Monthly Archives: January 2015

Sleepless Nights

TMI warning: This post talks about sex.

Barely got any sleep last night. Stayed up talking to our roommate until 0130, then still couldn’t get to sleep when Scott got home.

He climbed into bed, snuggled in close to me, and kissed me, right between the shoulder blades (Aww ♡).

I dozed for about a half hour, when I woke up with straight-up need. Not want, need. I rolled over, and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him. It was a test of my self control when I rolled back over and tried to go back to sleep.

Next thing I know, Scott’s stroking my side and my stomach, and I’m all but purring. He’s done this before, so I just went with it, not expecting anything more. Superhuman self control. It wasn’t until he started tugging on my pajama pants that I realized he had the same need I did.

I’ll spare you those details.

Then, he drops this little gem on me…

I know someone that wants to have sex with you.

Um… what? Are you flipping kidding me?!? That’s so not something I would expect out of my boyfriend’s mouth.

I still don’t know where it came from, but he told me her name. Her friend told Scott, because she was too scared he’d be mad at her.



Found on Pinterest


If this is true, I was killed by either a bullet or spear to the neck. And Z was killed by being stabbed in the back.

Scott’s appointment


He has to go for more testing on February 19th. The Dr gave him four prescriptions, and the only one I recognize is hydrocodone.

Three weeks. Maybe we’ll get answers and solutions then.

I’m fulfilling the whole “in sickness and in health” thing.

Thoughtful Thursday


It’s been awhile since I’ve posted “Thoughtful Thursday” and since Scott’s away most of the day for a Dr’s appointment, I figured today would be a good day to release some thoughts.

With the recent craziness, I’ve barely been posting on Facebook. Up until yesterday, my last post was about my brother’s stroke.

I’m not into the whole “poor, poor me” routine people like to do on Facebook. If it’s not positive, funny, or relevant, I don’t post it. So, I’ve been relatively quiet on Facebook, other than the autoposts from Pinterest, which are usually nail art, Potter Head, or Sagittarius related.

So yesterday, when I actually posted, I wasn’t expecting 100+ notifications within two hours. People commenting on the post, tagging me in posts, people posting on my timeline, messages, and the dreaded game requests. It was overwhelming. I barely kept up with it all.

I smiled and laughed more yesterday than I had all month. It was much needed.

Scott just got back from the doctor, so I’ll post later about his appointment.

Jealously is an ugly thing…

So, here’s the thing…

At 54 years old, Scott’s sexy as hell. I know what you’re thinking… “You’re biased”.

Yeah…  not so much. Every female is of the same general opinion. Add his sexiness to his extremely outgoing personality, and my self esteem tanks when we go out together.

It feels like every female in the place is thinking to herself: “Why is he with her?”

Let’s go ahead and get this out there (I sooo can’t believe I’m doing this): I’m 5’5 and 115lbs, my measurements are 34-24-38. See where this is going? Scott says I have an awesome stomach, amazing ass, and great legs. To which I reply “So, from the waist down, I have a perfect body?” He says we can fix that with silicone. O_O

I swear, I had a point…

Oh, my extremely obvious lack of boobage. Which I get made fun of for. A lot. It’s made me extremely self-conscious. I barely fill a 34A bra. I’ve got one helluva ass, but no boobs.


So, there it is… I’m all A and no T, while all those females that like to flirt with my super-sexy boyfriend are stacked. And I get jealous.

It’s an ugly, ugly thing.

My Sweet Scott

My Sweet Scott,

The night we met,  I never would have thought to expect we’d be where we are today. You were a kind stranger, offering advice (and making my drink perfect), and even a room in your home.

True to your word, you were there for me the next night. Only a text away. The moment I saw you walk through that door, I was in your arms, where I remained the rest of the night. Safe. Protected. I belonged in your arms. I was yours. You were mine. I held your shaking hand as we took a ride in your car. You said it was nerves. Forever a gentleman, you didn’t even try to kiss me when we stopped to talk. To be away from the noise and the lights. We just talked. You knew me. I didn’t say a word, but you knew. You even told me “You’re not broken. They didn’t deserve you.” When we got back to the bar, you walked me to my friend’s truck. That kiss you placed on my lips had me buzzing for hours. I lied on the floor, trying to memorize every moment of the night, so I’d never forget.

I had to see you again. Each hour we were apart, I ached even more. Part of my heart was missing. My friend and I talked and came up with the perfect excuse: “She’s going to go ask about a job.

I waited all day, just to be able to get ready for you. Hair done. Makeup just right. Cute little dress. And my red high heels. We walked out my door, and a mile down the road, we realized we both forgot our IDs. Backtrack. Nerves zinging all over my body. I wanted you. I wanted your arms around me.

When we got there, as soon as you buzzed us in, I walked straight up to you and whispered “I did this for you.” You hugged me and kissed my cheek. As soon as you were off the clock, we stepped outside. It had only been 12 hours since we’d seen each other, but there was so much to catch up on.

That night, you were my boyfriend. Still living with him, falling for you. You caught me. Out on the patio, I sat in your lap as we kissed. And snuggled in as close as I could get. That was it. I was moving in with you. The sooner the better. I wanted all of you. But we waited. You told me you’d wait as long as I needed. But not before I was moved out of his house. You would not do that to another man.

The first time I stepped into your (our!) house, it was already my home. (Unless, I was considered “homeless” for my 8-hour shift?) It was so funny… my shift ended at 8 that night, so when you picked me up, we were literally “riding off into the sunset”. In a silver Mustang convertible. Fitting.

That night, you reminded me: “Not before you’re ready“. I WAS ready. Oh, so ready. But so nervous. There was no need. The first time, you were so, so gentle. You kissed my lips. My cheek. My neck, even my hair. The true definition of “making love”. Slow and steady. Everything I needed. I felt so blessed that night, and every night since, to fall asleep in your arms.

You’ve been amazing to me. Understanding, supportive, loving. You are everything I wanted, but more than I ever thought I was good enough to ask for.

I love you.


Insomnia fueled thoughts


I have the ability to think completely coherent thoughts, until around midnight. That’s when all hell breaks loose.

I’ll think of random things to blog about, then get pulled through the rabbit hole and end up in Oz. Seriously.


Example (one last week):

Hmm. My hair’s almost to my waist


Only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades

Hmm. I wonder if my Dad still has the grenade Grandpa Steve gave me.

Seriously, I just went from my hair to hand grenades? No sleep for me tonight.

Then, out of nowhere…

“Follow the yellow brick road, follow the yellow brick road”

How the fuck did I just end up in Oz?!?!

And then, I spent an hour trying to figure out how thinking about how long my hair is sent me to Oz.


I should start posting about this shit more often. It’s more interesting than a dream diary.


He was in better spirits today. Smiling, and joking and being my silly, sweet Scott that I know and love.

That was until we were talking about snow removal. Seriously, shoveling snow became a heated discussion that ended with me absolutely, positively, 100% NOT allowed to shovel snow.

My (very legit) argument that he has no business being out in that mess with his pneumonia and pinched nerve went unheard.

Yep. He’s THAT serious. He doesn’t want me to do any heavy lifting (haha, joke’s on you, Scott. I picked up my 4’10 eight year old today😛). He says stuff like shoveling snow and hauling firewood is a man’s job.

Seriously, have we met?  I’m all about doing stuff that’s generally labeled as “a man’s job.” You want me to unload this truck? No problem. Want me to put this mini fridge on the top shelf? On it. I’m not adverse to heavy labor.

Then again, this is the same man that had to ask me my last name a few weeks ago. We’ve only been living together seven months, plus he keeps one of my debit cards in his wallet, often with my ID. But he legit didn’t know my last name. Seriously.

Feeling Guilty…

I need some alone time. Some peace and quiet to reflect on all the craziness this year has already brought us. To be able to read, to meditate, to be able to hear myself think. But this year has been too crazy to allow that to happen.

This week doesn’t like like it will be very conductive of quiet time, either.


That ugly 4-letter word. Can I just go hide in the closet until spring? The rate this year is going, I’m going to end up catatonic in the corner, if we don’t catch a break soon.


I hate, hate, hate seeing Scott like this. I hate seeing him in so much pain. Every time he loses himself and shows how bad he’s hurting, it makes me wanna cry, because there’s nothing I can do to fix it. His pain hurts me.

I just want him to heal. To be healthy.