perceived as flippant, even insolent to others. That's where the terminology becomes important, of course: to other people. They want to know where you stand in relation to one another.

"Ssssso, is this your...?" Expectant pause, head cocked, eyebrow raised, glancing back and forth between the two of us. It hasn't happened yet, but it's coming, and when it does happen I want to have an appropriate word to insert rather than flatly state "Friend." or give a rambling explanation instead of a title ("We'll, we are seeing each other but both find the words 'boyfriend'and 'girlfriend' kinda gay, you see, I mean gay in a gross way...yes, I guess we're together." Cue the uncomfortable giggle and general foolishness. Ugh, how coy.)

Maybe in such a case the thing to do is smoothly just introduce the Other by their first name and refuse to provide such definition. Let them talk amongst themselves, or if need be ambush one of us in the washroom and ask outright for greater detail. No point getting all wiggy about it, I suppose. Whatever it's called, I don't want it to stop just because we can't name it.

On that dazed and confused note, I bid you good night. I have to get up in 7 hours to strap on downhill skis for the first time in several years, good lord.

Buenas noches,
GR