So, I haven't introduced all of you bloggers to my rock yet.

My fuzzy wuzzy Pookie-bear.

He'd probably flip a shit if I ever actually called him that in public, but hey...just because I don't say it doesn't mean I'm not thinking it.

This is as close to a sappy post as any of you will ever get from me. Well, romantically speaking, of course. Barring any future anniversaries...no promises on those particular dates. I promise that there won't be any sappy postings on Val's day. Valentine's day is akin to roasting in hell. Or being squished in the middle of a mosh pit surrounded by sweaty teenagers screaming at the top of their lungs to an obscure rock band - I have experianced this before, and have no inclination of repeating it.

I suppose I should let ya'll know about my dating habits.

I have none.

That is, I rarely date. I've only had three boyfriends - two ex's and my current. Unless you count little Timmy from first grade, who so cheekily kissed me under the slide during recess.

I may have provoked it.

There were two boys before I met Pookie, and let's just say that they left me a wee bit...bitter.

So after purging them from my system (I kind of detoxed on a trip to Ireland with my then-friend and now-current Pookie), I realized something.

I didn't need to pander to other people's ideas of 'attractive.' Nor did I need to limit my intelligence so I could fit in. Nope, as sappy as it sounds, I figured out that I was just fine the way I am.

Lifetime, if you're reading this and decide to make a movie out of it...I will sue your asses for every stinking man-hating feministic penny that you're worth.

I started to go out with my friend more and more, and everyone we knew insisted that we date. We kept denying that we dug each other, and with every friend that tried to convince us to give it a try, our conviction seemed to lessen more and more. Until we snapped.

So now I'm on boy number three. For some reason, he seems to like me.

Even though I'm pretty sure he could live without me palpating all his bones and naming them. I'm afraid I have a bit of a bone fetish - the result of taking an intensive Human Osteology class one semester in college.

They gave me the keys to the lab, yo.

*snicker* dumbasses trusted me...ah...back to topic....

I'm not easy to date. I'm tempermental, moody, and I've got security issues. I need constant reassurances, and I like the weirdest things (skeletal systems...hockey...gummy bears). I'm not some flirty blonde with double D's and a zero waist, and I don't tolerate idiocy. I'm more manly than most men that I know, and I'm hell with power-tools.

And yet, my Pookie not only dates me in spite of all this, but he accepts it.

Yea, I thought he was crazy too.

That's ok. I never claimed to like the sane ones. I accept his lack of sanity the same way he accepts that I have a bit of a road rage problem.

I guess sometimes it's not about finding someone to love and be loved by. Sometimes, it's right under your nose, and it's just about accepting it. Come hell or high-water. Or insane stepmothers, dog-obsessed parents, narcessistic sisters, shitty jobs, and angry phones.

He makes my heart go pitty-pat. He smiles (ok...grimaces) when I suggest a shopping trip (which will, more than likely, end in naught but a few frustrated sighs), he holds me when I'm moody as hell and angry as a horde of rabid squirrels, and he consistantly reminds me that he doesn't give a damn that my legs look like tree trunks.

That's my Pookie.

:-] I like him so much that I even used an emoticon.