Memoir: Part One

I've been working on a bit of a memoir..so here's what I have to start! More to come in due time. 

           

            In the first grade, my mother dropped me off at school, swinging her big ol’ Volvo through the corrals which separated the playing children from the parade of parents in idling cars, who solemnly waved goodbye from behind streaked windshields. I clutched a shaggy yellow rope, suspended between two poles to form a walkway, and made my way toward the swirling, giggling, sprinting chaos of my elementary school playground. 

            “Lauren’s here!” Katelyn Dostaler hollered, and I clutched the rope tighter, as if to brace myself for impact. Katelyn was one of the taller girls, and her wide face peered from beneath a home-trimmed bowl-cut, and from behind a pair of thick spectacles which made her eyes appear two-times the normal size. She ran down the walkway toward me, startling a nervous kindergartener along the way. “Hi, Lauren!” Katelyn yelled, as she unceremoniously scooped my limp form into her arms, twisting me about like a rag doll.

            “Hi, Katelyn,” I said in a strangled voice. She rocked me for a moment longer before placing me back on my feet. My hand flung to the bow in my hair, to check it was still there. If I lost my bow with the pencil on it again, my mom would have my head. She’d had to call the bus company to hunt it down last time, not to mention the time I left it at my friend Marie’s house. My mom always said that Marie’s house was a bottomless pit, hungrily awaiting little odds and ends to gulp down, never to be seen again. Not that Marie’s house was messy; it was actually quite clean. Marie’s family just didn’t get so wrapped up in little things like bows or sweatshirts, or even whether their kitchen cabinets were all painted the same shade of red. Luckily, my bow was still present this time, perched jauntily on my freshly-combed hair.

Katelyn grabbed my hand, swallowing it within her clammy palm, and we walked toward a group of young girls who were flapping their arms and careening about the playground, immersed in play.  “Lauren’s here!” one of the girls announced. Kristy Donahue, a gangly girl with a sly smile, wrapped me in a hug, lifting my feet momentarily from the ground. This was a familiar theme: my friends were always excited to see me and were always trying to pick me up. It was among the disadvantages of being so small—that, and not being able to ride the MindEraser at Six Flags. I greeted my motley group of friends, and immediately joined in their game—an old favorite, and one we would not let go of for many years: Baby Birdies. It was a simple game: a family of birds flew about, facing such perils as hunters, disease, and broken wings. The family was led by a most unlikely mother bird, for she was the smallest of the bunch, but she had a valuable tool: the mother bird could let out a piercing whistle, loud enough to call all the birdies back to the nest. Against all odds, that mother bird was me.

My elementary school years, spent within the walls and limited grounds of N.D.I.C. (Notre Dame / Immaculate Conception) school, was a time of imagination and self-discovery.  The school was small and unimpressive, a squat, rectangular brick building on a stretch of blacktop, next door to Notre Dame church, in a small town in Western Massachusetts. But to my young eyes, N.D.I.C. was a breeding ground for adventure. I love to look back on my elementary school years, back to a time when imaginations were embraced, and when the world was only as large as Easthampton, MA. One particular day from my third grade year floats to the surface of my mind, with images vivid and tangible and nearly within reach.

It was a radiant fall day: the sun was out, pressed into a brilliant blue sky, but the air was sharp and crisp, and my friends’ cheeks were stained pink from the whip of autumn wind. My friends and I stood clustered in a secluded spot of the playground, an area partially hidden by a protruding brick wall of our school building. The small nook always smelt of cookie dough and wet French fries due to a vent which breathed the vapors of the cafeteria into the open air. My group of friends had dwindled in size over the years; some girls had stopped playing at recess, and instead walked around in groups of three or four, circling the blacktop like hungry hawks, gossiping and gabbing and whispering behind cupped hands. But I was not ready to give up baby birdies just yet and still had a solid assemblage of friends of a similar mindset.

“We are all gathered here today,” I said that day, standing before my friends, “to decide whether or not we should kick Kristy out of the group.” I glanced sideways at poor Kristy Donahue who stood in the imaginary witness stand, her bottom lip pushed out in a pout. I paused as a gust of wind tore through our little brick crevice, stirring a stream of dried, encrusted leaves into a dusty whirlwind. The leaves tumbled helplessly, their dainty edges scraping faintly on the blacktop. “Kristy, how do you plead?”

 Kristy shrugged, her eyes following the whirling leaves. “I don’t know. I want to stay in the group. I don’t know what I did that was so wrong,” she said, but her squinted eyes and pursed lips indicated otherwise.

“Objection!” cried Ashley Griffith, dramatically bounding to her feet, her hand shooting into the air with a snap of her fingers. Ashley had done her own hair that day; I had never seen so many colorful barrettes tangled in such short hair. “Kristy pushed me down and told me I am bad at singing!” A chorus of similar stories echoed from the rest of the congregation.

“Order! Order!” I yelled, whacking a stick on the ground, unable to bite back a giggle. I had been dying to say that; it was one of the reasons I was so keen on taking Kristy’s case to court. Kristy was always up to no good, and the girls were continuously petitioning to kick her out of our group. “She’s mean!” Ashley would insist, over and over again. And she was right; Kristy was a conniving child with a mean streak. But who was I to tell her that she wasn’t allowed to play with my friends and me? It just didn’t seem fair. A trial was the perfect solution. Plus, one of my favorite episodes of “Rugrats” featured a trial, as the babies investigated who had broken Chuckie’s favorite clown lamp.

The trial that day ended in a compromise. I convinced the others that Kristy should be allowed to remain in our group as long as she was nice to everyone and let other girls be the youngest birdie once in a while. The others agreed, somewhat begrudgingly, and playtime resumed. I knew the Kristy problem was only temporarily resolved; it was only a matter of time before she broke the agreement. But I just could not cast her out. If I were to be a part of this group (and I hated that it had become as formal as that), I would make sure it was one of acceptance, not of rejection. Like Alyssa Fondakowski! No one had wanted to be her friend before because she was so bashful and quiet, but now we all liked playing with her. It wasn’t nice to turn people away. Maybe Kristy would change, at least for a little while. Regardless, I was happy that recess had become simple again.

A Flatulent Family

      My father is the man who farted on every stair. It is quite the feat; I myself have come close, but have never made it from landing to landing without running out of gas. The secret is to break up an enormous fart into a series of smaller farts, so that there are enough small farts for every stair. It takes a truly monstrous fart to make it to the second floor. My dad is a man of truly monstrous farts.

      For many men, monstrous farts can serve as an impediment in the dating department. Candlelit dinners and dainty lace table cloths hardly provide a setting conducive to freedom of flatulence, and so countless dates withhold their farts, storing them deep within their bellies where they cannot be heard or smelt. This tends to backfire, for these well-intentioned fellows wind up inflated, buoyant and bobbing against the ceiling, their disgusted dates escaping through the back door. 

      Not my father, though. My father knew all the tricks of the trade--he was practically a fartsmith. One night, while wooing my mother, a dainty, small figured girl with an eye for a good time and a load of baggage trailing behind her, my dad fell upon unfortunate bowel discomfort. They sat on a bench in downtown Holyoke, enjoying the song stylings of some local band, but mostly enjoying each other. "He was sweet," my mother recalls. "He even pooped on the downbeats." It was true, my father claims. Stricken with a gullet full o' gas, my father knew the success of the date hinged on his relief of belly pressure. And so, clever man, he waited for the bass-heavy parts of the song and squeezed out bits of gas, one fart at a time. My mother wasn't fooled, however. "I could feel the vibrations through the bench," she claims. Regardless, she was flattered by his efforts; he had her in the bag. 

      As a child, I heard that story many times. For much of my youth, I was perplexed, for I thought my dad literally "pooped" on the downbeats, as my mother insists. I pictured him squeezing out a fresh log, steamy and curled on the end, right on the bench. I should have known better, because my mother only uses the word poop. She finds "fart" distasteful, and avoids it at all costs. It causes some confusion, but it sure is adorable to hear my poised little mother say "poop." 

         My father's flatulence was not always so well managed in the presence of women.  Before meeting my mother, my dad was seeing a local girl, and took her out for a hot date. Unfortunately, the dinner they scored did a number on his belly health, and he sat roiling in pain, purple-faced from withheld gas. The date came to a premature end: "I had to bring her home, I was so uncomfortable," he says. He pulled up to her house, and wished her a hasty "good night." 

         "As soon as the passenger door swung shut, I just let loose." I can only imagine the relief! One enormous fart, containing hours worth of steady air repression, it must have rippled off the leather seats, reverberating throughout the car, jingling the china in the next door neighbors' armoire. Considering the intensity of the emission, it can only be assumed that his date, not having yet paced more than a few feet from the car, must have heard the trumpeting blow, or at least felt the ground shiver beneath her feet. I'll have to ask my dad whether there was a second date. 

     Needless to say, my dad adjusted and perfected his date-farting techniques, and found ways to cope with his flatulence. He certainly found the perfect woman, for though she may roll her eyes, my mother loves every fart that rumbles from my dad's gas chamber. Thank goodness, because otherwise this here fart-fanatic would never have been born. 

Hitchhiking

Last night, Laurie and I apparently brought home some Brazilian men. They had picked us up off the side of the road. We were walking back from Lakeview and decided to throw our thumbs out, to catch a ride and all. We accidentally had to drive around campus twice, because Laurie and I forgot to tell the dudes where we live. When we finally did reach our destination, Laurie was real polite and asked the lads if they were trying to hang out. They came up to our apartment, and we all stood there and kind of looked at each other. It got awkward pretty quick, I guess, because they turned tail soon after. Still, it was pretty cool. I'm a fan of Brazil.

There's a Horn a'Honkin!

There's this car horn that has been going off in the parking lot of Mountain View for a solid 2 hours. It's not like a car alarm or anything; it's just a continuous blaring of this one note. I actually don't even mind it. I am more concerned that someone is slumped over the steering wheel, and that that is why the horn is going off. And if someone is slumped over the steering wheel, that means they're either passed out or dead. It reminds me of "Day in the Life" by the Beatles: "He blew his mind out in a car / He hadn't noticed that the light had changed." That's a rather odd reworking of the idea of red light optimism. Red lights provide a rather opportune time for blowing one's brains out. I guess.
Anyhow, I am trying to focus on more light-hearted things on this here blog. Because lately, I keep focusing on dreary things like regret, and no one wants to read about dreary stuff for too long, or else they start feeling dreary too.
Laurie just came back from class, and someone set off their car alarm, so then there was a car alarm and a horn blaring. So then we got all riled up and I decided to set my alarm off, too. Laurie would have done the same, but she couldn't 'cuz her car Carole doesn't have an alarm. But then more people started beeping their horns or setting off their alarms, and it was complete chaos for a couple minutes. Laurie and I were whooping and hollering like a bunch of baffoons, and it was such a blast. Sometimes it's fun to just make a bunch of noise.
It would be easy to be annoyed by a horn incessantly honking. But it's a hell of a lot more fun to just laugh at it, and make some noise yourself.

Song of the Moment

Remember that song "White Houses" by Vanessa Carlton? If you are a man, you might not remember that song, or you might be too ashamed to admit that you remember that song. The thing is, it is a tremendously girly song. It sometimes makes me feel so feminine, I want to rip my ovaries out and rub them all over my face. Be that as it may, "White Houses" is extremely poignant and lovely and striking, and I feel prompted to write about it. 
      The song starts out with a simple piano intro, which melds immediately into this tinkling, descending stroll of piano-ness (I am very ignorant of musical terms, so bear with me) that is simultaneously chipper and demure. Then, Vanessa's little voice chirps in, and she is so genuine and spare and feminine, it makes my heart erupt and deflate at the same time. There are no fancy adornments to her vocals, but the purity of her voice, in combination with the intricacy of her piano playing, accentuates the meaning and feeling of the song. 
      I remember when I was first affected by this song. I was at a friend's house in Granby, Ma, and it was mid-October. Granby is a beautiful town, and Bridget's house is nestled in a cozy yard, overlooking the distant mountains of Holyoke and Northampton. I cannot remember how old I was, but I remember the startling colors of that day--the crisp, unadulterated blue of the sky, the pure green of the grass, and the smudged copper and fiery red tones of the leaves, dancing on their branches and barely clinging on. We had spent the day in a typical New England fashion; we'd carved pumpkins, setting aside the seeds for roasting, and had begun to rake leaves. While we raked, we hummed the tune to "White Houses" and could not seem to get it out of our heads. We didn't mind, and just kept humming that catchy refrain over and over again. Unfortunately, we didn't know any of the lyrics, so we would hum most of the song and then chime in with "white houses!" during the chorus. Even though the meaning of the song was lost on me at that time, from then on I always  equated the song with New England fall foliage, green grass, and giggles among young girls. 
     It wasn't until a week or two ago that I actually heard the song in its entirety, and that I gave it my full attention. The boys at the neighboring Tower (junior/senior apartments on campus) were throwing an Eighth Grade Dance Throwback party that weekend, and my roommates were very enthusiastic about it. We all got decked out in our eighth grade garb--DC and Converse shoes, band tees, hoop earrings, exposed midriffs, heavy eye liner, and studded belts--and pregamed, listening to essentials from our middle school experiences. Once we actually got to the party, we found that no one else was dressed up, but we were not remotely fazed. We just like dressing up. While in the pregaming process, I believe, Laurie and I went into a downloading frenzy, nabbing eighth grade classics like Nelly's "Country Grammar" and Papa Roach's "Last Resort." We listened to the songs as we downloaded them (legally, of course), and cracked up with every new download.
     Then suddenly, amidst all the bad hip hop and pop music of our pasts, Laurie's computer sighed the first chords of "White Houses." My heart was arrested, and I could practically see the leaves drifting around me as Bridget and I tossed them into the air. "What song is this?" I asked Laurie, and my voice was strained and whispy. "'White Houses' by Vanessa Carlton," she replied. "It's so beautiful. I forgot about it," I said with that same wan voice. "I know, right?" We listened to the whole thing. We may have listened to it twice. It was the only song we listened to in its entirety that night--one becomes sick of "the Thong Song" after about the first verse. I immediately downloaded it myself and put it on my iPod. 
      Later that week, I was driving through lovely Rindge, admiring the freshly-fallen snow drifts which lined the road. I put on "White Houses," and before it was through, found that I was tearing up quite a bit. It's a good thing I wasn't PMSing, or I would almost certainly have dissolved into tears, and would have swerved off the road in a fit of despair. The song is just so goddamn beautiful.

" Crashed on the floor when I moved in

This little bungalow with some strange new friends
Stay up too late, and I'm too thin

We promise each other it's till the end

Now we're spinning empty bottles

It's the five of us

With pretty eyed boys girls die to trust

I can't resist the day

     No, I can't resist the day

Jenny screams out and it's no pose

'Cause when she dances she goes and goes

Beer through the nose on an inside joke

I'm so excited, I haven't spoken

And she's so pretty, and she's so sure

Maybe I'm more clever than a girl like her

The summer's all in bloom

The summer is ending soon

It's alright and it's nice not to be so alone 

But I hold onto your secrets in white houses"

      So that's the first verse and chorus of the song. I hear this part, and I remember a younger version of myself, wearing a clingy pink tank top and a pair of frayed, short denim shorts. I remember sitting quietly on a bed--no comforter, just plain, white sheets--my hands tucked under my thighs, as my old roommate Aly flirted and talked with strange boys effortlessly. "How does she do that?" I wondered to myself, wishing I had the finesse, the social graces, to conduct myself so well in the company of unfamiliar faces. I knew I was intelligent, perhaps more so than Aly. I knew I had valuable things to say. I just felt I had little to contribute in conversations about nothing. I didn't know how to be cool. One of the boys handed me a can of beer. It was only just cold, skirting on the edge of lukewarm. The boy was wearing sunglasses inside--migraines, he said. Aly said he was probably just a tool.  The boy had a pointed chin, a thin smile. His head was vaguely shaped like an egg. He was handsome in a candid, southern "I don't give a shit" way. He had spent some time in Atlanta, and the southern accent clung on the last syllables of his words, hanging jauntily and haphazardly, as if he were both proud and ashamed of the twang he had acquired. 

      I drank the beer, sipping it quickly. It was nice to have something to do with my hands and mouth; it made sitting in silence seem less awkward. I drank another one. I began sipping in eight counts, and the beer slid down more easily that way. I drank another one. My face stretched into a smile, especially when one of the boys put Eminem on. I started to rap along. I drank another one. I had no problem talking now, no problem rapping in full ghetto mode, no problem doing handstands in the middle of the room or hugging everyone in sight. It felt like heaven. I could be fun, too. I could be hilarious and spontaneous and cool. I even felt kind of pretty, even if I was a shapeless spindle of wood compared to Aly. The night flies by, but moves slowly all the same, and breaks taken in bathroom stalls remind me of the person that I really am, when I have enough time to sit down and watch the stall walls spin. I come crashing out into the world, slinging my arms over the shoulders of strangers, any reservations having slipped away. I am vivacious, I am alive, I am on fire.

     The first weeks of my first semester of college pass by in a similar fashion to that night. I become more adept and confident with drinking in copious amounts. I rarely get hungover, and never throw up. I make tons of friends. It's a win win. I extend my drinking repertoire to include all sorts of alcohol, but a night spent with 151 rum sticks out to me most vividly. We lit cap-fulls of the vile stuff on fire, blew them out, and then poured them down our throat. I enjoyed the taste. I relished in the burn. I beamed with pleasure when the boys' complimented my unblemished drinking record. "Oh, Drunkass? Don't worry about her. She's the funnest drunk. And she never gets sick," they would say to alarmed passersby. Drunkass had become my nickname. I bore it with pride. 

     But as the semester wore on, drama began to take hold. Falling outs between Aly and the boys triggered endless animosity, and our invincibility began to wane; we all got written up and charged for defacing university property after a night spent with a jumbo permanent marker and four blank dorm room walls. The boys also began getting in trouble for drinking and general carousing, and for smoking cigarettes in their dorm room. But it was more than just getting in trouble which drove us all apart. I could sense it coming a few weeks in, could feel the impending storm rolling in weeks ahead of time. Happy-go-lucky only lasts so long before reality breaks through.

     I had become involved with Steve, the sunglass wearer. His sights were really set on Aly, the blonde bombshell with the big boobs and bigger voice--she could sing better than anyone I have ever met. But Aly turned him down time and time again; she was in a four-year relationship and was not about to risk that for a scoundrel like Steve. So Steve turned to me, and I was flattered that I might even be looked at. I went with it. I didn't even hesitate, give it a second thought. I knew he looked through shifty eyes, and that he didn't care about anything or anyone. But I just wanted to be liked. I kept becoming more invested in something that meant nothing. I could feel the winter rolling in. The fall was ending soon, and in would come the cold. 

     

"Maybe I'm a little bit over my head
I come undone at the things he said
And he's so funny in his bright red shirt
We were all in love and we all got hurt
I sneak into his car's black leather seat
The smell of gasoline in the summer heat
Boy, we're going way too fast
It's all too sweet to last
It's alright
And I put myself in his hands
But I hold on to your secrets in white houses
Love, or something ignites in my veins
And I pray it never fades, in white houses

My first time, hard to explain
Rush of blood, oh, and a little bit of pain
On a cloudy day, it's more common than you think
He's my first mistake

Maybe you were all faster than me
We gave each other up so easily
These silly little wounds will never mend
I feel so far from where I've been
So I go, and I will not be back here again
I'm gone as the day is fading on white houses
I lie, put my injuries all in the dust
In my heart is the five of us
In white houses

And you, maybe you'll remember me
What I gave is yours to keep
In white houses
In white houses

In white houses"

     Aly spent less and less time at Frankin Pierce. She hated Steve and his crew, hated the insensitive things Steve said out of bitterness from her continuous rejection. She hated not being able to wear high heels every night--Franklin Pierce isn't really a high heels kind of place. She hated all my friends, thought they were dirty and disgusting. It was becoming difficult to make everyone happy, and that's all I ever sought to do. I wish I had taken some time to think about making myself happy. 

     I was secretly glad that Aly spent weekends away. That meant I got Steve and his friends to myself, without any drama. I would find myself admiring Steve's egg-shaped head from behind. I liked the way he laughed, tipping his head back without restraint. I liked the cologne he wore, and the way he said "damn-it" in his slow southern drawl. We spent time together only when we were drunk. I meant nothing to him. I didn't give him all of me, but I gave him most, knowing full well that he would rip me to pieces. I didn't even hesitate. I gave so much of myself away, and I didn't even think twice. 

     Thankfully, it wouldn't be for a year or two that I would actually lose my virginity. I was proud to be a virgin, to hold onto that tiny morsel of self-respect when everyone else had given it away. It was all I had left. I had sold the rest for meaningless friendships and experiences I would spend years trying to forget. It's astounding, painful, to look back on a time that was so liberating, but so confining at the same time. Here I thought I was so free, so well-liked. Really, I was just a waif, readily giving myself away to make others happy. I have changed so much in these three years of college. I have become self-assured, confident in being myself. I no longer feel the need to dress up in flimsy little outfits, "going out clothes," when all they do is make me feel like a product on a conveyor belt. I no longer try to say the right things, to do the right things. I no longer try to be cool. Instead, I ask questions, I have real conversations, I try to learn from every person I meet. I still like to drink, and I still like wearing short denim shorts, but I do it out of choice, not out of necessity. I am even starting to like myself, and to repair some of that splintered self respect. I have found that I make better friends this way, make truer connections this way. I have found that by making myself happy, I make other people happy. 

      I walked away from those hard transition years, and I left all my mistakes behind me. I won't forget them, and will never stop learning from them. And of course I look back with fondness at those first weeks of bliss, of unrestrained frivolity. But honestly, I feel nothing but relief at the prospect of leaving those moments behind, and of moving on. 

-------

So yes, "White Houses" means a lot to me. It is a little lame, since it's such a girly song. But, it is an important song for any young woman who has seen her innocence come and go, and who sometimes wishes thoroughly she could have it back. 

This Gross Pig is Speaking Out

I am annoyed at people who worship law enforcement. I am annoyed at country music (even though I like it myself). I am annoyed at regimented teams that do nothing to benefit me in the long run, and that only distract me from school. I am annoyed at people who rally vehemently against things they have never experienced or attempted to understand. I am annoyed at people who follow blindly behind any Big Voice, never questioning the words tumbling from some figurehead's flapping lips. I am annoyed at anything that even remotely reminds me of two years spent fooling myself, spent with my head submerged below water, spent with the wool pulled over my eyes. I am annoyed at myself for allowing someone to silence me, for keeping my eyes shut against the gross unhappiness I was harboring. I am annoyed that I didn't come to my senses sooner, that I began to think of myself the same way he thought of me: a gross pig. I am annoyed that two years are gone.

It is stupid to be annoyed when everything has turned around, when I have found someone who loves me for who I am, instead of trying to change me at every turn. But sometimes, when I see other people suffering, with the same willed ignorance and blindness that I once showed, I just get so bitter.

If most--or even any--of the words coming out of your supposed love's mouth are degrading, hostile, mean, sarcastic, undermining, condescending, or mocking of you, wake up and get out of that relationship. Find someone who actually loves you and who wants to be with you. For the love of God, love yourself enough to recognize how hurtful jesting comments can be. Love yourself enough to see the truth, and to find someone that wouldn't change a hair on your head. Find someone who brings out the best in you, and you the best in him/her. Otherwise, it's just a waste of time, and a series of hard life lessons learned.

Crusty Snow

      Today, the whole world is shrugging its shoulders. The snow is sagging and gray. It looks like a blanket that's coming untucked, rumpled at the edges, in need of a wash. The air is surprisingly warm, but the sun is obscured by a fine mist. It is not raining; the earth is melting. 

      I hate the look of old snow, glossed with a crisp crust of ice, and tainted with the grit kicked up by so many snowplows. The snow is receding, and nothing green lives underneath--only dirt, sand, and salt. 

I had to bring Ben to the airport today. It was such a brief visit, only two days spent together. As we pulled into the airport, I felt slighted. Hadn't I just driven into the Arrivals area so short a time ago, filled with anticipation and excitement? And hadn't I only just swooped in at the Southwest gate, spotting his slight frame against the dreary background of bustling businessmen and winter sparsity, ramming my car into park, and leaping on him? I had. He had smelled like airplanes, and like Ben. But then, the excitement was suddenly over, and the looming Departures sign glowered down at me. Tears froze on my cheeks, and I clamored back into the drivers seat. It was time to go home.

      It's funny how quickly we dip back into old routines. I am already used to his absence, already accustomed to our reliance on cell phones. Text messages sent with mittened hands, we express our love in 160 characters or less. Back to reality, I suppose. 

     We had such a great time this weekend, though. I appreciate every second that I got to spend with him, and I shouldn't be so negative about the goodbye aspect of our relationship. It just gets really hard, because saying hello and being in each other's presence feels so amazing, it's hard to relinquish that. It's hard knowing we each have to settle back into the humdrum of our daily lives, deprived of each other, except for occasional phone calls or texts. 

      If I were reading this blog, I would be gagging and retching and ripping my eyeballs right out of their sockets. But you've got to know. Ben and I are two peas in a goddamn pod. We truly bring out the best in each other, and I consistently have the most fun just sitting next to him, or watching TV with him, or whatever. My favorite thing, though, and the thing I miss the most about him physically being near me, is waking up next to him in the morning. Just thinking about it makes me feel all warm, but then empty as a bempty (as Ben would say). 

     I am going to try to dial it down on the corn (although I do love corn). I am also going to try to cut down on the negativity. Winter is a difficult season for exuberance and positive energy. Except for when it snows. There is nothing more refreshing and purifying than a fresh snowfall. I hope to see some fluffy flakes fall soon.