I am whiny and crabby today, so consider yourselves warned. I shouldn’t even be blogging at all, I’m that crusty, but here I am just the same…putting off folding the laundry, hoping that the weather holds out for tonight so that I can take the kids out for some birthday shopping for my sister, wishing that Kate would find something productive to amuse herself with (apparently she is having an off day, too) and missing him.

A lot.

That’s where the whininess comes in, so again, consider yourselves warned.

This. Sucks. Ass.

For whatever reason, today I am missing my American Boy more than ever. I had a hard time falling asleep last night…the body pillow wasn’t breathing, the bed was cold because the body pillow isn’t actually alive and I couldn’t settle my brain enough to doze off…and woke up this morning with a lonesome lump in my stomach.

I miss the morning cuddles the most.

There is just something about waking up a bit before the alarm goes off and rolling over onto him, wrapping my leg around his body, burying my face into that spot between his shoulder and his neck, whispering every now and then in the dim moonlight to one another. The bed is always super warm from the blankets and the body heat and the cozy-ness has this way of wrapping itself around me as I wrap myself around him. I could stay like that forever, it feels like…or at least until the sun comes up.

Likewise, hearing the blasted alarm go off and hitting snooze or re-setting it for ten minutes later and then falling back into position…legs wrapped, face nuzzled, whispers even softer than before, the warmth filling every pore and making both of us a little sleepier, even as we hear the kids wake up and stomp into the living room or climb up onto the counter to start their breakfast routines…that can’t be replaced by body pillows or long distance phone calls.

This. Really. Sucks. Ass.

And while I would give anything to have Don here right now or tomorrow morning as the sun comes up and a new Saturday begins, I am also very, very lonesome once again for America and Don’s tiny part of the country.

By the time I cross that border again, it will have been at least six months since I last set foot on American soil. I can hardly believe that it’s been that long and noting the time lapse only makes me more lonesome and more cranky.

I want Friendly’s. I want what I would call “American Food”. The differences are very slight but they are there. Canadians don’t melt cheese on things just for the sake of melting cheese. I have yet to see chicken fingers sandwiched and grilled with cheese oozing around them in a Canadian restaurant and I don’t know how it’s possible, but American tuna is different than Canadian tuna, I swear to Dog and it makes tuna melts way better. I want some kind of melty sandwich thingie from Friendly’s and then I want an ice cream sundae. A sundae so big it would hurt you to lift it a little. With crushed up Butterfingers on it. And caramel. Lots and lots of caramel.

I want to smell Don’s apartment. I am tired of smelling his smell on his clothes. I want to smell it for real. I know that sounds nuts but his apartment has a very distinct, very grown up, smell. I’m sick of smelling kids.

I want to wake up next to the wall of his bedroom, completely surrounded and feeling totally safe once again.

I want to feel the crazy ass bumps in the road.

I want to scream, “That’s where AJ lives!” when we pass the turn for Rhode Island.

I want to go to Target. Oh God, I want to go to Target. Has it really been that long?! I want a day there. A full day devoted only to Target. I will take little rest breaks in between departments. I need to cruise those aisles, I really, really do. It is downright cruel that there is not a Target in Ontario. What does Ontario have against quality merchandise at fair prices, anyway?

I want to drive around the ocean. I want to comment on the houses. I want to feel familiar with my surroundings. I want to get used the presence of American flags (I think I’ve told you that it takes me a good couple of days before I get used to that and think, “sheesh, that’s bold” every time I see one until I remember that I’m not in Canada any more…). I want to shut my eyes tight through every rotary.

And of course, I want Don.

This. Really. Fucking. Sucks. Ass.

The truly strange thing about my lonesomeness and bitchiness to boot is that for the first time, probably ever, I am actively missing Vermont. Or specifically, the tiny town of St. Alban’s that Don and I frequent whenever we are making the trip from Massachusetts to Ontario. It’s just a stone’s through away from the Canadian border and it’s a sweet little town.

And I miss it. In this way I find hard to describe.

I miss it so much that I actually considered booking a hotel room there and making dinner reservations at the restaurant, Mimmo’s for Don and I and then surprising him with it all when he arrives in three weeks. But then I thought better of it because it’s a lot of driving, for one thing and for another, we have to be at CHEO (the children’s hospital) on Friday and the kids don’t go to their Dad’s until that night and that wouldn’t leave much time and I don’t have a credit card (I know…I’m the last person in the free world) and blah, blah, blah.

Have I mentioned that this fucking sucks ass?

There is something about St. Alban’s main street. The spaghetti and meatballs at Mimmo’s is the best I’ve ever had, no word of a lie. The people are some of the nicest I’ve ever met in my life and they are so fucking relaxed and considerate it makes someone even as mellow as me (shut up, Stiva) feel high strung. Their main street has the greatest parking and the slowest cars and the most amazing cross walks. And there is an out of this world water fountain at the park. Two people in love could lose themselves at that water fountain.

Believe me.

I know.

And right now, I want to be in that little town with the person I love.

This. Really. Fucking. Sucks. Serious. Ass.

I’m whiny.
I’m lonesome.
I’m cranky.
And I don’t think I can wait three goddamn weeks until I get my hands on him again.

And maybe it’s not the mornings I miss.

And maybe it’s not America I miss.

And maybe it’s not that quaint little town I miss, either.

Maybe I’m just missing him.

Maybe.

Or maybe I’m just pregnant.