It’s been quite a while since I’ve blogged about something other than being sick. It must be update time.

(I am still sick. Still coughing. It still sucks. Yadda yadda.)

Geoffrey bought himself a new toy (the black model, of course). He’s considerably more bouncy & cheerful than he’s been in ages. On the one hand, I’m thrilled for him — it makes me all melty when he’s giddy. On the other hand, my bike is not running right now (the kick-start fell off somewhere on my way home from work one day, and then the battery charger stopped working, so I can’t turn the blasted thing on until I get those items replaced), so I’m irked that I can’t ride mine.

I’m not jealous, though. I have a theory that polyamory — at least, when done in a happy, healthy, solid, and long-term relationship! — helps cure you of jealousy simply by teaching you that if your loved one is happy regarding something that doesn’t include you, better to discover your own joys than to begrudge him his.

I suspect my relationship with Jonathan has helped move that lesson along, too. I absolutely adore seeing him happy — and most of the time that he’s happy, it has nothing to do with me. He’s just a very happy kid! But it doesn’t matter whether I had something to do with it or not; seeing him happy just makes me happy. (Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he gleefully lunges into my arms nearly every time he sees me, sometimes several times a day.)

Taking care of the menagerie at my house is also deeply satisfying and fulfilling, and very, very good for my soul. And it’s not despite the fact that the animals have no gratitude for all that I do for them; rather, it’s mainly because of that fact that I find satisfaction in cleaning up after them and making sure they have fresh water and topped-off food dishes. I don’t want, or need, gratitude from them for what I do. It’s enough to just do it, and to know that they are well cared-for because I’m unconditionally there for them. Even when the little bastards bite me. *wry grin*

I don’t know if it’s even possible to be there unconditionally for a person …at least not if it’s possible for me. (But hey, it’s not something I worry about. My role models never included Mother Teresa.)

The Summer Olympics start next month. I’m trying not to get too excited, since it’s likely that my work schedule will prevent me from seeing most of the coverage that I’d like to see. But since they’ll start on a Friday and end on a Sunday, I’ll be spending most of those 3 weekends watching. Even sports that I normally don’t give a damn about, like platform diving and rhythmic gymnastics, are fun to watch when it’s the Olympics.

This weekend, Geoffrey & I were invited to a potluck. He had a coffee date (or for him, a chai date) with a poly Pagan gal a week or so ago, and she invited us to the potluck that she & her husband are throwing on Saturday evening. We’re supposed to bring something that shows off “your best recipe.” Since I’m pretty sure that waving a Mastercard in a steakhouse restaurant doesn’t quite constitute a recipe, I’m stuck with bringing Irish soda bread. We’ll have to bring something else, too, because bread is really just an appetizer. Maybe Geoffrey can think of something to make. Otherwise I might have to bring El Cheapo Easy Nacho Dip (1 can of meat-only chili layered on top of 1 can of refried beans, covered with shredded cheddar and nuked until it’s warm, served with tortilla chips).

Just the idea of going to the home of total strangers to socialize makes me a wee bit nervous. As Mari & Doug, or Molly & Fred, can attest to, I’m not exactly a social butterfly. Leaving my house for things other than work or running household errands tends to make me obsess a little bit on how much I won’t get done at home. (Not that my house is neat as a pin, au contraire! But most people seem to think that crocheting means you aren’t paying attention to them, even when you assure them you certainly are.)

And I’m a touchy-huggy kind of person with folks who strike me as nifty, but I’ve reigned back on that immensely in my stodgy old age. That whole “mixed signals” thing stopped being amusing years ago, and now I just don’t want to deal with it. So, instead, it seems that I come across as stand-offish. *sigh* Where’s that happy medium?! (I wonder if she’ll precog that I want to slap her…)

I don’t know that I’ll be compatible with anyone at the potluck. Being poly and Pagan is all well and good, but I’m more conservative than liberal in most of the rest of my views. I doubt there’ll be a bunch of people there who think guns are neat, spanking children isn’t abuse, and accountability is what’s lacking most in citizens today. I hate feeling awkward in being around people I don’t have much in common with…it’s kind of like spending time with Kylanath. I do like her, but do we have anything in common besides being tall, mouthy, coffee-swilling, Gemini chicks who happen to be in love with the same guy? I’d like to be closer friends, but I tend to suspect that I’m not much of what she’s looking for in a friendship. As it stands, it’s kind of like “she’s my bunny expert, and I’m that annoying chick who goes out with her boyfriend on Friday nights.” (I’m not knocking either of us, mind you. But for gals with consecutive birthdays, we’re not exactly the Bobbsey Twins.)

And while I may express myself fairly well in text, I’m really horrible at small talk. Atrocious. Thoroughly awful at it. And although I try to be a good listener, it’s difficult to restrain myself from getting wholeheartedly immersed in conversation — the way that you do with good sex, in that you do your best to give at least as much as you’re getting. (Hell, in the SCA, sex could actually substitute for conversation in some situations. Ah, my ill-spent youth…) Perhaps part of my worry is that I don’t have much to talk about with total strangers. I mean, there are plenty of things I can talk about…but most of those topics would either bore people senseless (my kids, my pets, my crocheting, etc) or possibly provoke arguments (religion, politics, global warming, etc). These are not the ways I want to be memorable to people.

Eh, I’ll suck it up and deal. Worst case scenario, I’m still on the tail end of a monstrously bad cough/cold/plague — so I can always plead exhaustion or something and head home early, if things get to me too much. Preferably before I start making fun of the vegan bicyclist New Agers who think that parenting is just explaining things to your child and not stifling their spirit with boundaries. Some spoiled brat shrieks at top volume six inches from my ear, and I’ll show them a little something about boundaries…