Bye Bye Charlie

Charlie spent the weekend in Minnesota. That meant I spent an entire weekend without my man. How did I celebrate? Why, by being messy of course. As we speak: Dirty dishes in the sink - check. Bed not made - check. Hair stuff, flat irons, makeup, and other girlie stuff I "try" to hide from Charlie frolicking out in the open - check. And there's not a thing anyone can do about it. (I bet you ten dollars when Charlie reads this he will have to restrain himself from flying through internet to clean the house.)

Oh, and then I watched about eleventy million hours of Sex and the City. And tooted on the couch instead of running into the bathroom. In short, it has been awesome.

But still, I miss him. A lot. The night before he left I just buried my face into his chest and tried to soak up every last drop of him. I just hate to say goodbye. To anyone. When Charlie left for three months to go to Prague a year ago, I cried and cried and cried. And then for good measure I cried some more. The guy next to me on the plane had to ask if I was okay - which really? How very For the Love of the Game of me. Even now I still cry and pout whenever I have to say goodbye to him. And since Charlie thinks this is the most ridiculous thing in the entire world, I wait until I make it back to the car before I turn on the waterworks. So Wednesday evening, there Romeo and I sat in the car and boo-hooed all the way home. Mostly I think Romeo wanted to ride in the front seat and hang his head out the window, but I'm pretty sure on some level he was just as sad as I was.

(side note: The Look-Kids-It's-Big-Ben circular construction of DFW airport is doing nothing to help waterworks. I get lost EVERY. FRIGGIN. TIME. North exit?!? South EXIT?!? I just WANT OUT. WHY CAN'T I GET OUT!)

But I ask you, how can I not be sad when Charlie leaves? He takes such great care of me. He treats me like a princess. Never once has he griped at the amount of shit I leave around the house. We're both first time cohabitors, and it's been an adjustment to say the least yet he's never once thrown up his arms and yelled GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! (I would have done this about a frillion times by now if someone had moved into my humble abode and put all their girlie shit EVERYWHERE. Often, I catch him staring whistfully at the bathroom that just used to be a bar of soap and a toothbrush.)

(Oddly though, he does disappear in order to get a couple of beers, and returns seven hours later - for the life of me I can't figure out what that's about.)

But still with everything, he's always there for me when I need him. He has the most amazing pair of arms that just swallow you whole. They wrap around me and it's then that I know that even if the whole world spontaneously combusted and fell apart, that I would be just fine right there in his arms. He's got a big, beautiful and alarmingly reassuring smile that still to this day makes my heart leap when I see it. He patiently listens to me when I explain to him what's hapening on this weeks episode of Laguna Beach. He's disgustingly talented. He's never met a stranger. His heart is about the size of this god forsaken hell hole of a state that were stuck in. He can take me in the midst of a giant oh my gawd the world is going to end better just stick my head in the oven freak out session, and whisper in between my sobs that everything will be alright, and I know that it will. He wipes away big ol' crocidile tears with his freakishly soft man hands and kisses my cheeks for the ultimate boo-boo fix. And if I ever try to push him away (which I have done more than my fair share of) he hangs on for dear life. He can take me at my very worst, and treats me like I am the very best.

Plus he's turned me into a mushy girlie girl. Ew.

Oh and hurry home, babe.