The lovely and talented Brandy wrote a most timely piece today and, as is so often the case right now, I got to thinking about the direction or non-direction the relationship or non-relationship that I am in is or isn’t going.

In order to be the undemanding one or the non-bitchy one or the self-sufficient one or the independent one or the whatever the hell it is but sure as hell isn’t me one, I don’t let on to anyone, least of all him, that I expect anything from him or from our, well for simplicity’s sake, lets just say relationship.

But I do – I expect him to be honest.  I expect him to make me a priority.  I expect him to take me and my feelings into consideration.  I expect him to think about me.  I expect him to miss me.  I expect him to make time for me.  I expect him to call. 

The him portion in this relationship has spent to last 6 of 8 weeks in London on business (in a job that I had a lot to do with procuring so really, I have no one to blame but myself for that situation).  After calling him an ass (he totally deserved it and he knew it), he was making a huge effort to be communicative and flirty and things felt good.  Then I got an email telling me that his stay was being extended by 3 to 5 weeks and that he was coming back for the weekend to see his kids and get some clothes and stuff before heading back to London Monday (today).  Being the ever-clever bunny that I am I knew that this gave him basically 2 days in Vancouver and that his priority (and rightly so) would be his kids.

So I honestly didn’t expect to see him this weekend, but I ABSOLUTELY EXPECTED HIM TO CALL ME.

He didn’t.  Bastard.

Which of course makes me wonder, along with a million other things, why bother telling me you were coming to town, even for the weekend, if you had no intention of calling?  He could easily have not said anything other than that his trip was extended, I never would have known the difference, and I wouldn’t be feeling all resentful and everything.

Oh, yeah, and before “anonymous” or whoever gets all over me with the “he’s just not that into you” bullshit, don’t bother.  I will seriously find you and make you listen to Celine Dion at ridiculously high volumes for 78 hours while watching Pia Zadora videos and drinking Zima.

I just want to whine and I EXPECT to be allowed to, dammit.