So...very...tired...

How is it that I'm already back here, sitting in my living room at my laptop, as though the last week didn't even happen? The months of counting down days, the anticipation, the apprehension at whether this would be what I thought it would be all a distant memory?

Boo urns.

It was a good week, though. On my way to the east coast, I stopped off in T-dot to stay with Jane and her sweetie, the Hottie Politician. HP is a world-traveller, so I got to sleep under blankets from Tunisia, Sudan and a sarong (worn by men) from Yemen.

I couldn't sleep, so I wandered around the small, funky apartment, taking pictures of the decor. On the fridge were the political finger puppets I had bought them for Christmas.
There's Trotsky, Gandhi, Nelson Mandela and Che Guevara, but wait...who's that next to Che? Another Che?? Have they been having sex and procreating on the fridge?? I believe a revolution is brewing. Or at least there will be one brewing, soon, because I've now gotten it into my head that I should buy them at least three more Ches for their collection. Two Ches looks like a mistake, but five? That's just fucking awesome.

In the bathroom, Hottie Politician has several original framed line drawings by a well-known artist, whose name I forget. I looked at them closely and asked, "Uh, Hottie Politican, why do you have pictures of a woman masturbating in your bathroom?"

"Funny you should ask that. I've had these drawings up for years and it was only yesterday that I noticed that was what she was doing."

HP was also handing out buttons to promote public transit. He gave me this one, which depicts the city's subway system lines:
"Uh, Hottie Politician, why does the yellow subway line look like a giant, yellow crooked penis?" I asked.

"You know, you're the first one to ever say that," he responded.

So, either I've got my mind in the gutter, or he's living in denial. A little from Column A, a little from Column B...

The next day, I got on a plane to Halifax (after learning that, as cute and as fashionable as they are, wooden clogs are not the footwear of choice when trying to navigate the subway system.) I wasn't sure what to expect when I got off the plane. I knew that Superstar wouldn't just show up to meet me like some normal person. He would have to put on a show of some sort - something to make me blush, to make me laugh, to make a public spectacle. And he did not disappoint.

When I walked down the stairs into the airport, I was greeted by a tall, handsome man dressed in his formal sailor uniform, complete with mirrored sunglasses, standing stoically and carrying a bouquet of lilies and a big sign that said, "PRAIRIE PRINCESS." I doubled over laughing. It was perfect. Damn, that uniform's hot. And lilies instead of the typical roses (which are boring and lame)? Brilliant! Plus, I was more than relieved that there were no high school marching bands or weird clown costumes involved. Because with Superstar, you never know.

Every doubt about whether it would be uncomfortable or awkward disappeared when I wrapped my arms around him for the first time. Instant comfort, like we have always been together. And it was like that for the next five days. The longest second date known to mankind. Which included:

• A stay in a quaint bed and breakfast where, trying to be suave, I turned out the lights and promptly knocked over my glass filled with expensive wine, breaking the glass, and spilling the wine all over the night table, wall, and floor. I'm so classy.

• Snapping pictures of myself wearing different pieces of his sailor uniform every time he went to the bathroom. I look hot in his hat - it's true.

• Going for sushi and getting to wear my new funky dress that I have described as being a cross between a burlesque ensemble and a folkloric dance costume. It was totally inappropriate for the restaurant, but I didn't care:

• Hanging out with his friends in Halifax, who kept looking at me funny whenever I sat down. I later found out that they were looking to see if I was sitting at all gingerly, because Superstar is well-known for being...uh...very endowed.

• At one pub in Halifax, I went into the bathroom and saw this hanging on the wall behind the toilet:
Toilet seat cleaner? Good thing there was a step-by-step diagram on the thing, or I would have had no idea what the hell it was. It made me wonder what kinds of hideous diseases Nova Scotians have. When I came back to the table and showed the guys the image, they said, "You take pictures in the bathroom?" Uh, yeah, haven't you met a blogger before??

• Driving down a road which wasn't actually a road in a snowstorm, and getting stuck. He got out to push the car and I got behind the wheel to drive. He fell several times on the slick grass before he decided to push the car from the passenger side. The front wheel spun, kicking up mud all over Superstar. Ever helpful, I pointed, laughed and took pictures of his mud-splattered face.

• He surprised me with reservations in a - get this - cottage in the woods by the ocean. It was beautiful - both cozy and rustic. Outdoorsy for him, with a princess jet tub for me. Not realizing that the cottage had its own kitchen and he was planning on cooking for me that night, I accidentally made reservations at the restaurant at the top of the hill for supper. They billed it as "Casual Fine Dining" but I think we were more casual than they had intended. I was wearing a tight black top with "Saviabella" written across the boobs in sparkly gold letters and jeans and he was wearing a shirt with "Newfoundland Liberation Army" and the ever-so-slightly mud-caked jeans from earlier that day. We just laughed when we saw the hoity toity decor and went for it anyway (where was my folkloric burlesque outfit when I needed it?) It turned out to be some of the best food either of us has had in our lives. As we were walking down the romantic, snowy path through the woods back to the cottage, stomachs full of fresh Atlantic scallops and monkfish, he remarked, "Wow. That was so good you almost want to puke it up just so you can taste it again!" I had to stop walking because I was laughing so hard.

• That night, the storm got worse and the wind whistled through the windows all night. I figured that he would probably be sore from pushing the car, so I offered to draw him a bath. The tub was about halfway full when the hot water ran out. Determined to keep my word, and endlessly stubborn, I remembered what my mom had done once when I was a kid and I put three pots of water on the stove and filled the kettle. 15 boiling vessels of water and 45 minutes later, the tub was full and delicately scented with verbena. He turned on the jets full blast and almost overflowed the tub with bubbles. Ever helpful, I laughed and took pictures of him frolicking in the princess tub.

Nice legs, huh?

• The next morning, the power and heat were knocked out by the storm and we cuddled under the blankets all day. Terribly romantic.

• I read David Sedaris stories to him on the highway as we drove along the coast on our way to The Famous Lighthouse, giggling our heads off. We slowed down as we drove through the Palinode's hometown, where I rolled down the window and yelled, "Fuck you, motherfuckers and go to hell, you bastards, all of you!" or something along those lines. I even flipped the town the double bird, I did. (See, Palinode, who's got your back?)

• One night, we curled up in bed and he read The Little Prince to me, the book that was his answer to my question, "What's the one book you think everyone should read?" And he's right. Everyone should read it - it's one of the most beautiful books ever. We both cried at the end.

• Our last day together, he finally got a chance to make me a meal, which was limited because all the stores were closed for the Easter holiday. All he could pull together were Tim Hortons muffins, scrambled eggs and milk.

That blob on top of the eggs? Bittersweet chocolate with almonds. To make it fancy.

Tip for anyone who is wondering: chocolate and eggs...not a good combination. Especially when the chocolate melts into the eggs. But it made me laugh, which was his whole point. That guy will do anything for a laugh.

• We went to the theatre he used to work at and saw a play, Old Times by Harold Pinter, which was extremely well done. It was an absurdist play, which I'm pretty sure wouldn't fly in the community I'm from, so it was great to see something I wouldn't have gotten the chance to see otherwise, and also to be able to talk with him afterward over nachos about what it meant (which was not readily apparent, being all fucked and absurdist and all).

• We had a moment. One of those moments where you can feel the truth of something at your very core. One of those moments that is so rare that when it happens, you just know. He said something that no one has ever said to me before, and in fact, if anyone else had, I wouldn't have believed them. But when he did, I was overwhelmed with emotion, unable to hold back the tears. No one has ever made me feel like that. Ever.

It was an amazing time. And the best part was it wasn't perfect. It wasn't all happy good times. There were difficult discussions and tense moments and tears, too. But I liked that. Because it was real. It isn't just some happy fantasy where you ignore all the other person's faults and personal struggles. We're honest with each other and we know what we're getting into, and that's the best part.

And so, what happens now? Well, we wait. We wait until June, where we'll perhaps have a third date in Moose Jaw or a fourth date in Italy. We figure something out to make it work until the time when we can be in the same place for more than a week or two. But it makes it easier to know that this is for real.

That, and I can't seem to wipe this big smile off my face.