I write this from a country pub on the same property as the small cottage I’ve booked for myself the next two nights. It’s the kind of cottage I should be sharing with a lover or boyfriend. Fireplace, king bed, outdoor spa, indoor soaker tub, fluffy white bathrobes. But despite three men asking if they can join me, I’m staying here solo. Christmas dinner is over and my house (and I) have fully recovered.
I’m here to write. But what I’ve done so far is eat fish tacos, drink a large glass of local Chardonnay, unsuccessfully try to figure out how to import my posts into Scrivener, flirt with my hot bartender, talk to the adorable young couple next to me, and give the female some perspective on her parent’s divorce this summer, after 37 years of marriage. She was bereft that her Mom is already dating someone, who showed up for Christmas dinner.
Speaking of Christmas dinner, Dan the Plumber joined the motley crew I host at my place. I’d thought of inviting him but only decided finally after he said he had no plans. He started chemotherapy and radiation treatment last week; his cancer is back. He hasn’t told his family and didn’t travel to visit them for Christmas. I asked him if he wanted to join us for dinner and he said yes.
He was delightful. He certainly won my Mother over; she said he was “most pleasant”. And he was. He held his own, joking with my brother, making polite conversation with the older generation, and proactively taking dishes from the table. I like Dan; he’s nice to be around.
He didn’t stay, although he easily could have. I told him Liam would soon be asleep, but he’d eaten too much and was tired. Just one of his eccentricities that makes me wonder whether a relationship can ever happen with him. Not two days prior, we finally had a repeat of our couch session so many weeks ago. I got to savor his kisses and appreciate his manual dexterity. He finger fucked me, then fully fucked me, with me kneeling on my couch and him taking me from behind. It was smoking hot.
If I do say so myself, I outdid myself this Christmas dinner. My brother was a huge help; he loves to cook and he and I ran the kitchen. It was a joy to do it with him. Last year I ordered people around from my couch, with only one good leg, high on Oxycontin.
But, when we took the lid off the roasting pan containing the turkey, I was certain we were going to have a Griswold turkey moment. I hadn’t cooked it longer than it should have been, but the turkey had completely split in the back half, and the breasts had almost entirely come off the bone.
We had to pick up the various pieces using tongs since I couldn’t take the whole thing out of the pan. But one taste and we knew we had a winner. I make the gravy and never before have I not had to use any bouillon to add flavor. Just thinking about it now makes me eager for the leftovers in the fridge.
I hosted 12 people for dinner, including all four of my parents, my brother and his wife, her brother and his husband, a friend of my Mother’s, and Dan. It was wonderful. Although I’m still struggling somewhat with moving past the dating disasters of the last 18 months, I have so much to be happy for, and practicing gratitude for those things is working.
I had Liam overnight which made a huge difference in my feeling positive about Christmas this year. My Mom and StepDad slept over at my place so they could be there with him as well. I shared a bed with Liam which resulted in a terrible sleep, but lovely Christmas morning cuddles. At 6:30 am.
Zane is around and nicely in touch and still keen. I’m overdue for a post about him. We’ve seen each other a few times and have a date for dinner within the week. I don’t know what will come, but it’s been lovely so far.
He, Dan, and Tony have all asked if they could join me at this getaway. I’ve said no, despite how awesome it would be to take advance of the perfect romanticism of my cottage. The solitude is good for me and the sheer act of doing this, by myself, reinforces I will be fine.
I feel like something has shifted for me this past month, but it’s hard to put my finger on exactly how it’s different. I’ve gone through periods where I haven’t pursued new relationships, but this time, I feel no residual desire to get back online. It’s liberating, frankly.
I’m not about to start spouting how you need to love yourself first – I’ve loved myself for a while – but I suppose I’m okay with spending my energy on writing and health, instead of online dating. I don’t miss Instagram. I sometimes have a mental hiccup when I look at my phone and there aren’t many messages there. But by avoiding new men, I’m also avoiding douchebags. And that’s perhaps the best Christmas present I could ask for.