Classiness and Culture in Milford: I need a new wardrobe

So, yesterday, chatting with Steve, it was determined that I needed to go to my favorite restuarant and get a rich chocolate dessert and a glass of wine, and pronto!  And since he couldn't come with me (living in Boston and all), he volunteered to pay for me to go out solo.  Besides, he said, I needed some better blog material.  (yeah, you all REALLY need NOT read the previous blog posts from the last few weeks, unless you are prepared for some serious sappy-ness).

Tonight it was pouring rain by the time I got out of the store.  My embrella was in the car.  And it's broken.  I get soaking wet.  It may have been a better idea just to run to the restaurant.  Oh well.  I get there, tiny broken umbrella and a little drenched with drippy hair.  The French Man greets me at the door. He looks bedraggled and damp as if he had been caught in the rain himself.  "Here by yourzelf?"  Yes.  "Not trying to cheer yourself after a bad day, Zi hope?" (can't really describe his accent).  No, I'm here for a reward of sorts, I'm here for chocolate!  Is there room at the bar?  "Yesss, zhere eez".

I order the pave au chocolat, and a glass of riojo (sp?).  The little hispanic waiter sees me and greets me by name! (damn, what was his name again? it's been a while...).  I have my wine, the dessert arrives.  I'm next to a young couple, and the young man nods appeciatively at my dessert.  It's good, I tell him.  "Yes I know!  We've had it before".  It's hard to eat...(but totally awesomely delicious)..the chocolate shell won't break with the spoon, and I make a mess, smearing it against the plate.  The French Man is busy greeting all the small groups of well dressed women coming in, sitting and joking with them.  He greets everyone like they are a regular, or a good friend, and perhaps they all are?

An attractive young lady comes in, "This seat taken?"  Nope!  She's got perfect hair, perfect make-up, super stylish.  I look at myself in the mirror behind the bar.  Wet tangled hair, plain shirt (that I really need to get rid of because my armpits don't agree with it), wool skirt, socks and clogs (ok, the most expensive pair of shoes I've ever owned at $147, but technically clogs).  She is super friendly, introducing herself me, "Emily" (though I don't retain her name until her friends arrive and I hear them use it).  We chat some.  Her friends have absolutely lovely British accents, she introduces them to me as well, as "another Milfordite" and a "regular here" (we had chatted that we both loved coming to this restaurant).  Emily is not from Milford, but says she prefers going out in Milford than New Haven, and wants to move here. 

I overhear them talking about running into actors and actresses...but I don't catch the particulars...makes me wonder if they aren't connected to the rich and famous.  Then I overhear something about Jordan from the British couple, "King Abdullah has dissolved the parliament, again!" (Jordan as in the country in the Middle East), and I turn to look at them again.  The man leans forward and tells me "{She (I already forgot her name, British lady)} used to work in Jordan".  Oh!  I lived there a long time ago as a little girl!  My father was a diplomat there in '87-89!  What did you do over there? I ask her.  "Oh, I managed the royal palaces of the king".  Oh, my, what was that like?  "Well, being in Jordan was difficult, but I was sheltered due to who I worked for, but now that I'm here working for some dingbats, it has put things in perspective..."  Wow....what kinds of palaces could she be managing near here??????  Holy moly.  And apparently working for the royalty in the Middle East was easier than working for rich dingbats here in CT.  Pleasant and friendly people...would have liked to know more of their stories...

All this time, the waiter boy has been catching my eye and smirking at me.  And I'm trying to keep to myself.  Dessert done, wine...done.  "Would you like another glass?" asks the friendly bartender.  No, I shouldn't...thank you.  Getting up from the now close and tight bar...trying to ease my heavy stool back, I drop my phone and my embrella, and waiter boy (Hadar!) is right behind me..."Please, allow me to help you!"

All in all, a very pleasant evening.  I had contemplated another glass of wine, I could have engaged in some interesting conversation with the stylish girl and her wordly friends, but I was on my boyfriend's dime (technically my depleted bank account, and I will have a hard time taking Steve's money to pay for this), and needed to drive myself home.  Luckily it had stopped raining.

Thank you Steve for a lovely evening out!  Miss you!  You owe me $20.02.  Includes tip.  <3 p="p">

Rock Star Meets Super Model

That's how we see each other. He is my rock star (technically not one, though he could be, he is so freakin talented), I am his super model (really seriously technically not one).  But that's how we see each other, and we are slowly getting used to the reality of us, us in the here and now. Who we are.  Who we were.  And Us.  Right Now.  Next week....

We have these amazing moments that I can't describe, when we hold on to each other and touch by our foreheads, only, and...there is no need for words nor action, there is simply: .........everything...........

We've had date night #7.  Cooking in.  I had to be at my shop for a couple hours, shortly after he came down for the day.  He had said to me numerous times during the week, knowing that I would be busy, and needed some help (my bad wrist was being aweful)  "I am yours, leave your chores to me".  We had a breif moment before I needed to go to work, and he re-iterated:" I AM YOURS.  Tell me what you need help with and I will do it".  I thought of all the help I needed...raking the front lawn, weeding the patio, washing dishes...anything that needed being done and my bad wrist fought against...he said he would do.

He washed the dishes I was afraid to deal with, all week long (except for one batch that I actually had to wash because I was running out of room), due to my wrist/hand problems, in no time. I could have had him stuck at my house, picking up sticks in my yard and moving patio furniture...instead, I encouraged him to go on to one of the local bars showing his football game, to have a beer, some lunch.  Happily.  But then....heheheheh...those couple hours go by...I knew the ladies of the bead club would be curious, and we knew one of them needed some muscle moving some things out of her car and into the shop (really heavy craft fair tent and tables)...and there he was...my man.  My Steve. And he delivered, and carried, and smiled, quietly and sweetly.

Helpful as ever.  Then we go to the grocery store, get the makings for dinner, and he cooks like a master.  Swoon.  Excellent meal.  But then he's tired, must hit the road early.  I bite back the sadness of his leaving....me...for another week on my own....how can I possibly deal with this???????

And I carry on til next Sunday.  When we will be us again.

Shall I swoon once more?  Yes please.  And I must continue to carry on...with newfound vigor.
If only...if only every day could be like Sundays...if only...but they can't....So I carry on....and he will make me swoon, and I will be happy....and then another Sunday will end and another will come again....and I will still be happy...but wishing for another week to pass.....for the next one, and the next and the next...

and our hands will touch, then our eyes, and the rest of the world will cease to exist.

I discovered this song tonight, bya young singer who knows no better than we:  http://youtu.be/ruyaKdPfTN4