I am not a literary snob. A reading snob, sure. But literary? Not so much. I’m not all up on the classics and crap, and I avoid reading the next big thing if I can. That may surprise you. Oh, I’ve read a lot of them, but I’m not all that impressed. I know. That’s bullshit, but whatever. I love to read, I read constantly, and I’ve read an awful lot, but I read what I want to read, and what I want to read is all over the place and doesn’t include either (typically) the best sellers list or the syllabus from my AP English course.

If you pay any attention to my “Library” page or the little GoodReads dohickey in my sidebar, you’d know that lately I’ve been reading the heck out of some romance. I love romance novels. Judge me if you want, but I do. Always have. I’ve written about it before.

But something has changed. When I started reading romance novels as a child, I was indiscriminate. What I read depended on what I could snag from my mother’s shelves, and I didn’t care much provided there were heaving bosoms, sparkling eyes, and dashing heroes with broad chests and fierce gazes and stiff members.

As I grew up and into the genre, I tended toward the books about the aristocracy. You know, fancy gowns and powerful titles and royals with rampant sexual peccadilloes. I was all about the castles and tapestries and gems the size of your fist.

Nowhere in my romantic lexicon was there room for the western or Americana romance, unless there was a half-naked half-breed, and even then I didn’t prefer them. They were kind of bland, you know? No glitz, no pageantry, no glam. Just a lot of dust and cowboys.

But things have changed. Recently I’ve delved straight on into the western romance genre, and I couldn’t be happier. I owe it to one author: Maggie Osborne. Her books feature strong, independent women in difficult but realistic circumstances with equally strong but gentle men. Her books generally throw the hero and heroine together when they don’t want to be, and the resultant rubbing the wrong way turns to rubbing the right way, but it happens realistically, over time, where attraction turns into love. And the western locale, with its pioneer spirit and gritty determination and bare knuckle brashness, is now very appealing to me.

Does that mean I’ve grown up? That a love story doesn’t need palace intrigue and courtly manners and the most exquisitely beautiful characters to reach me? Give me hard work, determination, laughter, companionship, struggle, and respect these days.

This is not to say I won’t still read about raven tresses and petulant beauties tamed by hard and powerful and wealthy and cruel men. I will. Oh, yes. I will. Rangoon, anyone? (Almost no one knows that book.) It’s just now I’ve got a soft spot for cowboys.

Scene: Getting into Lancelot’s truck to go to the store. Our neighbor, John, is working on his truck across the street.

Him: See? John’s wearing his work clothes.
Me: Huh?
Him: John. He’s working on his car in his work clothes.
Me: Oh, so that makes it ok that you ruin all your clothes with motor oil?
Him: It’s what we do.
Me: This is why I buy your clothes at Goodwill.

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Scene: Walking in the grocery store.

Me: What a crock.
Him: What’s that?
Me: This Cosmo. On the cover it says, “What men think about during sex.” Like that’s a big surprise. They think, “Damn, that feels good.”
Him: Right? It’s pretty much: “I’m gonna come.”

I woke up this morning stuffy headed and miserable from a night of tossing and turning and not being able to breathe. I slept down the hall instead of in our new gorgeous, soft, firm, huge king bed because I was all a-snore and driving Lancelot crazy.

On top of my head being stuffed with snotty cotton, one of our dogs decided to be a complete bastard and make noise all night, either clippity clopping with his nails all over the floors or jumping in the bathtub to root around at 3 in the morning (don’t ask me — he’s crazy).

I also had to get up several times during the night to let out my sweet baby George, who is rallying but has been stricken with some kidney complaints (as if heart problems and fading vision weren’t enough). He’s much better and back to his old self, but he still has to wee a lot.

And apparently Lancelot got about as much sleep as I did, or less, because he had the disposition of a Tasmanian devil this morning, snapping and grumbling. This mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he’s got to spend the day (or at least the afternoon) working on my brakes.

I know that sounds like a lot of complaining, and it is. But you know what? I’m not even in that bad a mood, all things considered. We’re broke, I’ve got a sick dog, my car is perpetually on the fritz, my head hurts, my period is going to start any minute now (provided God doesn’t hate me), and Lancelot was really kind of a turd to me this morning, but I’m ok.

Because life is balancing out. I hope. I’m pretty sure. I’m almost positive.

We are getting things done, paying bills, fixing up the house. Lancelot fixed the icemaker that hasn’t worked since we got the fridge. We have ice on demand, people. This is a big deal.

We sold two old appliances this weekend for very little money, but that doesn’t matter because, dammit, they are out of our garage and into someone else’s hands.

Saturday I got up and cleaned the kitchen (I mopped, people) then loafed with Lancelot until he had to go to work, then I went with my dad to a football game where we had excellent seats to watch my beloved Noles lose. But, you know, free booze, so it was a win for me.

I did all the laundry yesterday, folded it, and put it away. No, seriously. I did. There’s no pile of wrinkling clothes sitting on the La-Z-Boy right now glaring at me.

And, to top it off, Lancelot may have a new job. It’s not official yet, but it’s looking good. Fingers are firmly crossed. If you wanted to keep yours crossed, too, I wouldn’t complain.

So things are going well here, right now, so far. Or starting to. How are things with you? It may not seem like it, since I’ve been all absent and crap around here and haven’t been to your blogs in a thousand years (seems like), but I’ve missed you. Really.

I’m warning you: it’s about to get all kinds of mushy up in this shit. Because I’m in love.

No. Wait. That’s not it. I am in loooooooooooooooove. <— Imagine the previous sentence scrawled in loopy pink letters with hearts fit to bursting doodled around it. Might even be some married signature practicing going on in the margins.

My being in love is nothing new. I’ve been in love with Lancelot since approximately October of 1997 and that hasn’t changed. But we’ve cycled into one of those “Oh my god you’re the most precious thing ever and I want to hold your hand and kiss you all the time and leave you sweet notes and make a million hopeful plans for the future and, damn, you’re good looking” phases.

I’m not gonna lie: it’s fanfuckingtastic.

I’m not naive enough to suppose that this trend will last forever. My love will, but the gooey cheesefest has to peter out sometime to make room for the “Christ, will you just pick up your socks ONCE? Please? Is it so fucking hard?” phase. It’s a natural cycle.

But we are, right now, and for however long, splendidly, heart thumpity-thumpingly blissed out.

Lancelot is busy being the man of the house. Since he’s been home he’s cleaned out the garage, done hours of lawncare, replaced the starter on my car, rotated my tires, replaced the water pump on his car, switched out our old washing machine for a newer one, organized furniture, hung pictures and artwork, made me wonderful meals, gone willingly to fru-fru art shows, and, by his lonesome, replaced our water heater. He is my goddamn hero.

Last night we went to a fancy gala dinner thing and I swear to you he was charm personified: gallant, gracious, friendly, handsome. He opened doors, made polite chit-chat, and mingled. He told me I was the most beautiful woman in the room and lovingly draped his arm around me during the speeches, tracing lazy circles with  his thumb on the nape of my neck. He regaled the other guests at our table about our engagement and his hopes for our wedding, and I could tell, as he talked about romance and love and commitment, that the other women thought I was lucky, lucky, lucky.

And I am.

Remind me of this when he forgets to call, or shows up late, or drinks too much, or won’t let me touch the remote, or stomps around taking his frustrations out on me and the dogs, or whatever million little and not-so-little annoyances crop up.

Last night, after the snuggling, before the sleeping. We’re obviously still having issues with sharing our queen bed.

Me: Ugh, you’re totally smothering me. [He's got a leg and an arm draped over me, full weight, and we're facing each other, squeezed in close.]
Him: What? I thought this was what you wanted?
Me: Huh?
Him: You know, a man who would be all over you.
Me: Well, yeah. But not now. Not when I’m sleeping.
Him: Oh, I see.
Me: Oof. Honey. Seriously. Can’t breathe.
Him: But I’m making you feel protected and loved!
Me: You are?
Him: Yeah. You’re in the perimeter of protection.
Me: The perimeter of protection? That’s hilarious.
Him: It’s nice, isn’t it?
Me: Well, yeah. I mean, if you like dying a slow, suffocating death, sure. It’s a romantic way to go.
Him: And look? If I raise my leg like this? [puts it up on my hip] It’s like riding a horse. Giddy up. [butt smacking]
Me: That’s not so romantic.
Him: Shh. Sleep time. Kiss. [smooch]
Me: Can you get off now?
Him: No. Shh.
Me: Baby, you know we can’t sleep like this.
Him: So go in the other room.
Me: No, you.
Him: I’m sleeping.
Me: You’re not sleeping. [shoulder zerbert]
Him: I would be if you’d shut up.
Me: Look, maybe you should go in the other room.
Him: No, you.
Me: I’m pretty sure I’m going to snore.
Him: I’m pretty sure I’m going to fart.
Me: I can’t goddamn wait until we get a king-size bed.
Him: Why do you keep talking? Shh.
Me: This is never going to work.
Him: I gave you an out.
Me: I’m not going anywhere. It’s your turn.
Him: Look. I’m warning you.
Me: What? What are you going to do, big man? [tickle, tickle]
Him: We’ve approached defcon three.
Me: And that is…?
Him: Chemical warfare.
Me: You wouldn’t.
Him: You know I would.
Me: I don’t care. I’m not going. You’re going. It’s easier for you. If I go I have to take George with me because he’ll pine if I don’t.
Him: You’ve been warned.
Me: Whatever.
Him: …
Me: Oh, god! OH GOD!!!!!! You suck, Lancelot! [smothered laughing around the stench of the devil]
Him: Brrrrrimstone!!!!
Me: Come on, George. We’re going. Your father is a nasty ass.
Him: You got off lucky. Defcon four was napalm.
Me: You are evil and you must be destroyed. [gag, cough, chuckle as I make my way out of the fug]
Him: Love you!
Me: Love you, too.

For a lot of couples, sex life is a barometer for relationship health. I’d say that holds true for me and Lancelot, too, to an extent. But things have to be going very poorly indeed for it to show up in our bed. We can screw happy, mad, sad, disappointed, and disgruntled.

A better indicator for us is the butt pinch. Now, I know a lot of women who don’t like the butt pinch. Or the smack or grab or any variation thereof. This escapes me. What’s not to like? Ok, so he does it while you’re busy loading the dishwasher or folding laundry or convincing a two-year-old to take the cat poop out of his mouth. Still. It’s a butt pinch. It means “even though you’re in your sweatpants with your hands in three inches of soap scum, you’re still pretty hot to me.”

So I embrace the butt pinch, and I give as good as I get. I know all is well with our relationship when we’re smacking each other’s rear ends or giving playful squeezes in passing. To me, the butt pinch is the barometer for our relationship. If we’re not being playful like that, something’s wrong. And right now, everything is right. I have the bruises to prove it.

This living together again thing? Not easy. Don’t get me wrong, it’s going well and all, but I’ve come to the conclusion that our house is just not big enough for the both of us. It’s especially not big enough for both of our collective stuffs. Which is why we’re having a damn garage sale as soon as possible.

Also a problem? Sleeping. Sleeping is a problem. Because a queen-sized bed for two queen-sized people just ain’t comfortable. I refuse to have two beds in the same room again like we used to. Je refuse! So in the meantime, while we’re saving for a king (hello, room to flail around), he’s been starting out all snuggled up with me and then moving into the guest room once I “get hotter than a damn furnace, Jesus H. Christ you’re burning me out of this bed!” (<– that’s a direct quote).

And the TV. Sigh. I used to be able to hold the remote for full minutes at a time, the sole driver on the Couch Surfing Expressway. But I barely see the thing anymore, let alone hold it. I’m stuck watching things like John and Kate Plus 8 (I’m not shitting you — he’s totally been watching this), and Getting Close with Lee and Tiffany, and Warriors of Virtue, and Mantracker. Ok, so Mantracker is pretty awesome. Whatever. He still won’t let me have the damn remote.

I am consoled by the fact that the yard looks fabulous, I’ve enjoyed several delicious home-cooked meals, I get to hold hands with him while he watches terrible TV, and, hey, SEX! Plus he lifts heavy things and takes the trash out and tells me I’m pretty so, you know, I can deal with too much stuff and never watching my programs with him (You think he’s going to watch What Not to Wear? Well, he’s not.) and having the bed to myself.

Compromise, right?