Sometimes you want to preserve a moment.

A nice night. A delicious dinner, even better sex, followed by a shower together. Quiet reading side by side, bodies touching. The smile that creeps across his face as I rub my hand on his freshly shaven cheek.

The way he looks in his new reading glasses, blankets pulled up to his waist, smelling of soap and man. Skin still slightly damp.

I want to keep this moment in my mind, to pull up any time I need to.

Happy Valentine’s day!

Without ever seeing my post from yesterday, I was treated to flowers, chocolate covered strawberries, a teddy bear and a balloon. These were in honor of meeting me a year.

This morning I received a beautiful card and a portable hard drive to back up photos (since I recently lost some from my laptop)

It was the thoughtfulness I had been seeking.

I was touched and appreciated it so much more than he could know.

It’s the thought that counts

And it is. I don’t need some huge show of affection. I don’t expect two (or even one) dozen perfect roses delivered by a guy in a tuxedo; or surf and turf at the swankiest restaurant in Salt Lake. I don’t need gourmet truffles or an ornate handmade card. I don’t want pricey jewelry. 
I want to be thought of. I want my wants, my likes, my preferences to be considered. I want to have him see something, hear about something, think of something and say, “yes, that is SO Kate”; “she would love that!” or something along those lines. 

Valentine’s day has always been the day where I shared my affection with loved ones. At some point in my geeky teenage life, I decided it didn’t have to be all mushy and romantic, and so I made sweet treats for friends, colleagues, neighbors and family. Later, yes, I went all out with the cheesiest and got married on that day, but married, I never really celebrated the day together as an anniversary, my ex just wasn’t that kind of guy. 

So, perhaps the expectations are unfair or unreasonable. 

Last Valentine’s day, I went on a road trip with him. We met that day for the first time, and cemented the friendship, the relationship we had already formed. I can’t recreate what we felt that day, and I don’t need to. 

I don’t want to be selfish or high maintenance; I know in my head that he cares, that he loves me and wants me and thinks of me. I know I don’t need anymore than that. I just want it. 

mini meltdowns

I have a lot when I’m hormonal.

I cried this weekend more than once. Over, for the most part, pretty trivial things.

I think it’s that the stress of everything is getting to me and it forces itself out in little ways.

I take on projects, and when they don’t wind up perfect, I get discouraged with myself at least and at most disgusted. I keep hoping I can finish one of these things in a way that makes me feel better. They don’t. I don’t think they can.

Do I give up the idea of them, because they may be frustrating me more? Or do I keep doing them in the hopes of the cathartic experience I seek?

chop chop

Cooking and baking makes me feel productive.

Sometimes I take too much and I get overwhelmed. Still, I love the end, where I pull the lasagna out of the oven, or slide the cookies on to the cooling rack. There’s something soothing about the senses being consumed by a task. The smells and aromas, the sights and colors, the tasting and seasoning, touching and tossing, even listening to the knife on the board, the sizzle of the pan delights me.

I love when I can wow someone with one of my dishes, or surprise them with a little treat. I eagerly seek out new recipes or retool ones I have already tried. I wish I knew better how to work with this enthusiasm, but I suppose a catering business or a chocolate shop or bakery is a lofty idea.


Workers comp has denied the surgery.

He’s shattered and upset. I am angry and frustrated.

I hate that I can’t fix it, no matter how badly I want to.