Gin from the Cat Dish

Love is a many splendored thing. Or something like that. A couple months ago, or so, Shaughn and I were on one of our walks through drizzly Seattle and we got talking about marriage and if we wanted to get married, where and when. I made a strong case for getting married next summer and Shaughn paused to hyperventilate in someone's lovely petunia patch. It's not that Shaughn doesn't want to get married or that, God forbid, he doesn't want to marry me , it's just that contemplating big changes tend to make his throat swell. We couldn't be more different in this. I contemplate big life changes daily--"Maybe I should quit my job and hitchhike to Mexico tomorrow?" or "I'm pretty sure the tumor in my brain shifted and I should get working on that book soon. Maybe in the mountains." and "If I win the lottery I'm going to take up yacht racing." And if you know me at all, I hope you know I'm capable of any and all of these whims

Hey blog. I'm reminded of some of my old journals where the entries start out with "Dear Journal, sorry I haven't written in so long." The other day a man asked me, "So tell me a story." I had nothing. I mean nothing. It's like my brain flat-lined. All I could think of was how much I loved to tell stories. How this was probably the best question anyone could ask me. But nope--I had nothing. So I'm on a quest to reclaim my inner storyteller-ness. I think a big road block on this quest is being happy. I am madly in love with my boyfriend right now. We live together in this tiny apartment and absolutely adore being with each other. Each week when we have to go back to work we send each other mopey texts. It's disgusting. Seriously, the stories I think of on a daily basis have the plot of -I missed Shaughn today and then I got to see him and it was really nice-. So, you know, I have that working against me. But I'm going to start out small. Here