Weather the storm...

When I woke up this morning, there was rain splashing off the roof outside and right into my window. Under normal circumstances, one would just get up, close the window, dry the sill and be off.

We should all be fully aware that 'normal circumstances' don't really exist in my world.

The window where the rain was bouncing in is the window directly behind my head where I sleep. My head is level with the sill and I'm almost always right in front of it... unless for some reason my body shimmied towards the wall at some point in the night and those nights are few and far between.

What? I like to spread out! So sue me.

Eventually, I became fully aware of the fact that I was getting soaked, so I got up and shut the window.

Well, I didn't get up per se. I sat up, groggily I might add, and dropped the storm. Yes, the storm. My window is broken, as it has been for the last 10 years, but that's a story for another time.

I absolutely hate when it rains because I always have to close that window. And when my sleep is interrupted, especially due to getting wet and having to actually do some manual labor, even if it isn't something others would consider manual labor, I get fairly upset.

This morning was no exception. I rolled over, sat up, and dropped the storm... all while grumbling, bitching, and moaning. I'm pretty sure a "this fucking window can take a fucking leap" might have slipped out. Yes, that's exactly how much I hate that window.

About the same time I was closing my window, my phone chirped at me. I know it's early, like around 6 AM, and that can mean it's only one person.

I laid back down, picked up my phone, and saw that Xander had sent me an email.

And just like that, ladies and gentlemen, my foul mood dissipated and I smiled. There were only three words in his email, but it was enough to make the rain outside and my annoyance towards my window, to seem like mere blips on my happiness radar. Granted, they were three very significant words, but he could have said, "It's raining, baby," and I still would have smiled.

That's what he does to me. He makes me feel happy, excited, and loved. But, most importantly, he makes me feel. It's been so long since I've really had feelings for someone who wasn't my daughter, and knowing that I've finally found that missing link... it's kind of breathtaking.

Ah, and you're thinking, damnit, Kate, you're a sap. Write about something else! To which, I respond...

I DID! WINDOW!

And then I cried...

I have a track record of dating some real winners.

And by winners, I mean absolute and complete losers.

It's true to say that I have an uncanny knack of finding the one guy who is going to cheat, in a room full of men who otherwise have only admirable intentions. Honestly, I don't even know how it happens. It's like a radar of some sort; an involuntary tractor beam that shoots out from my heart and pulls me right to him.

The thing is, that one guy - henceforth known as 'The Cheater' - doesn't even look like the other men. The other men, all of them being a more suitable match for me, are wearing collared shirts with ties, slacks with pleats, and the occasional penny loafer. Their hair is combed, teeth brushed, bodies toned, and intelligence seems to seep out of every pore in their bodies.

The Cheater? No, he doesn't look a thing like them. He's dirty and grimy, with shifty eyes. His clothes are mismatched and torn; and truthfully, that's only if he felt it necessary to even put a shirt on that day. His greasy hair is sticking out in all directions and the stench of his breath is enough to kill flowers. The Cheater has, most likely, never seen the inside of a gym and I'd be surprised if he could spell the word 'IQ', let alone have one.

How it is I can look past all those 'perfect' men and find The Cheater, I'll never know. Like I said, it's some knee-jerk reaction inside my thoracic cavity that jump starts the entire process. As far as I'm concerned, it's unmediated and thoroughly unwanted.

However, there is good news on the horizon, friends. After a very meaningful and healing 'dry spell', it seems I have finally found the right man - better yet, the perfect man - for me.

Cliched as it may sound, Xander completes the part of me - the empty, hollow part - that I've been desperately seeking a plug for. Although, he is so much more than just a plug.

He's attentive, intelligent, and sexy beyond all reason. He makes me think and explore a part of my mind I may have forgotten existed. He's funny, sweet, and adorable on more levels than I can possibly begin to explain. He gets me; understands who I am, where I'm going in my life, what's important to me, why I do what I do, and how flawed my world really is. He's warm, caring, and makes one helluva Boston cream pie.

But honestly, folks, all of the above took a backseat to three little words. When we finally exchanged them, after much dancing and prancing around them, I knew that my life had finally changed for the better.

He loves me.

I love him.

And really, what is this world without a little bit of love?