Happy Anniversary, my Dashing Litigator

Two years ago today, I was sitting nervously at a lively bar in a tapas restaurant awaiting your arrival.

Two years ago today, I couldn't have known how profoundly my life was about to change.

Two years ago today, 1,000 prayers said in the dark, alone in my bed, over many, many nights - were answered.

I know a lot of words. In the past, I have been awarded on my ability to spell a lot of words. And I've made a career of speaking other people's words aloud on stage. And yet, at this moment, I am without words, at a loss as to how to adequately convey what you mean to me. What you've done for me. Who you are to me.
But I will try.

First, you have healed me. For years I had been walking around completely convinced that I was healthy and whole, capable and sure. While underneath I was a mass of unseen cracks and crevices. But you were so patient with me, smoothing over my rough spots and creating a safe place for me to emerge from my cocoon. You didn't run from my frequent tears and anxieties. You simply wrapped your arms around me until they passed.

You have nourished me. Literally, in the countless delicious meals you have cooked for me. From coq a vin and risotto, to peanut butter toast and smoothies. And in each and every morsel, I have felt your love and care for me.

I have learned so much about myself from being with you. I never knew that I could give so much love and care so much for another as I do for you, that someone could matter to me so much. I now celebrate each calendar holiday as though it were my first...because everything seems fresh and new and takes on a deeper and more profound meaning with you .

I love our routine...but I don't like that word. Routine sounds so boring, so un-exciting. And my life with you is anything but. I love starting each day in your arms, I love hearing your voice singing as you dress - whether it's a take on Elvis or Johnny Cash - it never ceases to amuse me. I love our rides to work in the car...your hand on my leg, and my fingers tickling the back of your neck. Humdrum chores like cleaning and folding laundry suddenly become loving little things we do for the upkeep of our happy home.

I love our Duncan, and I love watching you be a 'dog daddy'. I am in awe of your devotion to him - to us, to our family. I am humbled by your generosity, astounded at your energy, grateful for your endless support of me and my dreams...however silly they are. You are my biggest fan, my most enthusiastic cheerleader, my date on a Saturday night, my fiercest backgammon opponent.
You are my best friend. You are the first one I call when I have good news, and the first one I run to for a hug. You know me - better than I know myself - you know my flaws, shortcomings and late bloomer tendencies - and you're still here.

Together we've come through the trials and tribulations of having a dog, we've survived vacations, extended stays and holidays with our respective families, moving (three times), taking the Bar (one time!), and time apart (Divas, Live!).

Together we've conquered co-habitation (3 months and counting), cranky landlords, weddings, inadequate dog boarding facilities, flight delays, luggage delays, flat tires and sickness - laughing through most of it.

My darling, you are quite simply the love of my life. I believe that God meant for us to be together. Perhaps it's our 'matching moles', our mutual love for good food, wine and Jackass, the way my hand fits so easily into yours, or perhaps it's something far deeper than that. I only know that I have never felt more at peace with myself or with another, than I do with you.

I am so proud to be with you, so honored that you choose me, and so thrilled to be your Carrie.

I love you, honey.

Happy Anniversary.

More from Duncan's Big Day...

Duncan went for his first boat ride EVER, played with his new girlfriend Izzy, swam, ran, played catch...and then dropped when we got home.

Duncan's New Trick

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Duncan Dives Again!

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Proposal Purgatory

I can't believe I'm here.

I never, in a million years, thought that I would be here.

Where is here, exactly? Here is that pocket of time between the discussion of an engagement ring and the proposal -where one receives said engagement ring. It's a waiting period. And at times the wait can be alternately frustrating and fantastic, crazy making and over-the-moon exciting, awful and awesome. I've been 'here' for eight months.

It was about eight months ago that my Dashing Litigator proposed...that we get a joint membership to Costco. With butterflies in my tummy and a smile that would not quit, I gleefully waited in line to get my picture taken - and moments later we were holding our brand new Costco Membership cards. We strolled the aisles, hand in hand, ooh-ing and aaah-ing at the marvels before us. Slowly our cart began to fill up with things like 'One Gallon of Basil Pesto', 'A 20 lb. block of Gouda', a '100 Pack of Paper Towel' and 'One Ton of Tylenol'. At one point we passed a cart that was loaded with three children of various ages, being pushed by two tired parents. "WOW!" my dashing litigator remarked, "You really CAN get everything at Costco!" Just then we turned a corner and found ourselves in the jewelry section. I stopped, with my hand on the cart and I swallowed hard. "Well, what have we here, Carrie? It looks like the jewelry section."

"Yup", I managed to say.

He turned to me. "You know...I realized that I have no idea what sort of ring you might like. What do you like, Carrie?"

And so began 'the ring talk', and the precise moment I entered Proposal Purgatory.

The thing was, I hadn't the faintest idea what sort of ring I liked. I realize that a lot of women know the answer to this question better than they know their social security number. They have known it since they were small. But while those girls played house and made brownies in their Easy-Bake Ovens, I was choreographing dance routines on our back deck, camping in our tree fort, writing plays and having big wheel races with my next door neighbor, Nick. (And I was far more interested in beating him on my bike than playing make believe that I was his wife. )

In fact, I can recall only one moment in my tender years where I actually considered the idea of an engagement ring. I was about 4 years old, and at that time I was prone to sucking on the middle and ring fingers of my left hand, as a means of comfort. Often, my prolonged biting and sucking left two baby teeth mark indentations on the top of my ring finger. One afternoon, as I was getting up from a nap, my mother took my left hand in hers, inspected my soggy and dented fingers and remarked, "You know, if you keep sucking and biting your fingers like this, they'll get so swollen that you'll never be able to wear a diamond ring."

I stopped sucking my fingers then and there. I don't think my toddler brain could comprehend the gravity of what my mother was telling me, but I knew one thing: if they were going to be passing out diamond rings, I didn't want to be left out on account of a couple of swollen fingers.

Looking back, I now see that I was far too hasty. If I had known that a good 28 years later, I'd still be waiting for a ring, I would've clamped my little mouth down on my hand and sucked away to my heart's content, diamond rings be damned.

Soon after we'd had 'the ring talk', I started looking online at different settings. And after perusing a few sites, I learned that I preferred white gold over platinum (It's shinier and cheaper, and if it gets dull, you just have it re-dipped - who knew?) and that I liked the Princess cut. I also looooooved the heirloom look.

As I hopped from one diamond site to the next, I grew more and more...obsessed. I became like a diamond drug addict, tingling and buzzing with each sparkly setting. I started printing out every fabulous ring I saw, making sure I wrote down a link to the website. This ring shopping thing was fun! I went to a local chain jewelry store to find out my ring size (6), and soon I had a good idea of what I liked.

One evening after my Dashing Litigator and I were lingering over a lovely dinner and bottle of wine, I pulled out my pretty pictures and promptly handed them over. His reaction? "Wow. Um...are you sure these are engagement rings?"

"YES." I said, suddenly becoming defensive. "They are engagement rings. These are vintage settings to give them sort of an heirloom look, okay? You asked me what I like and this is what I like!" I heard my voice. It was bordering on shrill. Suddenly I was reminded of an old neighbor of ours who's gold-digging daughter told her boyfriend she would accept nothing less than a 3 karat diamond engagement ring. From the way I was acting, I wasn't too far off. And afterall, it isn't about the ring...but what that ring means. He is declaring to the world that I am his and he is mine, and that is something quite special. Remembering all of this, I added, "Honey, I want you to know that I will be happy with whatever you pick out." And I punctuated this by wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing the top of his head.

And now I wait. This is a truly exquisite and beautiful time. I must relish the calm. I will (hopefully) never in my life be here again. At this moment I am (hopefully) on the brink of being forever bound to another. And once I (hopefully) shift out of this place, I will leave my single days behind. For good. And it truly is for good. For something better than good, really.

And so, as I sit in my purgatory - in (hopeful) anticipation, I will do my best to ignore the pesky mosquitoes that swarm around me, buzzing with their chorus of, "What is he waiting for?" *swat* "When are you getting engaged?" *swat* "So...no ring yet, huh?" *SWAT*

Instead I shall close my eyes to the din and with a serene smile remember the mantra that I used to say to myself when I was very single - in fact, it was written on a poster that hung in my teenage room - and seems quite apropos now:

Love understands, and therefore waits.

...and so I shall... and I'll resist the temptation to suck on my fingers...just in case.

So long, sad songs

I am folding laundry one hot and humid Saturday, listening to the radio to add some spice to this humdrum chore. My dashing litigator is out getting the car washed and making the weekly run to Trader Joe's, and Duncan is out on the balcony, keeping a watchful eye on a pair of grey squirrels who are flirting on top of the neighbor's fence.

I am just pulling a load of warm, dark clothes from the dryer, when I hear the beginnings of "I am so Ordinary" by Paula Cole. It is a song I haven't heard in ages. Instantly, I am back in French class, freshman year of college, crushing on Shawn Zimmerman - the blond haired blue-eyed hockey player from Canada. Totally adorable and totally taken. I used to play that song on repeat in my dorm room and sing along with my whole aching heart.

"I watched you lean across the table, I watched you whisper in her ear...and she is your holy Mary, and I am so ordinary...!"

A year later, I found myself crushing on someone new. My dance partner, Don. He was tall and handsome with curly black hair, hugely talented, straight - and, oh yes - impossibly taken. My soundtrack for this unrequited romance was set to the tune of "But Not For Me", as sung by Linda Ronstadt.

"...with love to lead the way, I've found more clouds of grey, than any Russian play..."

In high school, I was hugely infatuated with the Broadway musical Les Miserables, an epic three-hour-long homage to heartache. Eponine, the street rat who falls in love with the charming and oh-so-out-of-her-league Marius - was my heroine. I would close my bedroom door, turn off all the lights and belt "On My Own" to an audience of stuffed animals and glow in the dark sticker stars. "I love him, but only on my own." Oh, and that one was for Tom Hanton - the drum major and football player with Garth Brooks looks who played fast and loose with my young heart on more than one occasion. And when I was feeling particularly angry and jilted by these boys, I would drive around town in my red Ford Escort, windows down, permed curls flying, scream-singing "Precious Things" by Tori Amos.

"Those beautiful boys, those Christian boys...so you can make me come, that doesn't make you Jesus..."

But hidden in the melancholy of each melody, I found such delicious solace. This music lifted me, soothing my sad and longing heart. These women (for it was only the female vocalists who truly 'got me') had been there. It was as if they were saying, "Girlfriend, I know how you're feeling...so you just sing along and let it all out...that's right...good girl."

But these days (if you'll pardon the cliche), I'm singing a different tune.

I've found that I haven't had much need for those sad songs in nearly two years. These days, my life track sounds a bit more sunny.

As we make our Saturday breakfasts and he scrambles eggs, I nuzzle his neck and croon "Close to You" by the Carpenters. "Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?"

We take a road trip to St. Louis and Keith Urban's "Better Life" is our companion. "Someday baby, you and I are gonna be the ones...good luck's gonna shine..."

While driving to the beach, Duncan in the back, Luce sings, "Buy a Dog" and we smile at each other and squeeze hands. "So if you wanna try, we'll make it you and I. We'll never be alone, we'll buy a dog and bring him home..."

My mental mix tape is filled with saccharine ditties and Pollyanna pop. Life is sweet and the notes sound sweeter. I'm "Walking on Sunshine". I have a man who makes me feel like a "Natural Woman", and when I think about him, "I Touch Myself".

There was a time when I found happy love songs to be boring and blah. After all, it was far more tortuous and dramatic to be lovelorn. But since I have crossed over to the sunny side of the street, I now understand the giddy heart-zinging pleasure of a love song and its' ability to convey all those mushy emotions you are feeling, but perhaps can't adequately articulate. That is the reason I love musical theatre so much. Because there exist moments that are so powerful and filled with so much passion and feeling that words simply aren't enough. You gotta sing it.

But what of those old sad songs that I loved so well? Those 'been there' ballads that saw me through dateless Prom nights, un-returned phone calls, and the 'I just like you as a friend' blues? They'll still be there. But when I hear them today it's with a grateful ear. Remembering those bleak and lonely periods of my life only fills me with more gratitude and appreciation for what I have now.

And I have a lot. I have a love that I never knew existed. A level of comfort and intimacy so exquisitely beautiful that I am forever in awe that this is really happening. This is mine.

Quite simply, there aren't enough love songs in the world to convey what he means to me. But you better believe this reformed Pollyanna is going to listen to every damn one of them, complete with sickening hearts over my starry eyes and fluttery feet that won't touch the ground.

Blood Brothers

from wikipedia.com:

Blood Brothers: Refers to two or more men, not related by birth parents, who swear loyalty to one another. This is usually done in a ceremony where the blood of each man is mingled together. In simple terms, this is an extension of fraternization.

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"You know that your couch is a piece of crap when Goodwill won't even take it."

The Dashing Litigator sold his house. It is moving day and he has taken the day off from work to finish packing and meet with the movers. He has been calling me at the office as he boxes up the last remnants of his life in that house.

"The couch in the basement? What are you going to do with it, then?" I ask.

"Well," he says, "it won't fit out the side door with that new fence there, so I'm going to take my Louisville Slugger and just attack it - bash it to pieces, then have the movers put it in a dumpster. It actually might be quite therapeutic."

I laugh. "Ok, then. You knock yourself out!"

He and Duncan will now live in a two bedroom loft just one El stop south of my studio.

Over the weekend, we packed the easy stuff and loaded up the car: dishes, glassware, artwork, towels, sheets, cookware, etc. We made runs to Target for fluffy new towels and Menard's for colorful area rugs and bar stools. We had Duncan at day care for much of the weekend to keep him occupied and exercised and out of our way. This new place is gorgeous, with far too much space than my boys need. Duncan will even have his own bedroom complete with a new 'big boy bed' and various treats and toys stowed in the closet.

Sunday was our last night in the soon-to-be 'old house'. We ordered Chinese food, ate in the dining room surrounded by boxes - and sighed alot. And we talked about all the memories that were created under that roof. The spot where we had our first make-out session. The living room where we slow danced to Sinatra. The kitchen floor, where my Dashing Litigator slept by Duncan's crate on his first night home. The meals he cooked for me. That basement couch where I spent many an evening flanked by 'my boys' watching a movie in the dark. The cozy, familiar smells and sounds and routines that have nestled and nurtured our little threesome over this last year.

"It's a tad sad to leave here...but I'm ready for chapter two. Aren't you?", he asks.

I am indeed.
**************************************************

I leave work that day and head directly to the Dashing Litigators new digs - stopping first at Trader Joes for a housewarming bottle of red and bouquet of flowers. He greets me looking a little worse for wear, but adorable. His face sports three days worth of scruff, his clothes are sweatstained, dusty and grungy and his hands look mangled and raw. The middle finger of his left hand is wrapped haphazardly in paper towel that has been bound gruffly with gray duct tape.

I pick up his hand and inspect the make-shift bandage. "What happened here?"

Apparently, while he was working out some aggression - smashing his couch to bits with a baseball bat and pulling off the upholstery, his hand came down on a small nail that punctured his middle finger fairly deeply.

"It bled like hell when I first did it, but it seems to have stopped now." I take a peek at the wound and after confirming that his Tetnus shots are up to date, make a mental note to clean and dress it properly for him later.

We hit the road to pick up Duncan and I can't wait to show him his new home. He is a little unsure at first, reluctant on his leash and splaying his paws as he fights crossing the threshold into the lobby. The elevator freaks him out even more, but when we finally get inside the loft, his curious and energetic nature return.

He sniffs around his bedroom, recognizing the familiar crate and blanket. He puts two brown paws on his new bed as though testing for firmness and notices the small stuffed 'bee' toy that I had bought him, complete with twisted rope-like legs for chewing. He picks up the toy and runs out the door with it, looking for his daddy, who is at the other end of the loft.

I hear the click click click of his nails on the wood and then my Dashing Litigator's voice, "Hi buddy...what's this? Oh...hey...you're bleeding. Carrie? I think he cut his paw on something. Oh, wow. He's really bleeding badly."

I come around the corner and see the trail of dark red splotches on the wood floor. The trail starts near a large black plastic garbage bag that is propped up against the island in the kitchen.

"Dammit", he says, "My glass decanter broke during the move and I put all the broken glass in this bag. I meant to take it out. He must've cut his paw on it."

I grab paper towel and press it to Duncan's rear right paw. Instantly it is soaked with blood. I drop the paper towel and look up at my dashing litigator. I am scared. We have a moment as our eyes meet and then in an instant he takes charge. He picks up our bleeding baby and his jaw is set. "Let's go. We're taking him in." I grab his wallet and we are out the door.

We are frantic as we place a very confused, yet very calm Duncan in the back seat and head off to the Animal Urgent Care center. The Dashing Litigator is upset and blaming himself for leaving the garbage bag in the kitchen. I can hardly blame him as he's had a tremendous amount on his plate this past week. He wonders if we should be putting pressure on Duncan's paw, and I agree, climbing into the back of the SUV to be with our boy. I grab a thin blanket and gingerly wrap it around his paw before squeezing it. Duncan not only complies, but rests his head in my lap. It's not long before the blanket is soaked. I split my time between comforting our dog and calming my boyfriend, who is banging the steering wheel and yelling at red lights - ordering them to turn green. We can't get there fast enough.

We do arrive and he carries our baby into the stark white flourescent lobby of the animal clinic. We are met by calm assitants who lead the three of us to a room. A trail of blood follows us. My Dashing Litigator's khaki pants are now a deep rust color, and I notice that my black and white flower printed skirt now has a few red flowers as well. After a bit we are led out of the room and told to wait in the lobby while they tend to our Duncan.

We are shell shocked. We lean on each other and fill the quiet by squeezing hands and rubbing thighs. In a few moments we learn that Duncan has a small, but deep cut that will need to be sutured, but that he will be ok.

We can breathe again. I am so proud of my Dashing Litigator and how quickly he assessed and took charge of the situation, and I tell him this. He corrects me, saying he is so proud of us and he is grateful for my calm demeanor. But it was his strength that allowed me to be calm. And we are struck by how deeply we love that furry brown guy. How much he has affected us and how terrible it would be if anything happened to him.

The doors open and we rush to greet our boy who is groggy in his Elizabethan collar, and sporting a bright purple bandage on his injured paw.

We bring him home and try and make him as comfortable as possible, nestling him into his bed in his new bedroom. And we clean up and get ourselves ready for bed in this new and strange place. I help wash and dress the Dashing Litigator’s deeply cut finger - both of my boys suffering injuries in this tumultuous move - a move to a new home that is ironically only a mile away from the old one.

My Dashing Litigator turns to me and says, “I know this isn’t the only crisis we’ll endure together, and when the time comes to face another one - there is no one I’d rather be with, than you. We’re a great team.”

Indeed we are.

The Move

I am standing in front of my new apartment building, fumbling with my keys.

Let's see...the small round one is for the front door...or was it the big square one? Ah, yes...here. Ok...and the little rectangular one is for my mailbox...Do I have any mail? Here's something for...Timothy Miller? - must be the last tenant - and a flyer for Curves addressed to "Juana Flores - or current female resident"...huh. Must be for the tenant two tenants ago. Hrm. I guess that would make me the 'current female resident', then.

I have moved into a new apartment. A studio apartment. For the past two years I had been living in a spacious two bedroom with hardwood floors, dishwasher, central heat, central air, free washer and dryer on a quiet street right next to a Trader Joes. I was also living with a roommate. And now I'm living in a 400 square foot studio with carpeting and gas heat and coin laundry. But - I no longer have a roommate.

Four months ago, my roommate announced that he wanted to move out into his own place. This did not come as a complete shock to me, as I never imagined that when we moved to Chicago and moved in together - it would be a permanent arrangement.

But I knew I had to figure out a plan. Should I stay in the apartment and look for a new roommate? Should I move into my own place? Should I move in with the Dashing Litigator?

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"Why don't you just move in here?"

We are sitting at his kitchen table. I am sipping a glass of wine, he a bourbon. Duncan is between us, chewing on his stuffed dog toy that we call "Karl with a K".

I smile and take a long slow sip of my wine before I answer.

"I can't." I say, "You know I can't."

He smiles, and I know that underneath it all, he truly feels the same way. "Alright. But I want you to know - if you have trouble finding a place and you need to stay here for a bit, that's fine. Don't stress about it."

I fully realize that in this year of 2006 it is becoming more and more acceptable for unmarried couples to cohabitate. Whether it be for financial reasons, convenience, or because they just plain can't stand to be apart - couples are shackin' up. I know many who do it successfully, and kudos to them! But for me, it just isn't an option. I would never dream of it. Call me a traditionalist, idealist, a hopeless romantic, incurably Catholic, whatever - but there you have it. I've always upheld the belief that there was something sacred and meaningful about not living together until you are married. Sharing a name before sharing an address.

Now don't get me wrong. I certainly spend a lot of time at the Dashing Litigator's. And yes, when I'm there with him and sweet Duncan...it feels like home. And though I may have clothes, toiletries, even tampons at his place - my mail does not go there. I do not live there. This is just something that will happen in it's own time. And now is not that time.

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It's the day of the move, and I have been packing nonstop for the past four hours, taping up boxes, cleaning out my refrigerator, making countless trips to the dumpster. I'm already a sweaty, stinky mess and the move hasn't even officially started. The Dashing Litigator will be here at any moment to start loading up his SUV.

That's right, he is helping me move.

He's convinced me that movers weren't really necessary as I didn't have much stuff. "I mean, you have, what - your bed, dresser, small couch and clothes? That shouldn't be too hard."

But now as I stand in the middle of my very echoey apartment, surrounded by rows upon rows and stacks upon stacks of bags and boxes, I start to panic.

I have a lot of stuff.

I mean, a LOT of stuff.

I'm praying the Dashing Litigator won't notice. I'm remembering what my friend Trista told me when she found out that we were going to tackle the move ourselves. "You're going to have a fight. Trust me on this. Moving is stressful."

I prayed she was wrong.

The Dashing Litigator arrives and kisses me, telling me I look cute. He looks beyond me at the aforementioned 'stuff' and is momentarily taken aback.

"Jesus, Carrie! Um... you do realize you're going from a two bedroom to a studio, right?"

"Hey! I know it looks like a lot, but...it will fit." I try to convince myself...but even I'm not so sure. We dig in.

Six and half hours and nine trips with the SUV later - I am moved.

By the time we make the final push, we are both exhausted and starving, dirty and depleted - but - we have not had one fight. Not even close! We hauled and we lugged and we carried - chugging water to stay hydrated, occasionally 'pantsing' each other on the stairs, flipping mattresses over railings, giving each other high-fives and salty sweaty kisses - surprising ourselves with how strong we were together. But truth be told, my Dashing Litigator carried the bulk of the heavy stuff. He is an Adonis. Not much has been written on his physique, but let it be known now. He is one finely built man. And the sight of his body lifting and pulling and performing such grueling manual labor was like a delicious carrot dangling before me, urging me onward to the finish line. The finish line that ended at Moody's pub, with a pitcher of Michelob and two blue cheese burgers.

This, my friends, was love. Helping somebody move has got to be somewhere around the third level of hell. As I looked across the table to my Dashing Litigator, both of us happily filled and drowsy on burgers and beer - I wondered if I ever loved or appreciated him more.

Be that as it may...I know I can't push it. If we do end up sharing a residence in the future, and we are faced with another move, this crazy actress and self-proclaimed pack rat will need to make some changes...as well as some trips to the Salvation Army.

What He Means...

I am half-leaping, half-falling out of a cab, nearly tripping on my oversized shoulder bag, my purse, my own feet. I laugh, recalling how the Dashing Litigator often refers to me as his 'bag lady', since I seem unable to go anywhere without lugging half my belongings with me, like some kind of urban turtle. It is the end of another workday, and I am meeting the Dashing Litigator (who is having drinks with his parents) inside a hip bar in Chicago's west loop. I am only making a brief appearance to collect his rather newish car (a huge, black and beautiful SUV that we call "Aretha"), to head home in rush hour traffic to feed our Duncan before driving out to the burbs for a dress rehearsal.

This has been the way for the past couple weeks. The Dashing Litigator has lived without his car and sometimes his girlfriend - spending his evenings entertaining Duncan, trying out new recipes, doing my laundry, preparing me lunches and dinners. He's become a regular stay-at-home dad, making temporary sacrifices so that I can pursue my craft.

We are 9 months into this relationship and I can say without hesitation that I have never known a love so rare, so supportive, so genuine - as this.

In the time since my last post, we have taken vacations together... a weekend excursion to St. Louis, and to my hometown of Novi, Michigan for Easter. We've traveled to Marco Island twice and had enough romantic adventures to rival the most extravagant of honeymoons...champagne sunsets, decadent dinners alfresco, collecting shells, catamaran excursions, and "From Here to Eternity" moments on the surf. And while travelling can be a typically stressful time for some couples, we made it through unscathed and actually more in love.

We have spent time apart - nearly two weeks while I was out of town on a theatre job. While separated, we talked on the phone every night, missed each other terribly, and came home to each other more appreciative and more connected than ever before.

And then - there's Duncan. I never knew that I could love a dog as much as my beloved family dog, Cole - but Duncan has found a permanent place in my heart. The three of us have become a family of sorts, and the Dashing Litigator still marvels that he is a dogowner. He also delights in watching Duncan grow, pointing out that his physical growth is an outward reflection of our growth as a couple. I couldn't agree more. We discuss obedience training, feel guilty about putting him in a kennel while we travel, worry about him when he is in doggie daycare and being bullied by a boxer. We buy him treats, show off pictures like proud parents, take lazy Saturday naps with him, cheer when he finally jumps from the back of the SUV by himself, take him to the park, are embarrassed when he misbehaves in front of strangers, but through it all - we laugh.

I've met and spent time with his lovely parents, his friends, his siblings and their families. He has spent time with my family, given my father legal advice when they were encountering obstacles in opening their bed and breakfast, and completely won them over. We have seen each other through family crises, apartment hunting, and sickness (projectile vomitting, no less, and high fevers).

Every day I learn something new about my Dashing Litigator. The little things...how he doesn't like milk in his cereal, how he can't fall asleep unless his feet are sticking out from under the sheets, his borderline obsession with cherry chapstick, his love for the Miami Dolphins, Anita Baker, bourbon, and a pair of stonewashed blue jeans he's had since undergrad. And the bigger things...what he wants from his life, in his dream house, what he fears, what he hopes for, what keeps him awake at night, what brings him solace.

There is an energy about him that is palpable...a forward moving momentum that I want to be part of. He is kind, generous, mischievous, hilarious, intimidatingly smart and wildly sexy. He is warmth and passion - possibility and hope- head and heart. He is home.

And I need him.

I'm surprised that I could need someone so much, actually. I was the perpetually single girl who could take care of herself, thank you very much. The Grace to a host of Will's. "I don't need a man. Sure, I'd like one to have around, but I don't need one." And yet here I am - verymuch needing this man. There is a tremendous feeling of peace and relief when I'm with him - like falling into bed - or slipping slowly into a hot bath.

We talk about the future. To us, our life is a book that is being written, chapter by chapter. Occasionally we go back and read the earlier parts. I remember the moment I started to fall in love with him: on our second date - he left to use the restroom and returned with a hanky for me, as I had the sniffles. Such a kind and simple gesture...and yet I melted. He remembers the first time I cried in front of him, telling him something that was very difficult, and how at that moment - every ounce of his being screamed to protect me.

My heart breaks for girlfriends who are, at this very moment, mourning the abrupt and confusing end of a relationship; girlfriends who are hanging onto men who are slowly eroding their spirit and soul - as it's better than being alone. Girlfriends who are single and resigning themselves to that sort of an existence - forcing themselves to be content with this outcome, giving up on any sort of hope that there is a good man out there who will love them for who they are.

I want to fly a banner from a Cessna...I want to broadcast it on the 6 o'clock news:

I love him madly.

****************************

The Dashing Litigator has picked me up to take me to his house for dinner. Earlier, I had gone for a run that left my right calf aching and throbbing. In the backseat I greet Duncan and he wags his tail happily. This is a familiar routine, spending a weeknight with my boys.

An hour later we are sitting at the kitchen table, savoring his delicious homemade pasta while Duncan lays at our feet. We are talking about the meal, our families, our days.

He looks up at me suddenly and smiles. "I love you, Carrie."

I love you, too.

He nods his head as though arriving at a decision. "I'm in." He adds. "I'm totally in."

Later we will go to the park with Duncan and play catch with him. We will come home and clean up the dishes from dinner. He will take Duncan out one last time while I brush my teeth and remove my contact lenses. I will spread peanut butter on a chew toy and put Duncan to bed, while the Dashing Litigator flosses his teeth.

This is one of our many rituals. Loving routines that remind us that we are in this together.

As we fall asleep holding each other, I watch him - silently knowing that there is no place on earth I'd rather be.

As I fall asleep, I know it in my heart.

I'm in, too.