Ealain

Three drunk ladies cornered me last night.

My stepmom (J), her mom (E), and one of the women neighbors (M) got drunk on wine together last night and what they lectured me on repeatedly keeps bugging me for all the wrong-ness in it.

M: So how long have you and Josh been together?

Me: In May it’ll be 4 years.

All: *nods* Wow. That’s a while.

J: He’s her first serious boyfriend *looks at them knowingly*

M: You need to dump him and try out some of the others. So you can see what else there is out there.

J: You NEVER marry the first one.

E: NEVER.

M: No matter how good it is. You don’t know if there’s better. You have to find out.

J: Uh-huh.

M: It all changes when you get married. You become a slave.

J: After you get married, that’s when you learn. No more secrets. You share EVERYTHING.

M: You have to get one that appreciates you, that’ll be nice to you, that’ll take care of you.

J: The first one’s never the one.

Me: But what if they really are?

M: If they really are, then you’ll meet up again. And he’ll appreciate you more.

E: But you’ve got to experience what’s out there.

I don’t know, really, if I’m the naive one or if they are. Sure, they have more life experience. But they also are pretty stereotypical. “The first one’s never the one, but if he is, he’ll come back to you.” That sounds like shit to me.

I love Josh. We know each other inside out. I tell him everything and he tells me, if not everything, a whole helluva lot. He’s the only one that was there for me when I suffered through the after-pains of losing my mom. When my dad wouldn’t talk about it because he hated my mom, when my stepmom wouldn’t talk about it because mentioning my mom made her question her place, Josh was there. He’s the only one that has held me, crying. He’s the only one that I feel comfortable with, rambling all of my thoughts out in one long sentence. He’s the only one that knows what I’ve TRULY gone through. He’s the one that’s helped me survive. He’s the reason I’m not paranoid about losing everyone I love anymore most of the time.

They said that you learn the flaws after marraige. He’s the only person that knows mine inside out. He’s the one that loves me for them, regardless. I know his inside out, too. And, even in those times when they drive me crazy, he wouldn’t be the Yasha I love without them.

They said you don’t know anything ’til you’ve lived with them, ’til you’ve shared the bathroom with them, and on and on. They don’t know it but I’ve shared a bed with him, a bathroom with him, three weeks completely-every-second-with him.

The place I feel the safest is in his arms, my stomach against his left side, my head in his nook, my left arm across his chest resting on his right male-nipple, his left arm around me, his right arm reaching across to me, my right arm in there somewhere, my left leg across his legs. We fit together.

We argue but we make up. We disagree but we know how to find common ground. He encourages me to speak my mind because he knows I can’t anywhere else, even if it means me telling him when he’s being frustrating.

I can picture spending my life with him, having babies with him. We’ve talked about it, even. Our philosophies on child-rearing, what we wanted them to learn: their values, ideals, when they would be allowed to watch what, read what, do what. He’s going to be a good Daddy, ear-biting and all.

And I think back to what they said. He’s not the one. If he’s not, I don’t know what is. He’s the one I want. I’d rather be content (happy, complete, loved) with him than risk everything I have for a what-if.

And I think back to what they said. If you love something, let it go. If it’s true, it’ll come back. Dump him and if it turns out he is the one, he’ll be there. I don’t know about him, but if he dumped me and broke my heart, I wouldn’t be all-too-willing to give him another chance, especially if he played the field in the meantime. I’d feel hurt, as if he thought I wasn’t good enough. I wouldn’t expect anything different from him. I think what makes him the one is that he wouldn’t do that to me. And I wouldn’t–and won’t–do that to him.

To quote our texts back and forth earlier tonight…

Me: *poke*

Josh: I love u so much

Me: Talk?

Josh: Ill call soon my love

Me: im your love :D

Josh: Now and forever

Me: Ur my yasha now and forever

Josh: I love u ur the best i couldnt want anyone else

Tonight, Shadow asked me why I call Josh “Yasha”. The answer? Longer than I wanted to type there. But, however, here is different. I’ll type something that long here. Though, it’s not really THAT long. *shrugs*

When Josh was an itty bitty boy and his younger sister was an itty bitty girl, she couldn’t pronounce his name. I guess back then, his mom and dad were still using the formal “Joshua” when they talked to him. So, in her baby speak, his name became “Washa” and then, later, “Yasha.”

For years, both of his sisters have called him that. One, two, or possibly three years ago, his older sister and I were talking. She told me that if I ever wanted to make him mad, to call him Yasha because he hated it. So, what do I do? I start calling him that all the time. It’s become my pet name for him.

Now, he refuses to let his sisters call him that “because that’s Heather’s* name for me” to which they reply “it was our name for you first.” So now they’ve reverted back to calling him Washa while I get to keep Yasha.

Interesting Fact: Yasha is Japanese for “Demon”. That’s one of his favorite parts to the name. -.-

*Yes, Heather is my real name. This is only the second time I’ve used it on one of my actual sites. People who know me on Facebook and MySpace have known this for a while, though. I’d rather you still call me Skye though. EVERYONE is Heather. In a crowded hallway, if you scream Heather, I won’t answer. It’s never me you’re screaming for. Scream Skye, however, and I will respond.

Josh’s Dad has “Michelle” by the Beatles as his ringtone that plays whenever his daughter Michelle calls him. I’ve had the song for a while but never listened to it. But it got stuck in my head last night. So I played it today to see what the rest of the song was. After multiple plays, I started to memorize the words. Or, what I thought they were.

Tonight I asked my stepmom. I said “Lemme ask you a question. It’s about the Beatles which is your time so you should know.” She kind of laughed and said ok. So I started singing the song and then asked her what he really said. Because it sounded like thats what he said and, knowing the Beatles, he might have actually said that (weird lyrics) but I wanted to make sure.

So I sang:
“Michelle, my belle
Sunday monkey won’t play piano
and some play piano and some”

She kind of looked at me like I was crazy for a minute. Then said: “It’s French”

I looked it up.

He says:
“Michelle, my belle
Sont des mots qui vont tres bien
ensemble tres bien ensemble”

If you listen to it reading my lyrics, it still fits… (please listen by clicking that link and tell me if I’m crazy or not…)

Today Josh and I each got our second tattoo — yes, this time together. When they heal enough to take good pictures, I’ll blog it.