The clean dishes have been put away. The dirty dishes are in the dishwasher. J is at work.

I need to eat. I feel strange, like I could cry, or go back to bed. There is tidying up to do while I watch YouTube videos.

When I say what I need to say to J she will react.

“I need you to hug me for no reason at all. “

I will leave it at that. For now.

I don’t know whether I posted about Daylight Savings Time (DST) in the past or whether I just have the same rant in the Real World, but have never posted it. For the first few days in the Spring, it feels like my butt has been kicked by the biggest bully in the schoolyard.

Then it settles down. My circadian rhythm adapts (As a hopeless and hapless White Guy, it’s the only rhythm I have.), and I cruise right along after that, until the Summer heat grinds me like a nutmeg over egg nog.

Today, I had some energy in the morning, cleaned the bath tub, did laundry. I went to visit my sponsee S. He had fallen behind on his shower-taking obligation. Body odor combined with the smell of Renuzit cone air freshener, the kind you smell in the nastiest of service station restrooms, was sending me into olfactory freak out. I came home for a lunch and, as the day progressed, felt my energy reserves dissipate.

So I’m watching trains now. J is watching Part One of the season finale of The Bachelor. I will go up when it’s over. A Southbound Amtrak, which terminates in Richmond is about to stop in Ashland. It is running late. In a few minutes #97.The Silver Meteor will pass through on the way to Miami tomorrow sometimes. I love trains. I only wish glamorous movie stars like William Powell and Myrna Loy, still climbed off at the Old Penn Station in New York.

You almost got the full 1930’s Nostalgia rant. I will save that for later.

Night all.

I am a man on a mission. Once again, I find myself beating myself up, for letting the detritus accumulate. And also the sense of loneliness is painful, as J rushed off to her second job.

But the task at hand is tidying up. The lesbian romance literature is not good for me to read. It deals with people who find love and romance and who get laid. (Sorry to be so blunt.)

But let me press on.

Got this Bad Boy in the post today. Getting ready for Summer

So I’m debating whether or not to throw out the two remaining salmon cakes of the four I made this morning. The salmon was cooked thoroughly a week ago. Then I refrigerated the remainders. I made salmon cakes with an egg and breadcrumbs this morning, cooking them in a 375°F oven for 30 minutes.

Then I ate two of them with a poached egg.

So I might have eaten too much. That “too much” being the source of my dyspepsia. Could be I should not have eaten the fish skin I peeled off the cooked salmon before I formed the salmon cakes.

Could be I am just tired. Tired and sleepy.

Is it possible to have a date with your partner and never leave the house?

I think so, because that is precisely what this evening felt like. I fixed one of J’s favorites, roast chicken. She wore that chsmbray shirt, I basically tossed at her. We talked. She ate almost everything. We hugged afterwards. It felt different from so many meals we have shared.

She is tired. I know she is tired. I allowed her the space to be tired. But I feel close to her, in a way that isn’t like someone who has been in my life for 25 years, 18 married. I have been with her longer than marriages #1 and #2 combined. And I did not pick up an “Old Married Couple” vibe at all tonight.

I could be falling in love again. Sweet.

Start with Potatoes. I use Idaho russet baking potatoes. I washed three medium sized ones, cut and cubed them. I don’t peel them, although you could, if you’re really anal about peeled potatoes.

I parboil them for about ten minutes, then drain and coat with olive oil and dried herbs. I used rosemary and thyme. Then I dump them on a Swiss roll pan, lined with kitchen parchment and roast at 400° F (205°C) for about an hour.

They are crisp on the outside, soft in the middle.

Serve to you family, lovers, partners, guests.

Weight Watchers© (WW) was a successful week for me. I lost four pounds. I found following the eating guidelines to be as easy to follow as they have been in the past.

I fixed the roast chicken I have been meaning to fix since Sunday. I’m glad I waited. I felt slightly more motivated to take the skin off before I ate it. I used up the Pepperidge Farm cornbread dressing mix to stuff the bird. There is one temptation out of the way. I won’t have to buy any more of that til Thanksgiving. I fixed some roasted potatoes. That’s another no-brainer dish, I will post shortly.

J came home. I was going to do a load of her red shirts she wears at Target. She took her red shirt off. I handed her one of my old chambray work shirts, nice and soft from a bazillion washings. She looked sexy wearing the over-sized man’s shirt. I told her that too.When she came down for dinner she was wearing just the shirt, no leggings or jeans. ( underwear however, )

“Ditch the bra and panties, Honey.”

So I’m trying to bring out the courtship style. Let’s see what happens.

I have been reading a lot of lesbian romance fiction and erotica of late. I thought it was because I’m a voyeur and a lurker (guilty,,as charged). Then I realized I like these characters because they do life together, like cook a meal, cuddle when they sleep, share little intimacies, completely unrelated to sex.

What is it about intimacy that so terrifies us?

That isn’t an LGBT thing or a heterosexual thing. We live our lives, hoping not to have our hearts broken. Ex-wife #1 broke my heart and I broke hers about this time forty two years ago. Fast forward another sixteen years and ex-wife #2 and I were dancing our own pas de deux of death.

It is tempting to conclude that I am the party in these dyads who sucks at relationships, but then again “like attracts like” as they say in chemistry. Do we go through life, searching for people who are as equally inept or adroit in relationships as we are?

J has just left for work, with the lunch I packed for her. She will return to the friendly confines of her side of the bed and whatever fiction or television facilitates her escape from the monotony and demands of work and marriage.

Marriage isn’t for dilettantes and dabblers. We have to dip more than just our toes in its water. I write this as someone who has the fear of total commitment thoroughly ingrained in his being.

And now I am sleepy again. Later. I guess I will come back and complete these thoughts.

It is only a Queen size. The sheets need changing. Since my fusion, it is the hardest chore for me to do by myself.

I’m reading a story now whose principal character has sex and then wants to be alone. I think about J and me in the Big Bed; how there is no cuddling, very little physical contact. That’s going to change.

This is almost too painful to think about.