I started summer hours at work last week, so Friday I was out of the office by noon. I was wandering around Goodwill (as I am liable to be doing at any given time these days — it’s becoming a problem) when Lancelot called. His entire family was in town from all over and they were heading to the creek to swim and wouldn’t it be nice if I were there? Yes, it would. I haven’t seen his sister and her kids in years — she even has two more little ones now that I’ve never met. I love his aunts and his cousins, not to mention his mother who I know has had her heart broken by this whole separation thing. So Lancelot asked me to drive over, and I did.

Initially I came up with all sorts of excuses. It was last minute. I’d have to bring the dogs. It’s so hot and I don’t want to drive. But I’ve been making up excuses for not living for a while now. I’ve been telling myself I can’t for one reason or another, just keeping myself to myself and burrowing in. And when Lancelot moved out I told myself I wasn’t going to do that anymore. So I dashed home, packed a bag, loaded the dogs in the car, and took off.

Two and a half hours later I was hugging his momma and hearing her tell me how much she loves me and has missed me and how glad she was that I’d come. I only stayed one night, but it was lovely. His family is so welcoming, hugging me and asking me how I’ve been. It was good to see Lancelot with his nieces and nephews, letting them pile on him and drag him around and chatter his ear off. He’s much better with them than I expected.

After walking on the beach with his family and laughing and telling tales, Lancelot and I curled up in his bed and twined around each other, burrowed into the cool sheets that smelled like suntan lotion and sand and Lancelot. And it was precious to be able to nestle into the crook of his arm and slide my fingers across the smooth, warm expanse of his back and feel the prickle of his beard against my forehead.

I left around midday Saturday, cherishing the time I’d spent with him and his family but wanting to give him some more family time, wanting to get back to my plans with friends for that night. And I found myself proud of that — proud that I’d made time for him and for us, but also for me.

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Because I’m unutterably uninspired and indecisive and overwhelmed with heat exhaustion and summer ennui, I’ve decided, for the time being, to just roll down the comments/Ask Gypsy submissions in order, that way I force myself to write about everything y’all have asked and suggested. And by the way? Thanks so much for pulling through for me like that. My mind is a muddle these days and my muse has fled for cooler climes.

Kimmykins asks:

I’ve always wanted to ask you how long you and Lancelot lived in AZ. Did you live in Phoenix? (I lived in Scottsdale). What took ya’ll out there? Did you love it? Did you hate it? Was it just ok? I know it’s a boring question but since I lived out there too I’m interested.

Ah, the blistering boil that is Arizona. How young we were, how fresh and hopeful when we set out one spring day for the unknown wilds of Scottsdale, that denizen of the desert with strip malls and golf courses and new boobs and lawns full of pristinely raked pink gravel.

We had no idea what to expect, having never been there. I had graduated from college a year or so before with a history degree (not to mention an extra one in English and a double minor in Italian and Italian studies — the attainment of which would mean absolutely nothing for my career). I was working in a bookstore, he was waiting tables. I decided wouldn’t it be nice to be a travel agent? No, no it wouldn’t, but I didn’t know that then, so being an industrious girl who gets what she wants, I, through means I won’t mention (they’re not dubious, just more revelatory than I’d like), got a job in Scottsdale at a travel agency. We thought it would be perfect — I’d be a jetsetting travel agent (shut up with the laughing) and Lancelot would get his culinary degree. The deal was we’d go to Arizona for his schooling — we picked Scottsdale for that express purpose — and then when he was done we’d go where I wanted for graduate school.

So off to Arizona we went in a 20′ Penske truck with my car towed along behind, the cat in her carrier, and my dog clinging for dear life in my lap the whole bajillion miles across the country. As we watched the rolling hills of pines in Florida transition to the vast expanse of nothing in West Texas to the dusty cactus-strewn desert in Arizona, we wondered what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into. But the future was bright, we had high hopes, and we were on our own at last, just us against the world.

At first it was all excitement and exploration. I’d never lived outside of Florida, discounting my semesters abroad. I marveled at how flat, flat, flat the area was, the dryness that sapped the moisture from my skin, the stars that went on for miles and miles in an open sky, the brilliant lightning that flashed across the bowl of the night, brighter and more vibrant than ever I’d seen it. We’d wander the big city of Phoenix, going to used bookstores and antique malls and Mexican joints and just driving and pointing things out, digging into our new town, trying to plant some roots.

But we never took. We were too much beach in too much desert. After the first year, we missed the ocean and trees and deep history. Arizona, to us, just seemed always new. New to us, and new to the world. We were used to stories going back, buildings with historical plaques on their well-worn sides, and people whose people had been in the same spot for generations. Phoenix felt brand spanking new, and her people felt transitory and fleeting. We who never met a stranger were surrounded by them with no idea how to breach the isolation of a big town and a different, more reserved populace. We were hey y’all and friendly nods and please, go ahead in front of me. And it’s not that the people in Arizona were unfriendly. Not really. They just weren’t what we were used to and we were too young and frightened and fish out of water to batter or slither our way in.

We stayed about two years. It’s been a while now, so time has smoothed the edges and buffed the dents from my memory of Scottsdale. There are things about Arizona I loved. I’ve never been in better used bookstores, the food was great, the funky little shops were everywhere. I miss pulling into Los Betos for a burrito at 2 am, high on cheap weed and with my hair in a messy ponytail and Lancelot in the seat next to me shouting his order into the scratchy receiver. I miss the winters, when the weather was perfection, sunny and mild every day, every, every day. I miss the smell of those winter evenings, cool and sweet. I miss driving up to Jerome and Sedona and taking little backroads into nowhere towns. I miss the wide, wide streets, the tiled roofs, the stuccoed walls. I miss Fashion Square and Bookman’s and Camelback Mountain at sunset.

But it didn’t fit. Not for long. We need to hear the ocean in the shells of our ears, and Scottsdale was too far from trees and roots and family.

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I’m warning you: this is going to be one of those posts about how I have nothing to blog about. I know. I’m breaking my own fucking commandment as a highly respected and know-it-all but strangely unqualified reviewer at Ask and Ye Shall Receive (which speaking of, check out my awesome review from yesterday — I rock), but I can’t help it. And at the very least my excuse is I never do this, so surely I can get away with it once. Right?

The thing is I’m sick to death of myself and of writing about what’s going on with Lancelot. I know I must be boring the pants off of you because I’ve already done bored my own off. Honestly. They’re sitting on the floor in a heap right now (I’m a total liar). And sure, I should write what I want to write about because it’s my blog and that way I’ll be genuine and heartfelt and more present in my writing, but holy fuck I don’t want to be the girl who can’t shut up about her relationship or lack thereof already.

The problem arises when I write about something else, and I spend all morning on it, and it’s fine and good and structured and marginally funny but also informative, only to discover that I’ve written the same damn thing before only better two months ago.

This is where it becomes apparent that I’ve either been blogging too long and have run out of good material or I’ve allowed myself to forget what is blogworthy. I’m pretty sure it’s a combination of both with an added helping of backsliding into writer laziness where I forget that the point is just to write, dammit, write.

So that’s what I’ve done. Hope you enjoyed it!

But there’s more: tell me what to write. Please? Just toss something out there. I tried to get y’all to give me blog material by setting up that whole “Ask Gypsy” debacle that has since fallen by the wayside or been abused by psychic-seeking morons. So help a blogger out: ask me questions, tell me what you want to know, give me a sentence to finish, something, ANYTHING. Please? I’m dying over here!! And being awfully dramatic in the bargain.

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Last week Mongolian Girl asked what I suspect others wonder about, too:

“And, I should admit that I’m confused about if you and Lancelot are staying together or not?”

I know. It’s confusing. And the truth is I don’t know. I don’t really need to know right now.

Chances are that seems insufferably ambiguous and impossibly obtuse. How can I just be waiting without knowing? I don’t know but I am. It doesn’t bother me all that much right now, the limbo. I don’t know what that means except that I’ll take not worrying over worrying any day.

In case you’re wondering, here’s what I know:

I know I love him; I know he loves me. Every time we speak, which is every day, we end each conversation with “I love you.”

I know we want to make our relationship work, I know we want to be together.

I know he’s trying to figure things out; I know I’m trying to be independent.

I know, too, that being with him is as good as it ever was.

He came to visit briefly last week, just an overnight trip. It was the first time we’d seen each other in two months. Even though he calls every day and we talk all the time and our conversations are good and funny and light and serious and hopeful, I wondered what it would be like to see him again, to be with him where I could touch him and smell him and lay my eyes on him. I was nervous, but in a good way, like a first date kind of way.

While the dogs mauled him and jumped around him and slobbered all over him, I just gazed. He looks good. Tan and healthy but tired. I told myself before he arrived that I’d play it by ear, that I wouldn’t instigate anything physical, that I’d let him make any overtures. And he did, immediately. He enveloped me in a warm, tight hug, kissing me gently, stroking my hair. I nuzzled into his chest, burrowing into his smell and his warmth, so long missed.

And it was easy, so very easy, to slide back into his company. It was like he’d never left. We talked easily, we laughed, we couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves. Within 30 minutes of his arrival we were in bed, desperate and laughing and relieved to be together. There was no awkwardness, no shyness, no residue of separation and alienation and disappointment.

We went to dinner and just talked and talked, about nothing and everything. At home again — I still think it’s our home — we held hands on the couch and watched our shows, catching up on gossip and news and laughing at the dogs and staying up as late as possible to wring every last bit of joy from our short time together.

And when we went to bed, he held me and kissed my forehead, running his rough fingers down my arm as my legs and feet curled up under and between his. I said, “I hope we make it,” and he said, “Me too, babe. Me too.”

That’s all I know, really: hope.

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I read the blogs of friends and strangers who have been through some truly ugly stuff with men. They’ve been lied to, used, criticized, abused, punched, forced, raped, cheated on, down-trodden, beaten, called names, stolen from, and ignored. They have scars, mental and physical and sexual, and they’re deep but healing. These women carry the wounds of bad relationships, bad friendships, bad acquaintances, bad strangers like the tattoos of prisoners of war. They’re marked by those experiences, they’re changed, in good ways and bad ways and both ways.

My father, though often absent, treated me like a princess and still does. I had no funny uncles, no lecherous family friends, no neighborhood bullies. No man has ever raised a hand to me. My father never even spanked me. I’ve never been forced, and I’ve hardly even been unduly pressured. I’ve barely been criticized by men, really. They’ve rarely made me feel dirty or ugly or unwanted or stupid or any of those hurtful, horrible things. To me, men were always fun not feared.

The biggest jerk in my life I knew when I was 14, and the worst he did was be too old and weird for me and fart in the car before I got in. There was one older guy who wouldn’t take me to homecoming, but I barely cared about him anyway. Small hurts, little pricks.

I’m sure there were guys in college or high school who talked about me, who belittled me to their friends. But they never said anything to me. No one has cheated on me, that I know of, and I’d just as soon not know. Lancelot, for all his faults and his temper, has never in the 12 years of our relationship called me any names, judged my past, or said things that made me feel unattractive or worthless or dumb. He criticized, I think we all do. But it was, “We need to get some exercise,” “Stop nagging me,” “I need some alone time.” It was never, “You’re fat, you’re a bitch, I hate being around you.”

My friends talk about the men who hurt them, what they did, how they still deal with it. I try to understand, but I can’t, not really. I don’t want to have that frame of reference. Who would? I remain thankfully, blissfully ignorant.

And that worries me because there is a slim (I tell myself it’s slim) chance that I will have to tread the shark-infested waters of the dating pool someday. With Lancelot having lost his mind and no sign of it returning immediately, we may not make it. It took me six minutes to write that sentence, so heartily do I strain against that truth. But there it is. I may one day be single and looking. And I am a veritable lamb to the slaughter, it seems. I know that not all women experience these trials, but many do. Though I’ve escaped thus far, how much longer can that lucky star shine on me? It makes me want to keep my nice man, my supportive man, my loving man, my unjudging man, my wouldn’t-raise-a-hand-to-me man close, closer, closest. He makes mistakes and he hurts me, but in unintended ways.

In my years of being single, in bouncing from bed to bed and romping unattached and carefree, I never got hurt. Wounded pride was all I suffered, and that not long. I am open and honest and unbound by caution. I haven’t been taught to suspect, I haven’t been forced to distrust. And I really don’t want to learn now.

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This is exactly how I felt upon discovering that someone had scrawled, “Gypsy is a BITCH!” on the bathroom stall in high school. It’s like, “Wow, I’ve made it!”

(306): Someone wrote that you’re a whore in one of the bathroom stalls
(1-306): I didn’t know I was popular enough to be hated. This is awesome

Textsfromlastnight.com

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Even though I’m decidedly NOT a psychic (just in case you were still wondering), I’m a believer. Not hardcore, mind you. Just casually. I read my horoscope, I like knowing people’s signs (I’m an Aries. You?), I find Tarot fascinating, and I’m pretty sure there are people who actually are psychics (just not me). I like all that mystical hoopla; it taps into my inherent hopefulness of supernatural things. Like unicorns and fairies and hot vampires who won’t actually kill you.

When I need some extra insight or a different perspective, I sometimes head over to Llewellyn’s Web Tarot. Just to see, you know? Just in case.

So when things went wonky with Lancelot (update: they’re still wonky, but we’re hopeful), I cast about for guidance and checked to see what the cards had in store for us. These results are from about a month ago, but I saved them because they were so appropriate.

Queen of Swords - Reversed, in the Cover position.
Indicates the querent in relationship to the present situation.

Overweening ambition. Greed and lust for power. Dangerous, even violent woman. Fanatical zeal. Abuse. Jealousy.

Who, me? Dangerous? Greedy? Violent? Fanatical zeal? Nuh-uh. Ok, I kind of am jealous by nature. I’ll give you that.

The Star in the Cross position.
Represents the positive forces or assets in the querent’s favor.

Hope. Inspiration. Guiding star. Moment of grace and peace. Freedom. Early signs of life taking on a new pattern. Freedom after trials. Chance for escape. First sign of dawn. Release. Self-reliance. Clever, inspired ideas. Listening for direction. A quickening. Salvation. Empowerment. Destiny. A time of farseeing. Taking steps to save one’s self, not giving into resignation. Enlightened idea. Planning. Thaw of the ice. Return of life force. Rejuvenation. Drawing strength from nature.

Okaaaay. I’m getting the drift here. This “break” — or whatever the hell it is — is definitely giving us a chance to become more self-reliant, change things up, and think about where we want our lives to start heading. And for me, I’m taking care of myself and soldiering on. Lancelot, for his part, is walking on the beach every night, so he’s definitely drawing strength from nature.

Six of Wands Six of Wands in the Beneath position.
Can be viewed as a message from the “higher self.” It can also reflect the querent’s potential aspirations.

Acknowledgement of accomplishments. Victory parade. Accolades, admirers, and gratitude. Respect of one’s peers. Contributing ideas to a group project or cause. Leadership and established reputation. Good standing. Recognized authority. Having the confidence of the community. A success being more than one had hoped for. A sense of satisfaction. An original, daring thought brings victory. Honours.

Yep, seems pretty accurate. I do want to start accomplishing more, moving up in my career, developing my writing. This applies to Lancelot as well. He’s definitely casting about for what he should do to succeed and thrive and develop professionally.

King of Pentacles King of Pentacles in the Crown position.
Represents past events and influences that color and give rise to the current situation.

A proud, self-assured man. Established wealth. Security and social status. A grounded, practical leader. An intelligent man who, if not talented himself, values and supports the gifts of others. Recognizing the value of culture to a society. Money with ethical conscience. Practical help and skills. A supportive husband.

I’m not sure about this one. It could be my dad, who helped us so much in getting the restaurant started, who believed in us. It also makes me think of Lancelot and how he was before the restaurant, before he started struggling with his career. I think he’s still that guy, but he’s lost.

The Moon - Reversed in the Behind position.
Represents the preoccupation of the subconscious which filters into waking life, affecting moods and outlook. This is the underlying theme of dreams and the emotional undercurrent in the querent’s life.

Lies. Danger near water. Betrayal. Fear. Repression. Poor judgment. Feeling alienated, removed from life. Having to contend with an exhausting, lawless imagination. Paranoia and hysteria. Mental illness. Lunacy.

Oof. This one… This one hits close to home. I’ve definitely been afraid, mostly since closing the restaurant. I’ve just been, well, beaten I guess. I cut myself off, I hid, I nursed my wounds, and for far too long. And I worried about Lancelot’s depression. He’s been beating himself up for “poor judgment” regarding the restaurant and school and so many things. Talk about alienated and removed from life, he removed himself from his life.

Strength in the Before position.
Represents the state of the querent’s relationships with others.

Courage. The determination to overcome obstacles. Inner strength. Spiritual strength. Consistent effort. Conviction. Having the strength to persevere. Being able to withstand naysayers and judgments of others and not be deterred. Facing one’s fears. Being true. Harnessing passions that threaten to overwhelm but may be tamed with compassion and the will to overcome. Faith. Vitality. Ability to endure failures, losses, and disappointment, and yet keep the faith. Tenacity. Energy and intelligence. Work. Activity. Integrity. Focus and discipline. Overcoming. Outlasting competition or conditions. Reason and passion unite to bring strength.

Now I’m blushing over a Tarot spread. Because this is exactly how I’d like to be seen. I’d like to think I’m being brave and determined and steadfast. It sounds much better than, say, hopeless romantic or lovestruck fool.

The Page of Cups - Reversed in the Self position.
Indicates the querent’s psychological state and attitudes which can greatly affect the outcome of the matter.

Neglect. Oppression of talent. Begrudging and excluding others. Falsehood. Flattery and seduction. One masquerading as an artist.

I think this means I’ve been kidding myself, insulating myself, and neglecting my needs. And you can bet I’ve been begrudging others for just about everything.

Nine of Cups - Reversed in the House position.
Represents the querent’s environment and unseen forces influencing the situation.

Limited potential and success. Small setbacks. Relationship not carrying the nutrient and stimulus hoped for. Too much in common, whereas diversity brings strength and enrichment.

Shut up you stupid Tarot. Ugh! Why do you have to be right? Ok, so, yes, my job is probably not going anywhere, we’ve most assuredly had some setbacks, and our relationship was foundering. Dare I hope that this “diversity” thing is our mutual branching out, figuring out, growing out?

The World in the Hopes position.
Indicates the hopes and fears of the querent.

Ascension. Opening to a higher dimension. Culmination and synthesis. Enlightenment. Attaining a broader view of life. Moving beyond the personal to become aware of the interconnected nature of life. Harmony and perfection. Peace and freedom of thought. Inspiration and comprehension. Ecstasy. Glimpses, however brief, of the great mysteries of life. Being able to appreciate the larger scene or patterns in life. Faith. Epiphany. A heightened sense of being alive. Purpose. Confidence. Completion. Enjoying life and anticipating its curves. Unencumbered by the trivial. Being in control of one’s fate. Intelligence. Independence. Determination and stability. Strength and enthusiasm. Intuition and spiritual heights. Crowning achievement. Reward and promotion. Graduation. Lasting happiness. As the last of the major arcana, the Universe represents the height of a progression. The Universe card is associated with the four evangelists, Matthew, Luke, Mark, and John, who in turn are equated with incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension, respectively.

Well that’s kind of overwhelming, now, isn’t it? I… that’s a lot to hope for. But it tells me that I should hope for a lot.

Two of Cups in the Outcome position.
Indicates the outcome of the matter.

Romance, love, attraction of opposites. Union. Magnetism. Dance of courtship. Entwining energies. Sparks. The flow and grace of a natural match. Forming emotional bonds. Sharing, stability in give and take. Balanced ebb and flow of emotions. Curiosity, affection, and excitement. Most often symbolizes a romantic partnership, but may refer to a friendship or alliance with an emotional component and compatibility of a kindred polarity. Engagement or marriage.

So, we’re meant to be, right? Right. We are always meant to be.

And if not, well then screw you Tarot, you with your ambiguousness and pretty drawings and open to interpretation-ness. Because if I have to I will wrassle you into compliance with what I want to believe, with what I know to be true. Don’t think I won’t do it. You’ve been warned.

I’m warning pieces of paper now. You can call the men in white jackets. I’ll wait quietly.

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