Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

#494: THIS ONE SMELLS A LITTLE OFF

In case you have not already heard, the Fiery One has a brand spanking new job. He is thrilled. I am thrilled. Everyone is thrilled. I believe someone even referred to him as "bubbly".

I had no doubt that he would be able to find a job easily, because he's intelligent, affable, and loved by the ladies. The ladies, they love him. This has very little to do with his new line of employment, but it never hurts to be a magnet for the lady love.

That is, as long as the ladies remember that they have admiring privileges only, because I am a vicious killah. Oh, yes. The MySpace ladies that keep sending him pictures of themselves in lacey undergarments that they snuck out of department stores in their backpacks are excused, though. The Fiery One is just too much heat for their teenaged lust, and I have sympathy for their plight.

As an example of this heat he exudes, I will tell you about Saturday night. He was on fire, that Fiery One. We went out for supper and a movie. We were smiling and laughing and chatting away, doing our best to put other people off their food, when he noticed the colour of my eyes. My eyes change colour depending on what I am wearing, my mood, the state of my health, and the weather.

Your eyes are a beautiful shade of blue tonight, he said, a grey-blue.

I have always wanted grey-blue eyes. My eyes are usually this off-green colour that goes really well with olive drab, so I jumped up from the table and ran to the bathroom to check out the colour before it changed on me again. They were indeed fairly close to grey-blue.

They are grey-blue, but there's also a flare of gold in the center around the pupils and a darker outer ring today, I said when I returned to the table. I always think that's a little creepy when that happens. Leonine.

They are creepy. They look kind of like an eclipse with a flaring of gasses. He paused. ...and a clear fluid afterwards, he added thoughtfully.

Flaring gasses? Clear fluid?

Never has a more romantic thing been said to me about my eyes. It was the "clear fluid" part that truly catalyzed the ardour of my palpitating heart.

We were in no position to go home to sate the whetted hunger of our love, though, as there was only a little less than an hour to wait for our movie to begin, so we whiled away the time talking our usual nonsense. In a subconscious effort to control my fidgetiness over having to wait around for the movie to start, I found myself inadvertently sitting on my hands and rocking back and forth a little while the Fiery One spoke.

I'm fidgety, I said.

I can see that.

No, I'm really squirrelly, I insisted.

You're not squirrelly. You're autistic*, he replied.

That was the last straw. It was all I could do to keep myself from diving across the table and ramming my tongue into that dirty mouth of his. Luckily, I have a strong sense of public decorum, a legacy from my Mennonite upbringing. Praise be.

To be clear, these things were actually said, (I know, because I wrote them down on a postcard advertisement while we ate), but this is how we talk. It is romance of a nerdly order. I probably said other such terribly romantic statements, as well, like I like you bald and Look how curly your arm hair got in the rain and That food on your face looks tasty. Can I have some?

And, to get back on to my original track, the Fiery One has a new job! And we are all very proud of him here. I keep making him say I am junior policy analyst in a pan-eastern-european accent, because his job sounds so Cold War communist. It almost makes me misty for my early 1980s childhood fear of a nuclear holocaust we were led to feel helpless to prevent. Oh, what sweet memories of the nine-year-old me lying in a cold sweat under my blankets and imagining the shadow of my vapourized body outlined on the driveway.

SCHMUTZIE, STAY ON TRACK.

Righty-o, then. The fact of the Fiery One's job has done wonders for the both of us. Personally, I feel lighter and brighter. Thanks to all of you, both on and off this here internet, who offered us support over the last several weeks. I think our transition from there to here was a happier one as a result.

...**

(And this is just an excuse for the third set of asterisks, because I didn't know how else to fit it in.)***



* When he referred to me as being autistic, he was referring to my back and forth rocking motion, which is a common behaviour among people with autism. My brother, Ward, who has multiple disabilities including autism, exhibits this behaviour.

** Something about this post smells wrong. Could it be my mention of the Fiery One's heat? His lovely conversation over supper? The possibly inappropriate application of the word autistic? Commanding myself in the third person? I can't quite put my finger on it.

*** I have decided to sometimes add a small list of weblogs I have cruised by recently at the end of my posts, because why not?

Three places I have been: maarmie, dianna higgins, kayayarai