Today was a day of small miracles, if there is such a thing. This morning started with therapy, and my therapist gave me two new labels. When we discussed a boy, she said, “He’s beneath you. Come on–you’re a diva.” Then later we talked about the fact that I work my ass off in and out of therapy, and she said, “You’re a boss–you just don’t own it. But you’re a fucking boss.” I mean–diva and boss–I’ll take both those labels. Still, I’m hoping being a diva doesn’t require me to buy high heels or start getting pedicures on a regular basis. That might be more than I can handle, especially since I’ve always thought of myself as “gay from the ankles up.”

Last night after I blogged, a couple of Ray and Jesse’s neighbors came over and hung out on the porch. Jesse told them that I’d done a ton of work in the backyard, and I said, “It’s a work in progress, but it’s a lot better.” One of the neighbors said, “Sounds like someone is a perfectionist,” and I said, “Nailed it!” Then he said, “Well, it takes one to know one.” I told my therapist about this exchange, and she said, “That’s the teeter-totter some of us are on. We want praise but don’t know what to do with it.” Later she said perfectionism is actually pretty useful when cleaning up a yard or remodeling a house, but it becomes a problem when it’s your “daily driver.”

After therapy, I went to a couple lumber supply companies in search of a threshold for Ray’s door. I told the guy at the first place that I needed one that was pretty wide, but he said they didn’t carry anything. When I asked if he knew of where I could find what I needed, he suggested Googling it. (Gee, that’s helpful.) I said, “Thank you,” but rolled my eyes when I walked out and thought of the time my therapist told me I don’t tolerate stupid people very well. Fortunately, the guy at the next place knew what to do, so a specialty piece is on order and should be here this week.

Some things, it seems, are a process.

Back at Ray’s house I swept the sidewalks, gave myself at least one blister, and started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just as I was going around the house to hose off some sidewalk dirt, a couple guys in a truck pulled up and asked if I needed the tree branches around the roof cut back. Well, Ray had stopped by from work, and we ended up hiring them to trim the trees and–and, and, and–move all the tree branches I’d piled up around the house to the front. They actually offered to haul it all off (for an additional fee, of course), but said we could save money by calling the city.

First I’m a diva and then help with yard work. Miracle, miracle.

Ray said he was initially skeptical of the guys in the truck, but we both agreed they ended up being a god-send. They worked for two or three hours, did what they’d said they’d do, and saved me and Ray a ton of work. Oh, and they bought me a Gatorade, so we’re pretty much friends for life. Also, when I cut my leg on a ceramic pot, the guy’s puppy licked the blood off, so that was sweet. And gross. Yeah–dog spit–it was sweet and gross. So tonight I went to Walgreen’s and got some Bandaids and antibiotic ointment.

After the guys left, I continued to pick up shit and tie up loose ends. Then Jesse and I replaced the section of wire fence that got crushed when a tree fell on it. That was my last chore of the day, and when it was my turn to swing the hammer, my arms were like, “Seriously?” But we finished–Jesse, me, and my tired arms. Go team.

When Ray got home from work, we all decided we were fungry (that’s Ray’s word for “fucking hungry”), so we walked to the food trucks on College and ate at Big Sexy Food. Jesse got a super-duper grilled cheese, and Ray and I both got hamburgers topped with macaroni and cheese. Talk about another miracle. And they actually branded the burger–like you would a cow. How cool is that? And look at the free koozie that comes with every meal. Seriously, it’s good I don’t live a block away from this place because I’d be there all the time and I’m assuming their food is not–what’s the word?–healthy.

But OMG does it taste good.

When we got back to the house, Ray offered me the use of his bathtub, which, y’all, is big enough to host a dinner party. Oh my gosh, it was glorious. That being said, the hot water and bath salts quickly awkened every cut and scrape on my body (ouch), then proceeded to suck what little life was in me–out. I felt like a rag doll. When I finished, Ray said, “You’ll sleep well tonight,” and all the fibers of my being said, “Amen.”

Recently I met a woman for the first time, and she was totally awkward and weird. She was a friend of a friend of a friend or whatever. (I’m intentionally being vague because everyone knows everyone these days.) But we were at dinner together, and in the context of my eating a lot of food, she said, “You’re a big guy.” Well, she’d been rude earlier in the evening, so I did something rather out of character and said, “Watch it, lady.” The she started to back pedal and said, “Well, I’m short–I meant you’re tall. How tall are you?”

My face stone cold, I said, “I’m as tall as I am.”

Today I told my therapist this story in the context of small victories, speaking my truth, and not being a people-pleaser. She said, “Way to go. You weren’t having it.” I’ve thought about that phrase today–not having it. For the last few years, I’ve actively worked toward “less bullshit, more peace,” and so much of that journey has been about what I’m willing and not willing to put up with. Less and less, I’m willing “to have” someone else’s bad behavior. Likewise, I look at Ray’s yard and the gigantic pile of brush by the curb and realize we weren’t having that either. Those branches’ days were numbered.

Currently my body is saying, “We’ve had enough yard work.”

Whether it’s with an overgrown yard or a bad relationship, I think we all need to get fed up now and then and say, “I’m not having it.” Of course, like all the work around Ray’s house, putting your foot down is usually a process–two steps forward, one step back. But I think we all know when something needs to be done. We all know when someone crosses a line, even though we often let it slide in the name of social graces or being “nice.” But you know. You may not want to admit it, but you know. Personally, I’m learning that being authentic and true to yourself, even in everyday interactions, is its own kind of small miracle, right up there with macaroni and cheese hamburgers–less tasty perhaps, but certainly better for you.