One of Three Hundred and Seventeen

In the midst of my teen-aged years, at age fourteen, I started a list. It began in my Five Star college-ruled notebook. I wrote it in pencil, and I can recall starting it, and adding to it, from where I sat at the desk in my room on the second floor of my parent's Cape on a busy road in New Bedford.

The desk that I sat at, from age fourteen to age sixteen, was a lame, somewhat rickety, fiberboard construction - what my dad had granted to me in favor of his new giant, regal desk; a desk with a recessed shelf for the computer's monitor - the screen protected by a tinted slab of glass, on each side there was a drawer, one for the printer and the paper, too, and one for files. Upgrade. For both of us. I had no desk prior to his purchase.

So from this hand-me-down fiberboard desk, I looked out onto my driveway and the house next door, and the sunset, and the traffic, and the general you-know-what... and I started to write this list. And I kept writing the list. On, and on, and... on.

The list that I wrote is entitled "Things That Make Me Happy," and it is three hundred and seventeen items long.

Now, I do, on a daily basis, recognize what makes me happy. Everyone and anyone who's had the - ahem - privilege to meet me for a minimum of five and a half seconds knows that that's the case. Regardless, when I found this list, it occurred to me that at one particular point in my life I felt it especially necessary for me to document what made me happy, even at the most basic, rudimentary level. And, reading it... makes me smile wider and wider with each list item.

I laugh. My eyes water - sometimes for good, sometimes for what I've missed or lost, or forgotten. Some sections of the list bring back certain, very specific memories, like the time I was in Nantucket for Kelly's birthday; the time I discovered New York City and taking cabs; the time Karin, Heather and I made up the nickname "King Friday."

Other items make me sigh and think, "Not much has changed in over a decade. Not much at all..." Like, for example, I still love toast, my mom, and the smell of a baby's soft scalp.

But, I digress...

Number one on the list is the topic for tonight; the introductory topic also being the list itself, but the Number One being the primary topic.

#1 Friends

Today, I moved. It was very short notice and it was very rapid. Very short notice. But, necessary. Insisted upon, in fact. So, I'm in the midst of a serious semester, I'm strapped for cash as always, and I have been trying to deal with LiG (life in general) which seems to throw crap things at me more often than not, lately. (Like somewhat severe back injuries on the week that I'm meant to move.)

Anyway. Number One on the list. My friends.

My friends, who spend an entire Sunday lifting heavy things like couches and tables, and the like.

My friends, who waded amidst a year's worth of dust bunnies and carted off furniture and furniture and boxes and boxes... and boxes.

My friends, who did seventeen point turns in fourteen foot U-Hauls in and out of parking lots.

My friends, who had homework, and boyfriend/girlfriend time, and their own LiG bullshit to deal with.

My friends, who had bridal expos and family dinners, and better things to do.

My friends, who had chest colds, and sore muscles and hangovers.

My friends, who do FAFSAs and tax returns.

My friends, who listen and talk and laugh and laugh... and laugh.

My friends, who buy me the most thoughtful and "me" birthday gifts that I want to show off to the world; "Look how awesome my friends are! Look how they know me so, so well. Look at what a lucky, lucky girl I am."

My friends.

I'm so grateful. So, so grateful, that I have these people in my life.

So, so grateful.

This is why, forever and ever amen, they will be Number One on the list. Whatever list. Any list. All lists.

Thank you, Friends.

Thank you. I love you all, always.

Twenty Four Hours

Unlike some people I did not meet the official blog deadline for my theme: Mom Mail Wednesdays. That being said, I'm rationalizing my late post as such - I'm still awake, so therefore it's still Wednesday. Eh? Yeah, I think it counts.

So, the post title is as such because my mom's birthday was yesterday, and mine is today. I didn't spend today like I would have liked to spend today... not even a little bit. But, I did get to see my Mom. And she gave me the most beautiful bouquet of flowers. Flowers that were in my kitchen until I got home tonight, saw that the irises were opening, and decided I wanted to wake up to them tomorrow; so, I brought them in my room.

Irises are my favorite flower. In any and ever color; but, especially the pale bluish/purplish colored ones. They smell like my childhood. And grape Dimeaptapp. So. Yeah... they straight up smell like my childhood.

Anyway. So, twenty four hours. That's all there is between me & Mum. And, originally, 27 years ago, the doctors wanted her to have a C-section on her birthday and she said, "No, I want her to have her own birthday," and put it off. And, I do. I do have my own birthday. But, regardless, there's nobody else I'd rather blow candles out with than my Mum.

Today, she hugged and squeezed me and handed me the vase of flowers and said, "Having you was the best birthday present I ever got." And, then I cried. Which apparently is the new trend. Me & Crying. So hot for spring.

Anyway. I just want to mention how rad my mom is. Again. And how lucky I am to share twenty four hours with her.

So, here you are. Without further ado: Mom Mail.

Date: 9/10/07
Subject: to my wonderful honeybunny

my darling kate, i just found some other old pics i meant to bring out for you and for karen as well, as some are from your eighth grade grad. and prom...anyway, i shall pop them in the mail some other day this week.

and, i sent off the sunday globe job section with the "ideas" section too, for there were some intersting articles in there i thought you might enjoy reading.

i hope you are making it through the day okay.

also, did julie have her baby?

i love you sooooo much and am so proud of the wonderful, smart and loving person you are....

xoxoxox,mom

Words I need to remind myself of every now and then. Wonderful... smart... loving...

Happy Birthday, Mama.

A Memory Montage/Songs for the Little Ones at Home

My Grammy Ad is (was) my favorite person in the whole wide world.

She had a great, big crocheted purse with peanut butter crackers and wintergreen Lifesavers floating in it for tummy emergencies. Her lips were always pink or coral and had the waxy smell of Max Factor lipstick. Her cheeks smelled like the sterility of Cover Girl; the brown compact lurked in her giant bag - at the ready for touch-ups.

She always wore tennis shoes; Keds, to be exact, skirts, and polo shirts - most from Land's End or LL Bean. They were all cotton and machine washable. (She taught my mom how to shop.) When she wore long sleeves, you could count on there being a clean piece of Kleenex waiting up one of them for a tear or a sniffle.

She baked amazing cookies (chocolate chip) and breads (lemon zest) and cakes (German chocolate). She always had watercolors at her house for me to paint with; she'd take the card table out for me. Sometimes I painted on the pages of coloring books, sometimes I painted my nails. She loved both. She kept Cheese Balls in a tin under her kitchen sink, for when we came to visit, knowing it was a treat for us - my mom didn't approve of junk food - along with Veryfine bottles of fruit punch. The glass juice bottles were the old school type: they had Styrofoam labels. I peeled the labels from the bottle in strips while my mom and Grammy Ad talked on the couch.

Her alarm clock was old and you could hear the gears grind as it worked harder and harder to keep the seconds counted. In her bedside table, on which the clock sat, she kept a tin of lemon candies; I would take one after a nap. She grew geraniums in her kitchen, the warmth of incoming sunlight made the leaves smolder and their smell infiltrated the whole avocado-colored kitchen. She found four leaf clovers all the time, pressing them dry in her Fanny Farmer cookbook and then mailing them to my mom for good luck.

When we left for home, she'd always send us home with a paper bag full of her old Time and Life magazines that she'd already read, maybe the occasional Veryfine; we'd beep the horn a special way when we drove away from her little house - beep ba beep beep beeeeep beeeeep. She waved until we couldn't see her anymore; until her white hair was a pinpoint, until her watering blue eyes were far away from mine.

I miss her so much.

I've spent my whole life trying to be closer to her; trying to never forget the way that she more than any other person has permeated every single one of my senses. I've spent my life remembering her so that I'll never, ever forget.

My mom knows I do this. She gives me jewelry, antique buttons, scarves, photos, Grammy Ad's paintings and drawings; she gives me anything that I might find some sentimental value in, anything that might make knowing her in the absence of her a little easier.

Tonight, two days before my birthday, and one day before my mom's birthday, my mom gave me a book, Songs for the Little Ones at Home. It's copyright is 1911, it's binding is split, it's pages are nearly all falling out, and there is a note tucked inside, written in Grammy Ad's cursive: "One of my favorites... My mother read this book to me so much and I looked at it so much that it is almost in shreds..."

When I looked through the book later on in the evening, after we left birthday dinner, I could hardly wait to share. So, I'm going to post one "poem" every Monday here at FGS. Some of the passages them are lyrical and very clearly music - they are complete with sheet music on the corresponding page. Other passages are poetic, and have no musical direction to accompany them. Some are a little preachy... but what can you expect, really? It was 1911.

So, every Monday I'll blog a passage from Songs for the Little Ones at Home. One, maaybe two... depending on the day.

And, every time, I'll think of her. And it will make my heart beat, and I'll touch the hardcover she touched, and turn the pages she turned, and read what she read, and I'll try not to wonder if this was her favorite... or this... or that...

A Song to Bring Sleep

Two little eyes,
Two little lips,
Two little hands,
Two little feet:
What shall we ask for them all?

Two little eyes,
Blue, blue,
Blue as the azure deep of the skies ---
Now so rougish, now wondrous wise,
Solemn and funny, all in a twink,
Changing and changing with every wink:
What shall we ask for these little eyes?

Open them, Lord,
To see in thy Word
Wondrous things;
Light them with love,
And shade them above
With angels' wings

Two little lips,
Red, red,
Red as the flamy coral tips,
Sweet as the rose the wild bee sips,
Singing and prattling all day long,
And kissing and coaxing with witchery strong:
What shall we ask for these little lips?

Two little hands,
Busy, busy,
Busy as bird and busy as bee,
Gathering "funny things" for me.
Weaving webs, and building a house
"Just the size for a wee, wee mouse":
What shall we ask for these little hands?

Two little feet,
Nimble, nimble,
Trot-foot and Light-foot, oh, what a pair;
Now here, now there, now everywhere:
Running of errands, dancing in glee,
Skipping and jumping merrily:
What shall we ask for these little feet?

I picked this one because I'm about to go to sleep. And, because I find it odd that it sounds like a little baby, but it references kissing and coaxing and running errands - which sound, almost 100 years later, a lot more adult than baby. Anyway. First installment of SftLOaH. We'll see how it goes...

Good night.

Anthropologically Correct

Recently, during a conversation with my bestie Eric, he attempted to describe the close friendship between three people I don't know and have never met. Part of how he described the friendship to me was to say that they - the three close friends - had their own language, their own vocabulary.

In the seconds that followed, I did a quick tally in my mind. Yup. My friends and I have our own language. A large, expansive vocabulary of things we've just made up. Sometimes we make up words, and sometimes we attach completely arbitrary meanings to words that already exist. The fact is, if you'd never met the besties and me, and you sat down and listened in on a conversation - you might discover that you have no effing clue what we were talking about.

Learning how we talk, and what we mean when we say the things we say, is part of getting to know us; being briefed on our vocabulary is a good sign - we like you and think you should be able to understand what it is that we're saying.

A long, long time ago while I was a fresh-faced undergraduate, I took a class in cultural anthropology. Now, as is custom for my memory, I remember - vividly - a mere two things from that class. The first is the exact location and appearance of the room in which we met for class. The second is that my professor lived on Nantucket - my school was in Framingham, not at all near Nantucket - and she flew over in a plane every week, stayed in her local apartment, and then flew back to the island from whence she came.

Needless to say, the anthropological value of this trip-taking to the mainland constantly preoccupied me - and, perhaps that's now why I can't remember a single fucking thing about that class except for those two things: The location, and my professor's extensive commute and time spent living amongst the natives (read: mainland college kids).

Do not let my lack of memory take away from the fact that I wholeheartedly enjoyed the class, and was on many occasions struck by a sense of "holy shit the world is so big and so small all at once, and everything is related to long-held cultural standards that we don't even consider anymore."

According to this website, anthropology is "a science of humankind. It studies all facets of society and culture. It studies tools, techniques, traditions, language, beliefs, kinships, values, social institutions, economic mechanisms, cravings for beauty and art, struggles for prestige. It describes the impact of humans on other humans. With the exception of the Physicial Anthropology discipline, Anthropology focuses on human characteristics generated and propogated by humans themselves."

So, let's just break it down really quickly. I'll tell you that the besties and I are all from the same geographical location, we all work in the same business, and we all went to elementary & high school together.

Okay, that being said - let's take it a step further; this website says that a tribe "is, in anthropology, a notional form of human social organization based on a set of smaller groups (known as bands), having temporary or permanent political integration, and defined by traditions of common descent, language, culture, and ideology."

So, basically, we're a tribe.

And, as a tribe of crazies, I think there should be an anthropological investigation that reports on us. I think it would be highly, highly entertaining and amusing.

Anyone with a camera feel like making a hilarious anthropologically-driven documentary about a tribe of best friend waitresses in the wondrous Whaling City?

It could be good. Really good.

'Til Death Do Us, In Four Parts

Part One: The Ladies

I've said it time and time again, but it never ceases to be true: my best friends are my remarkable, extended, and amazing family members.

We very nearly operate as one unit. Have you ever seen these? It's like that with us. We're a fragile, well-balanced system - and it's not to say that sometimes things are a little wonky, but it's like that with all self-sustaining systems; the possibility for conflict exists, but it's all about how the system recovers. And we recover. Every time. Sometimes, I think we're stronger afterward.

When we're all in the same room, when we're all talking and laughing and being our individual spazzy selves - my heart nearly explodes with all the love. I feel so grateful. So happy. So content. We "get" one another, and for someone who has spent a great deal of time trying to "get" herself, this feat does not go unnoticed.

Part Two: The Gents

The night before last, I received a phone call from one of the besties, Ms. Meghan Ryan, and she informed me that her long-time beau Marc had proposed; she was engaged.

Engaged! With a diamond! (Obvi.)

Three of my besties have had some lovely luck finding the boys that want to be with forever. They found a version of best friend that they want to date and marry and that, my friends, is what everyone's out for, right?

And, now, one of them is engaged to that very boy. The best friend.

Part Three: The Aging Process

A couple of weeks ago I found two gray hairs while in a vibrantly-lit restaurant ladies room. I then returned to the table, ordered a dirty martini, and forcibly brandished my ID at the waitress - who wasn't going to ask.

"You want this, right?" I said accusingly, "Because I just found two gray hairs, and you need to see this. Right?"

"Uh. Sure..." she obliged.

Now, my birthday is in a mere five days, I'll soon be 27. Late twenties. Almost thirty. I guess it's an acceptable time to find some grays.

And, now, to add to the feeling of aging, suddenly I'm moving into a new apartment all by myself, and my best friend's getting married (cue Princess Bride, "mawwaige..."). So, sometime next year I'll be a gray-haired, likely single, livin' on my own, 28 year old bridesmaid.

Part Four: Conclusion

You know what? There isn't another group of people on this earth that I'd rather get old with. There is not a person I'd rather see get married, be happy, and live life to the fullest than any one of my best friends, who are the loves of my life.

So, bring it on, life, age, gray hairs, whatever. Bring your worst. This self-sustaining ecosystem isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Public Service Announcement & Personal Mantra

you've got to take control,
you don't leave it, don't leave it,
they'll say what they'll say,
don't listen, don't listen

Well, that's what this song told me. And, in all honesty, I listened to it at totally at random because I was feeling like I had encroaching writer's block and needed to find a starting point. And, I picked it because the band's name is Cassette Kids, and I feel a strong level of nostalgic recognition regarding anything or anyone involving a cassette. So. That's how I ended up with that lyrical set stuck in my head.

And, I think it's a good place to start. I mean, I do need to take control over this moment in particular - because as I start to write, I begin to understand my feeling of writer's block. It's not that there's a block because I don't have anything to say - there's just too much to say. I have too much to say. I should be grateful for that, I guess. Though, I'd be more apt to enjoy the writing process if all this information wasn't stuck in some sort of mental traffic jam inside my brain.

So. Take control. Write about it. Write about everything.

Mom Mail

Well, it's Wednesday, so that means it's time for Mom Mail.

Which, at this point, is a good thing - because my brain is expanding with stress and schoolwork; so, a post by my mom is just what I need. And, this week, I'm going to include two messages - partially because one is just photos.

Date: 06/08/07 Subject: good afternoon mr.toad


Date: 09/05/07 Subject: pillows

hello sweetheart....another suggestion...you two might want to bring your own pillows, as i don't know if those upstairs are truly comfortable....i mean, sometimes people like their own nighnigh stuff.

also, i am at this moment making some LENTIL SALAD!!! yummyyummy.

xoxoxoxoxo,mom

In The Name of Love

I'll be honest with you, Valentine's Day is not my favorite holiday. Now, before you stop reading or start prepping for the "typical" Single Girl Valentine's Day Rant - I know you're expecting it, don't try and pretend you're not - let me explain.

I love love. I do. I really, really do. I readily, and without any hesitation, tell people in my life how much I love them, how much they mean to me in any and all capacities, and I sign off most written text with an "xo" because I really, truly, have a genuine love for a lot of people in my life - I mean, that's why they're in it in the first place, right? Who keeps people around that they don't care for? Not me. So, the "xo." Basically, if I was talking to them in person, I'd totally give them a hug and a kiss. Cheek-kiss, I mean; I'm no floozy. Ahem. Others may beg to differ. Pay them no mind.

Anyway.

Last night, I was kind of in a funk. I was feeling overly contemplative, stuck at work, and stuck in life. Like I said... overly contemplative. Anyway, so, last night, when in this funk - do you know what I wanted most in the whole wide world? A hug. A giant, arms-wrapped-around-me, catch-my-breath-in-my-throat, eyes-closed, gut-squishing hug. You know the kind. The kind of hug that makes you feel safe. Loved. The kind of hug that trades sadness for the force of someone's arms wrapped clear around you - their fingertips touching on the other side.


I'm a hugger. What can I say? I got it from my mom. She is one of the most affectionate, loving people I know, and I grew up with hugs. And, now, much like a hand running over and over again through my hair and over my cheek makes me calm down and fall asleep, hugging makes me feel okay when I feel not-so-okay. And, on a rainy day I crave popcorn - 'cause that's what my mom always did. These are the traditions that I was brought up to appreciate. And, loving people was one of them.

So, what's my issue with Valentine's Day if I love love so much? Valid question. Allow me to explain.

I share love on the daily. I don't expect anything in return - except most people, when you say "I love you," don't not say anything back. Unless they're not nice people. And, if that's the case, I probably didn't say "I love you" in the first place. So. There you go.

So, what I don't love about this day is that you're supposed to say "I love you" to someone. The obligatory "I love you" is, for me, a lot of pressure for an emotion that's supposed to be organic, uncontrollable, and purely selfless. I mean, do you have a Valentine on Valentine's Day because you couldn't possibly, on any other day besides February 14th, have told this person that you love them? No. You have a Valentine on February 14th because corporate America tells you that that's the day you're supposed to love someone. That's the day that diamonds will mean more, roses will smell better, and chocolates will taste better because they come out of a heart-shaped box.

You Love on February 14th because it's "better" that way. In the name of red and pink and Hallmark and hearts and roses, you love someone.

Love me today, love me tomorrow, love me yesterday. I don't need a Valentine because my heart's exploding already. I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world. And, if you think about it - probably not even all that hard - I'm sure you'll realize that with every heartbeat today, tomorrow or the next day, you love someone and someone loves you. And that makes you the luckiest person in the whole wide world.

So, tell them today, and tell them every day. And feel your heart get all cozy and your smile get wider and wider and just be happy.

I don't love Valentine's Day because it's a dictated, obligatory celebration of something I think should be respected every day. Not just one.

Limbo Isn't Just a Game Anymore

I was afraid of limbo as a kid.

I mean, in general, I was just a scared kid and that manifested itself in my aversion to being chased and, in addition, anything that involved a room full of people watching me attempt to do something even remotely difficult. You know, difficult... like tip myself backwards from the waist up and try not to hit a stick that's balanced above me while I walk underneath it and the people watching sing a stupid song.

You know, it's a fucking terrible idea for a game. I think I would more enjoy pushing a tire around with a stick. Really.

But, anyway, yes, part of my hatred for limbo comes from my general dislike for being the center of attention. I have seriously faked injuries so as to avoid "playing" limbo. (Can you call it "playing?" Who cares. You get it.)

Anyway, limbo.

As an adult, the word "limbo" has this whole other meaning - besides the obvious meaning, which conjures up images of the game's frequent inclusion at silly corporate celebrations and bad luau themed birthday parties. Shudder.

As an adult, limbo means that someone - in this case, me - is in an awkward position. "Limbo" means that my twenty-somethin' ass got stuck while crouching under the limbo stick, trying to pull of some awesome dip move that would hopefully keep me from being eliminated.

As an adult, limbo means that I'm teetering. I'm balanced on the balls of my feet and I'm fighting the downward draw of gravity while my body spends precious, time-suspended moments trying to decide how to reconcile the fact that it is not, in fact, balanced, and is certainly not equipped for a backward dip/forward motion move.

In a series of somewhat unrelated, but domino-effect, life moments, I now find myself in a metaphorical place not unlike the balanced body suspension so commonly associated with the game of limbo.

And, after this series of recent events, here I am, teetering under the metaphorical limbo stick - wondering which way I'm going to fall, if at all. Maybe I won't fall, but instead I'll disrupt the stick. I'd rather that. I'd rather not take a terrible tumble in front of a room full of people. I'd rather hit the limbo stick and watch it go down instead.

In this case, the limbo stick is being lowered by two things: One, the fact that I am single. And, two, the rental prices in New Bedford. Allow me to explain...

Have you ever shopped for an apartment as a single person?

Me either.

Know what?

It's fucking impossible.

One bedroom apartments are priced for couples; they are at least six, seven or eight hundred dollars, some are nine hundred dollars a month.. some are even one thousand dollars a month.

One thousand. Dollars. One thousand American dollars. Per month. For a one bedroom. Ridiculous.

Now, apartments that have two bedrooms are, comparatively, a mere seven or eight hundred dollars a month - and, yes, some are nine, but not many. The majority are reasonably priced for two people.

It's such bullshit. Nothing is priced for one person occupation. Everything requires a partner in crime.

Okay, Universe, I get it. Thanks. Now lay the fuck off, please.

Two Halves Equal A Whole... Maybe

I've never been a math person.

Ever.

I'm not even good with numbers in the most basic, general sense of their use.

For example, I suck at the "How Old Do You Think I Am?" game, I'm never close in the "How Many Jellybeans Are In This Jar?" estimation, and I certainly cannot venture a guess at how much things cost, like those crazy game show fanatic types on "The Price is Right."

Seriously, though, those people are crazy.

I would just guess $1 every fucking time. Maybe sometimes that would work. Other times, probably not. So. Yeah, I don't think I'd last long on "The Price is Right." Ah, well. Who needs a pair of jet skis and a china cabinet or a new Chevy Malibu? Okay, admittedly, the last time I watched TPiR was about ten years ago. So, maybe the showcases (that's what they were called, I think) have improved since then. Regardless, I still don't think I'd know how to "price" them. Not right, that's for sure.

I do, however, commit numbers to memory rather readily. This I attribute to the fact that I have a serious memory for the trivial, and somewhat irrelevant, facts that most people walk past, skim over, or depart from.

Such as, you ask?

Well, such as phone numbers, license plate numbers, addresses, etc. Numerical sequences. Those I can handle.

Like I said - bullshit number crap that's the same as knowing how to spell.

For me, numbers are words that transform, they don't co-exist; I can remember a numerical sequence like the words in a sentence, but one doesn't add up words, so therefore I don't add numbers.

Words don't add. Words accumulate, but each one maintains it's integrity. Numbers, on the other hand, change, disappear, develop and melt one into the other, creating an entirely new number.

I watched a movie tonight about falling in love; the concept was not unlike other Falling In Love Movies. Boy meets girl, boy loves girl, boy and girl marry. Sometimes, like this time, there are variables. Fractions, divisions, multiples and algebraic exes and whys that make their way into the equation; but, regardless of those inclusions, in love stories, the equation always equals 2. Boy plus girl equals two. One plus one equals two.

Simple fucking math, and I can't do it.

I'd like to think that it's my inability to equate numerals to theory that makes my world seem so absolutely alone without one more than me, but the fact is that I believe it's the way we're programmed, the way we're conditioned. We expect that every one (1) has a two (2). Every beginning has an end. Every plus one will eventually equal a minus one. Everything balances.

Like a fucking accountant pounding an adding machine, the rhythm of the ticker tape doesn't cease, the noise and the ink rack up pluses and minuses and result in the relieved tally that tells the number cruncher that they're at a satisfying total of... zero. Zero.

And since when is fucking zero satisfying anyone except people who love math? It's not. That's why I love words. The more words, the better; the larger the sum of it's parts, the more powerful the piece.

Someday, perhaps... someday I'll try to understand one plus one equals two. Someday I'll see my reflection in another person, my "other half. " And, then, in one split second, when I open my mouth and utter the words "I love you," to this person, this half, I'll feel like two instead of one, or one instead of a half.

Someday, I'll learn to love math. Someday, when I learn to love you.

Fear Of the (Un)Known

Today, from my living room window, I looked out onto a street covered in heavy, wet, white snow, and realized I couldn't identify which car was mine. Maybe that one? No. Maybe that one? Maybe...

When everything is blanketed in snow, the world is exactly as we know it, and yet, it is not at all familiar.

Streets that we have memorized are physically changed, they are altered and slightly foreign; we don't know what to expect from them anymore, when they're covered in snow. We have to approach them like we've never met before. We adjust our speed, we accommodate for ice, salt, sand, a plow's path, and - in general - we're tentative.

The familiar shapes of objects we know to exist in our environment - garbage cans, recycling bins, rocks, rakes, fences, bushes - are masked in the white cloak of winter weather. They are misshapen, faceless, their identities concealed, their hard edges bulbous, their silhouettes shapely.

A long time ago, I tried to run away from this city and everything in it; I tried to know new people, see new sights, and establish a lifestyle that allowed me to embrace the person I thought New Bedford wouldn't. Then, time passed, and I realized I was the same person regardless of my geographical location and through a series of unrelated events, I ended up here again.

What happened after my return, even I can't quite believe. I realized it wasn't just "here," it was "home."

And, it was as if I never left.

My friendships didn't skip a heartbeat. It was the same as it ever was. The same friendship it had always been - it just waited for my return.

My heart skipped a beat every time I felt increasingly at ease here, as I flawlessly fell into the patterned normalcy of a life in this city, a life in this place that I know like I know nothing else. Except maybe me. I've never felt more right, more whole. I've never felt more safe.

I've been back - both as the person I thought I could not be, and as a resident of the city I thought would not care - since 2003. I love it here, and I love what being here means to me and the people I care for. And I wouldn't want to change that.

However, lately, I find myself longing for the days during which something was unfamiliar; when I was unfamiliar. Not to myself, but to the people I existed amongst.

I've been listening to a lot of random, unfamiliar music lately; I catch myself longing for the feeling of recognizing something old in something new. A lyric, a beat, a voice, a feeling of a chorus when it hits me; like deja vu, a place where I've never been, but it is familiar nonetheless.

I've been thinking a lot about moving lately; moving away from these worn-in paths that lead to worn-out bar stools and heading toward uncharted territory, following the road less traveled toward unmapped spaces and places. Places where I can discover more about myself by discovering something more about the road that rises up to meet me and the people on either side.

So, when that happens, and I think about moving, I consider it. I consider leaving this all behind.

And, then, just like this morning, when I looked out onto a snow-covered street and tried to find my little green Subaru amidst piles of heavy white snow, I panic.

The thing about the snow is... it melts. And then, after it melts, everything is exactly as it was before the storm. But, before it melted, for a brief time, I got to see the world as an altered and barely recognizable version of itself; the world, pure and untouched and amorphous.

My life here needs a white winter blanket every once in a while, and maybe I'll travel for brief periods and seek it's affect elsewhere until that no longer will suffice; until what I have to do is crawl under the blanket, put my head down, and see what life is like when all the shapes have changed and nothing is as it seems.

New Wednesday Lineup: Mom Mail

That tiny, white-haired, and really, really excited lady in the purple is my Mom.

No, we did not color coordinate.

Though, it just occurred to me that perhaps she's the reason that the only color I wear is purple. If I'm not wearing purple, I'm wearing black or gray. Most likely, I'm somehow wearing all three. She really likes purple. Hm.

I digress. Again. (I should rename this blog; A Digression would be a much more appropriate title, don't you think?)

Anyway, my mom is so damn cute, right? And, she's even more awesome than this picture illustrates.

That being said, I'm instituting a Wednesday tradition here at FGS: Mom Mail.

It's kind of like "Tyra Mail," I guess. Now, when I write that, I expect you to imagine a gaggle of 50 pound "models" screaming it as they run to a nondescript white envelope on a pedestal; a light is shining down from above and a choir is singing. Divine communication. Wretch.

Like I said... kind of like "Tyra Mail," but not really at all. Mostly it's only like "Tyra Mail" because both concept names involve the word "mail." My Mom Mail will be way, way more awesome. And, there is no drawn out elimination ceremony, nor will my Mom criticize you if you walk like a horse or can't smile with your eyes.

The deal is that I save all the emails Mom sends me in a folder. Why? Because they're awesome.

For the past few years, my mom & stepdad have lived in Vermont. In the next few months they're moving back down to my neck of the woods in Massachusetts, so the possibility exists that the emails will slow down some; before, they were my Mom's preferred means of keeping in touch despite the vast distance between us, and her preferred means of keeping me up to date on all things nature, and all things Vermont.

So, I'm starting from the oldest email I have in the folder and I'll work my way forward. I hope you enjoy.

So, here we go. The first of many Mom Mail moments.

Sent: 5/28/06
Subject: chicks and rainbows

my darling ...i hope these entice you to come up soon.xoxox,mom

With Love, From MySpace to Yours

I get a lot of shit email. A lot. So much so, that I barely check one of the accounts anymore, and have stopped giving it out as part of my personal contact information because I'd prefer it to just become the place where crap email goes to die - much like the recycling bin in my front hallway.

Prior to my moving in, the unclaimed blue bin in the front hall was established as the sole receptacle for any and all junk mail/fliers that arrive in the mail. Unlike my email junk, however, that recycling bin is overflowing and taking up an awful lot of physical space. And, the more crap that goes in it, the heavier it gets and the less likely it is that someone will move it to the curb. It's much, much easier to ignore the crap in my now defunct hotmail account than it is to ignore the possibility that the front hallway in my building will someday be awash with recycling bin overflow made up of supermarket coupons, Price Rite fliers, and Chinese food take out menus.

This morning, I could not sleep. I was awake at five in the morning, trolling the internet for entertaining bullshit that I could scroll through without much effort. I had every intention of finding something that would bore me and put me back to sleep. So, naturally, I navigated my way to my junk email account; what better way to waste time and very, very little intellectual energy, right? Lest I wake my already restless brain up any further.

In the midst of scanning, I was intrigued by this subject: "Ideas For An Amazing Valentine's Day!" and the sender: MySpace. Okay, "intrigued" might be a strong word. I guess I could say, I looked at it and thought, "Oh, yes please, Gods of Comedy; MySpace, tell me how to have an Amazing Valentine's Day."

Now, please allow the fact that I'm getting MySpace emails to this account indicate further just how antiquated this particular account is.

Anyway, the marketing geniuses at MySpace provided me with some vital stats for the upcoming V-Day celebrations. They wanted me to know where to eat, "locally," with MySweetheart on V-Day. (Their recommendation? That I head to Providence for an intimate dinner at Longhorn Steakhouse, which was graded at an A+ by MySpace users.) Also, they'd like me to know what music I should listen to on MyPlaylist for V-Day, and, in case I find myself lost and lonely on the big day, where to find hot, available singles in my area... On MySpace. Duh.

I don't really keep up with radio-friendly music. It just doesn't do it for me. But, these MySpace music recommendations surely have piqued my interested as to just what the hell is going on in the land of Top Forty music these days.

1. "Two is Better Than One," Boys Like Girls
I read this like two girls are better than one. If that is what this group of heteros mean, then I'm impressed it made it to the number one spot for V-Day. Not every couple is that open-minded.
2. "Baby," Justin Bieber
Not the most inventive song title, and it doesn't give much away. Maybe he has a baby, wants a baby, wants to practice making them, I don't know. All I know is that I have no fucking clue how to say his last name except that it's conjuring up the image of the elephant Babar in my head. (Cue childhood memory music...)
3. "Your Love is My Drug," Ke$ha
Uumm. What's with the dollar sign? Has she had to change her password in the UMassDartmouth COIN system so many times that she is far too literate in combining letters of upper and lower case with at least one symbol? Probably not, because if she were, she'd know to have also included a numeral.
4. "Kiss Me Through the Phone," Soulja Boy
I am assuming this is a phone sex reference? If so, isn't that so 2009? I thought it was all about the sexting? Oh, and I had to check that I was spelling Soulja's name right like, three times. And I'm a fairly literate person.
5. "I'm Yours," Jason Mraz
Besides granting us "Words With Friends" (pseudo Scrabble iPhone app that allows proper nouns) obsessives a way of using an M, R, and Z in one word, joining the ranks of Brett Favre in the land of Last Names I Have to Think Way Too Much About Before I Say Them Out Loud, and providing every couple getting married in 2009 with their wedding song, what has Jason Mraz actually done?

Well, thanks, MySpace.

I will have an amazing Valentine's Day this year, and it's all thanks to you.

Every Action Has An Equal and Opposite Reaction

Sometimes - scratch that - most times, there's just no way of knowing the ways in which our actions, or our lack of action, will change our lives. It's part of what's amazing, what's beautiful, what's miraculous, and what's fucked up about our lives here while we're living them.

It's amazing to think of all that we're capable of in life.

It's fucked up to think of all that we're capable of in life.

It's all a mystery. It's all chance. Ot at the very least, it's chance with a twinge of intent. It's kind of like my friend Tyler from Tennessee who tried to let go of his southern drawl when he moved to Massachusetts; his accent will always be laced with a hint of Tennessee. You can take the boy outta Tennessee, but you can't take the Tennessee outta the boy's accent. It's the same with chance and fate; there's always some fate lingering behind a remnant, elongated vowel sound.

If you look at things the right way, there will always something you can't control that leads to something else that seems like it should have always been, but wouldn't ever have existed had it not been for that chance. That moment. That split second where you went right instead of left; up instead of down; one block instead of two... you get the idea.

I take my Chance shaken - not stirred - straight up, with a twist of Fate. Though, lately, this new bartender's been giving me the cheap house Chance and it's all comin' to me on the rocks, with no Fate.

It's rough.

Okay, so fine, the Universe has a plan, I trust in that, I guess. Maybe that's called "fate," I don't know. It's debatable, but not here, not now. Besides, this post isn't about fate, it's about a shitstorm, and how to see a silver lining in a cloud of poo.

Yesterday, in preparation for some Superbowl watching, I decided to make chili and cornbread. I've never made chili before. Cornbread, yes. Chili, no. I'm freaked out by things that stew. I like adding precise amounts of things so that certain baking-science-related shit happens and an exact thing happens as a result - I like baking. Not stewing. Not souping. Not roasting.

So, I called Tiffany, my chili-making bestie, for her recipe. Turns out - Tiffany's "recipe" is really just a list of ingredients that go in a pot together in a certain order. Some beer, some chili powder, some beans, some turkey, some chorico, some tomato paste, some tomato, some onion, some pepper, some jalapeno.

Luckily, when I made the chili, my mom was here, and she's the kind of "Oh, just throw some in there," kind of cook, so it made it all okay. She coached me through approximation cooking, adding water here and there, more tomato paste, a little more cumin. Before I knew it, the chili smelled like chili, and then, not long afterward, it looked and tasted like chili. I made the cornbread using my exact methods of baking, and then later topped the whole meal off with cupcakes and homemade frosting.

I like cooking. And, everything turned out to be pretty delicious. Even the chili.

Today, while I was in the midst of a leftover chili lunch and some tortilla chips, I got some shitty news. Later, I found out about three other people who got fucked up news today. Like, the kind of news that makes you cry so hard you have to do your eye makeup all over again. (Which, for me, is like starting with a blank canvas and painting a fucking Picasso - not something I do without begrudging the jackass who made it all possible by causing the tears in the first place.)

So, like I was saying in the side note - February 8th is a shit day in not just my book, but three other people's as well. So there.

Anyway, generally after receiving shit news, I have to talk about it. I have to tell people, I have to talk to my friends and family about it, I have to lament, discuss. I get all worked up and slowly but surely, the more I discuss the topic, the more sense it begins to make as one of those moments where I should just recognize the fate. I should just shut the hell up and be grateful for the chance at change; the change that might be the reason for something else way more awesome.

I realized that life is not unlike making a big, giant pot of chili. Someone can give you the gist of it, the general order that a bunch of stuff is supposed to cook in, and you can do your best to assemble all those things together at once, and in the correct order - but it doesn't mean that shit is gonna taste good. You might not know how each ingredient is going to effect the batch before you put it in, but someone will be there - in my case, my mom - saying "Oh, I'd say about a tablespoon," and you'll listen - because that person has made chili before - and you'll taste it again and decide what to do. Or when to stay and do nothing. Or when to fold. Or when to just say "fuck it," and throw another bunch of jalapeno in the pot.

Life is like chili. It is.

No, really... it is. Think about it...

A Tale of Two Cities

I live in a neighborhood of mixed intention. There are houses owned by attentive, meticulous people who drive Cadillacs and nice Nissan SUVs, there are houses owned by well-meaning landlords who just aren't willing to paint or trim the bushes, there are houses owned by absentee landlords who rent to college kids, there are houses that are old and houses that are new, and tenement houses and single-family houses and friendly neighbors and neighbors who just put their heads down and walk inside, pretending to have never seen you.

It's not like some neighborhoods, where people have decided to congregate because they have a certain income, taste level, or geographical favor. My neighborhood is a mixture of young, old, rich, poor, renters, owners, black, white - whatever. We're all here because of every reason and no reason at all. And I like that about it.

I don't, however, like defending where I live to people who don't understand the city. The city of New Bedford is a lot like this neighborhood. It's full of homes that are architecturally ahead of their time, because they were built when the city was steeped in money courtesy of the whaling industry, but they're mostly run-down examples of what once was, owned by people who either don't care or don't know - the historic shingle marking the home's antiquity on the exterior of the house is an afterthought, something they've never considered to be important or relevant.

Once, a relatively intelligent friend of mine told me that he would never live in this part of the city. Maybe one or two blocks away, but he would never, ever live in this neighborhood. It was a bad neighborhood. Bad, bad Neighborhood. (Neighborhood walks away with it's tail tucked between it's legs.) At the time, it was really hard to say, "No, it's not," because recently - maybe one or two days prior - a man was shot in a driveway two houses away from mine. My street was taped off with caution tape, the police were everywhere, and the neighbors - young, old, rich, poor, renters, owners, black or white - stood on the sidewalks, mouths agape.

So, during that conversation, I just had to shut up. I had to say, "Okay, you would never live in my neighborhood," and I had to walk away, smiling but knowing that my confidence in my neighborhood had, indeed, been challenged that night.

Last night, I got home around five o'clock to meet my mom, who had just done some grocery shopping and arrived back to my apartment. She's visiting from out of town, and had been out house hunting and errand-running all day. The plan was - stay in, cook dinner, have a low key night.

So, I got home, I went in the side door with my friend Eric, who left moments later via the same side door. About an hour later, my roommate Cecily left via the front door. About twenty or so minutes after she left, my friend Karin arrived at the side door. During the course of the evening, my landlord was in and out of his apartment on the second floor, leaving by the front door and then coming back in again several times.

Karin, my mom and I cooked dinner, chatted, ate, and then around nine o'clock we left the house via the front door - my mom stayed home. Karin and I met our friend Jenna for dessert at a nearby restaurant. At some point, during our departure from the house, Cecily arrived home. Karin and I arrived back at home around midnight; I left the car, waved "bye" to Karin and headed towards the front door when something on the sidewalk caught my eye. I bent down to see what it was, glimmering in the dead leaves that litter my sidewalk...

My mother's wallet and keys.

My mother's red leather wallet and her set of keys had been sitting on the sidewalk, mere feet away from her car and the door to my house, since five o'clock that evening. It was midnight.

Midnight.

Everything was in the wallet. Money. Credit cards. Everything. Her life. Intact. And the car, still there. She had no idea it was even missing; she was sleeping soundly when I walked in, brandishing the chilled wallet.

So, take that people who don't believe in my neighborhood. Take that, people who don't believe in luck or miracles or New Bedford. Take that, life. And, thanks.

The Scandalous Cabinet

Not many people have friends like I have friends. That sounds pompous and asinine, but I think it's true in this case, and I'll explain why.

In particular, I have four friends who are like family. No, they are family. We fight like family, we love like family, we bullshit like family, we reconcile like family. They're it for me. Love them or not, love me or not - they're it. Always have been, since I can recall, and always will be.

Now, you must understand, I have a very, very small biologically related family. (Two parents, one sibling, two uncles, one aunt - two of the three are estranged.) The majority of my family is extended, step, and not at all physically "relative" to me. That being said, the concept of "family" has been, over the course of my lifetime, manipulated, re-ordered, re-justified and profoundly altered. I do have a lot of step-family, which is awesome, but they remain almost as distant as my actual family because we're just not... attentive. Well, some of us are. Others, are not. There seems to be, in my eclectic family, a common strain of DNA that hinders communication. It's odd.

So, these four friends of mine, who've been there for a varying number of years, but let's say round about fifteen, happen to be labeled in my "book," as family. The reason being that I love them, trust them, laugh with them, and couldn't live without them. At a pivotal point in my life, they became all I lived for. My parents were divorcing, my sister was four years younger than me - and at the time, that age difference was an eternal void of dissonance - and, in general, the only people who I felt like really understood me were my best friends. That was maybe true at the time, but it's absolutely, without any question, true today.

Tiffany and I met in fourth grade. Fourth. Crazy... I mean, I could have a child that was in fourth grade right now, that's how long ago that was. (Let us all bow our heads for a moment of silence, thanking whomever you thank Up There for the fact that I do not, in fact, have a child in any grade. Phew.)

I'll never, ever forget the exact moment that we became friends - and I can't say that for the others, just her, and I'm not sure why, but that's the case. And, because of that, because she's my oldest friend, because I remember the moment like it was yesterday, I feel the strongest about our friendship. It's how I imagine one would recall a firstborn - like no other. You've never experienced "it" before, and you freak out, and you remember it 'cause it was the first time you felt that - whatever "that" is. And maybe that explains why I'm lackadaisical about keeping in touch with her sometimes... because I don't feel like there's a need for effort in our friendship, I feel like it's natural, like she'll always be there... because she has been. (Hm. Note to self: Appreciate Tiffany more.)

Anyway - the moment. The moment I met Tiffany - my firstborn, if you're keeping up with the metaphor - was at a school concert in fourth grade at the AJ Gomes School. We were sitting in those plastic, stackable chairs in the "auditorium" and we were listening to - I think - a Navy band. At one point, they played "Tears in Heaven," and I happened to look in her direction, and she had tears in her eyes, and running down her cheek. I won't go into detail as to why, but you get the idea. It was that moment. That's when she became my best friend. My family. Now we're twenty-seven and twenty-eight. Time has passed, our friendship hasn't.

Ohh boy, this post is losing it's footing, and fast, so I'll cut to the chase.

When I was twenty-three, I moved into an apartment in downtown New Bedford, above the restaurant I work(ed) in, with three of the four frienmily (friend, family combo - get it?) members. The apartment was ridiculously nice - probably, without question, the nicest place I'll live for a long time - and we had a blast living there. A blast. Hm. "Blast" might actually be an understatement... but it'll do. Point being: There were four girls, who worked in a bar, were best friends, and lived upstairs from the bar they worked in in the sickest apartment in New Bedford. So... a blast. Yes.

And, in this apartment, in the kitchen, we had what we referred to as "The Scandalous Cabinet." In this cabinet were about fifty-seven shot glasses, a variety of nips that were so fucking disgusting nobody would drink them under any circumstances (and, booze didn't really have a shelf life in that apartment, so that's saying something), and other various paraphernalia.

That cabinet was fucking scandalous.

We all live separately now; some of us have bought houses, or moved in with boyfriends. Others (points to self) have gotten new apartments and tried to grow up a little bit - but not a lot, not as much as the other girls, who bought houses with, and moved in with, boyfriends. I guess in this case I'm establishing "having a boyfriend" as growing up. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I know what people will say back, because it's been said before. They say, "You're in grad school, you're doing things, you're totally a grown up," to which I reply, "School? Really? No. I want to be in love. I want someone to share my life with... besides my dog, who is awesome and loyal, I agree." That conversation never goes anywhere, and usually results in my cold shell of a heart eking at least one tear - or twenty - from my baby blues.

Anyway, The Scandalous Cabinet.

I don't have a scandalous cabinet in this apartment. Now, when my parents come to visit, they meander around my house, opening and closing and cooking and eating and whatever... and there's no risk involved. There's no way they're going to open a door to something - anything - scandalous. My life is an open book. What you see is what you get. Literally. I don't even have doors on ninety percent of the shelving in my kitchen.

Sometimes, though... sometimes, I miss that small piece of us that was kept hidden, set aside, and locked away in our world. Sometimes I miss having a hiding place.

Sometimes I just want to put something away in The Scandalous Cabinet and walk away, knowing that nobody but those three girls will ever know that it existed.

Pavlov's Yorkie

I spend a lot of my day on my laptop. I write this blog. I write for Facebook. I write emails. I write school crap. And, while I write, typically from my couch, this is where my Yorkie, Kota, sleeps - on the cushions of the couch, head pointing towards the window so he can watch for cats, or head down so he can sleep.

I write a lot. I'm a writer, though, so I guess it's not that weird. And, clearly, it means that I type a lot. My fingers do the talking, walking, expressing. I've often wondered what my words per minute pace is.. I bet it's good. Anyway, I digress. (As usual... my brain may my rely on my fingers for correspondence, but it doesn't stop my brain from working as fast as my fingers can type.)

I also spend a lot of time on my cellphone. I text. I call. I receive texts. I receive Facebook notification texts. (Which might have been the worst thing I ever did to myself, and I don't have any clue how to undo it.) And, my mother calls at least twice a day, my friends call at least three or four times... my phone, as they say, is always "blowin' up."

I call. I text. Mouth & fingers do the talking. Blah blah blah, yak yak yak, yada yada yada.

I'm attached. Not necessarily attached to the actual technologies, but I'm... accessible. Overly accessible, I think. I have three emails, one Facebook, Google chat, Facebook chat, two blogs, one website, two phone numbers, one laptop, one iTouch; I'm mobile, stationary, mobile... it's too much.

I had a techie freak out on Monday - I wanted to just leave it all very far away from me. And, for a brief time, I did. And, it felt good.

So, anyway... this morning, I sat on the couch and began to write a post - not this one, actually - and in the midst of it, my phone vibrated; a text message had arrived. I flipped the phone open, typed a response, and closed the phone. My dog, who was sleeping peacefully nearby, raised his head - on alert. After studying me for a moment or two, he put his head back down. I opened and closed the phone again. He had the same reaction. Then I closed the laptop. This time he not only raised his head, but he stood up. His face said it all: Where are you going? You shut your things... I understand this to mean that you're going somewhere.

Fuck.

My dog responds to the click-closure of my technological devices that I'm constantly attached to.

In dog, the departure from these devices means I'm on the move. He has the same reaction to my putting on shoes and a coat as he does my closing my laptop or cellphone. This means that if I am home, and just sitting around comfortably, I am always on something, and when I prepare to leave, I leave the something behind. He understands this. Clearly, he's more attune to my habits than I am.

I'm techobsessed. I want to unplug.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

The movies from the 1960's have a certain quality I adore. (The image above is from one of my personal favorites, How to Steal a Million.)

I like the texture of the image quality - that there's always a scratch or a blip gives the screen some character. (No pun intended...) I like the heaviness of every sound that the microphones pick up; I like the saturation of the photography and the color, and I like that everything in the camera's eye appears to be somewhat softened, blurred, almost foggy - but yet there's so much else happening that it never feels blunt.

And, okay, fine, let's face it - if you've met me, you know I also like the hair, the makeup, the clothes, the drinks, the conversation, the banter... the list goes on.

Lately, I feel like I see the world through the lens of 1960's cinema.

The air is heavy like I know I'm breathing it in every time I inhale. I can feel it fill my lungs. All the surrounding sounds are sincere, heavy, and purposeful. Glasses of whiskey make a thud when they hit the bar. Car horns make a waaaooogah noise when they sound. My wallet makes a distinct click when I close it. The colors around me - even the dull, dreary colors of the dead foliage littering my overgrown backyard - are in technicolor. And every image has been affected by a static-y filter; all the sharp things have fuzzy edges, like the harshest of things are being filtered through some sort of lens that makes them soft.

Something's changed. It wasn't always like this.

Prior to this moment, I saw a sharp world. I'm not familiar enough with cinema history to offer you a movie metaphor for that emotion - but you get the idea. Like how a dull knife is the one that will cut you the most harshly. A dull, sharp world.

Up until recently, I was just going through the motions, once in a while coming up for air, and then retreating - my world wasn't inspiring me anymore. There was no texture, no sound, no color. Up until recently, I was walking through my life like it was a learned behavior, not something I could change, manipulate, or enliven. When did I lose that understanding? When did I just become... complacent?

But, lately, I feel creative again. I feel something new. I feel like writing more than anything else. I feel like communicating. I feel like expressing.

I feel different.

A part of me that was hibernating, hiding, or maybe it was just hindered, woke up recently. And having it back has made me realize how much I've missed it. That little piece of me, the one that makes the most sense, is back.

Ballads, beats, and the banter of Sabrina Blaze.

(Side note: This is my one hundredth post. Hollah.)

So, all day yesterday I was feeling a little claustro in my homecity of New Bedford. I wanted anonymity. I wanted to not be contacted, connected, or technologically tied down. I really wanted to throw my phone into a ravine and walk away and not see anyone I knew who might ask me where my phone was and why I didn't respond to their text message. I wanted to not see anything Facebook; no mutual friends, no more fucking doppelganger photos, no more status updates, friend requests, page suggestions, Kidnap requests, Yoville requests, Farmville bullshit... just nothing.

And, while I'm near the topic, the "Kidnap" thing is fucking creepy. Please stop trying to kidnap me, I never accept. I don't want you to kidnap me. That's a terrifying concept. Jesus.

So, anyway, last night... I shut my phone off, got in the car, picked up Jesstie and drove to Providence. We had no plan, no destination, no ideas, so we stopped in to my fave default spot as of late: DownCity. The general plan for the evening was to migrate... but then we got comfy.

All About Eve was playing full volume on the telly behind the bar when we arrived. We were just in time to wish we were in black & white, and born to a different era. I have a feeling my hips would look better in black and white. So would my issues. Kind of like this one line, that just couldn't have been more perfect in that moment.

Margo: "So many people know me. I wish I did. I wish someone would tell me about me."

Me, too, Margo. Me, too.

Just as Jesstie and I finished our delicious dinners - two words, one exclamation: Tater Tots - Sabrina Blaze showed up. A statuesque blond with a bouffant to die for, Sabrina Blaze hosts karaoke at DownCity every Monday.

For as long as I can remember, Mondays have been associated with Neal & Kenny, the Monday night gig at Freestones. I've worked there for six years, which makes my total number of Mondays worked somewhere in the hundreds. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, about Monday has changed since I was hired six years ago. The same band plays the same set. The same people come in, sit in the same seats, drink the same drinks, sing to the same songs, and see the same staff.

I kid that there should be a Monday night discount for people suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but it's not entirely a joke... Monday at Freestones is evidence of the world on repeat. It is predictable, safe, know-able. Mondays are familiar and lately all I've wanted is the unfamiliar, the unknown, the shot at experiencing something other than what I've already experienced.

Monday at DownCity, with Sabrina Blaze karaoke, is not repetitive. Monday at DownCity is just what I needed.

There's something about karaoke... It's really an intimate relationship between one person, their song selection, and a television - and then people watch. There's very little eye contact between performer and audience, because most people are just reading the television... it's like we're all voyeurs, watching a person define themselves, declare themselves, express themselves.

Last night, I watched people chase letters across a screen, their lyrics chased laughter out of strangers, their banter chased a community out of booths and barstools - it chased an identity out of me.

Last night, all I wanted was to go somewhere and be nobody, but instead I went somewhere and I was me.

And, on the way home, Jesstie and I listened to Amy Winehouse in honor of Randy Bush (yes, real name), who is the new bestie we made at DownCity karaoke, and who's voice is - can I just say - bananas, and who's rendition of Beyonce's "Ego" I will not soon forget. We left before we could hear his Winehouse, hence the choice for driving home music.

Well, would you look at that... my tears really do dry on their own. Drip dry.