A Long, Long Time... But None At All

Have you ever had a moment where you feel like you've been somewhere forever and never all at the same time? If not, this might sound crazy... so, I'll try and explain. Okay, for example, the physical reminders of a place are present, and constant, and remind you of a thousand other moments in time that have existed in a similar "place," but you yourself are very, very different.

The smell of a thunderstorm in the spring reminds me of late nights in high school. The smell of rain in the morning, when grass and leaves can't shake the dew and the sea is rocky, remind me of boarding the bus for Sea Lab as a kid. The smell of a fire burning reminds me of Vermont in any season. The smell of fireworks reminds me of being a girl in a hooded sweatshirt, waiting for a boy to hold my hand and tell me that the sparklers were as pretty as I thought they were. The smell of cigarettes and bleach reminds me of the smell of laundry when I was sixteen and he was nineteen.

I guess I'm a sensory memory person. Words escape me. Lines leave me. Laughter fades But, the sensory feeling of a particular situation will forever and ever put me right back to that place... whatever the place might be.

The same, of course, can be said for songs. They're like cheap time travel.

I'm in the midst of making a mix "tape." The theme of the CD is "Audiobiographical," which is an ingenious name we came up with, if I can say so - ingeeeenious. I mean, I like puns, and this is one of my new favorites.

What makes this so hard is that everything... every noise... every sound, lyric, instrument that I hear has a place in my memory. So, making a history out of music that made the history is especially difficult.
Because... what doesn't count? And, what doesn't mean something?

I can remember the car where I first heard The Get Up Kids. I can remember the boy who wrote "One Two Three Four = Love" on label maker plastic tape when I listened to Neutral Milk Hotel. I know the feeling of standing in the Met Cafe and hearing The Promise Ring, someone making fun of Davey's lisp. I can remember driving in a car on the long commute to Worcester State and singing along to The Secret Stars in hushed unison... "Hearts don't break, the division is innate, do you need to brush up on cardiology."I remember the first mix tape ever made for me: "Bad Mix," and I remember the playlist.

I remember.

But, there is a lot that I don't remember.

I don't remember how it was in my house from about 11 until I was almost seventeen.

I don't remember high school after I stopped caring.

I don't remember being me in junior high school; but, my besties disagree - apparently I've been Me for longer than I can remember.

That makes me sad.

But, as I make this mix tape and think each song selection through with the same effort it takes to recreate the actual moment... I remember.

Sort of.

Mom Mail, Modified

So, today is Wednesday, which means it's Mom Mail.

Though, I think today I'm going to spin the theme of Mom Mail a bit; usually I take an old email from my mom, but I've been going through a lot of paperwork in my unpacking and I found two letters that I'd like to share instead. I'm bending the rules a bit, because neither letter is from my mom, but one of the letters is written to me by my Grammy Ad, and the other is written by me to my Mom.

The theme is still intact - it's mail that involves moms, it's just not electronic, or written by my mother.

So, here's mine first:

(The back of the letter) Mom Open Only!

Dear Mom,

Thank you for making my bed. I really enjoyed making and eating that delicious dinner. I just felt like I shoud cook something. Ya'know likan inspuration. The reason I wanted you to sta in bed is because I thought it might be nice if I could make you som pancakes.

I'm sorry about that big fit I had that afternoon. But the bike ride was fun and the rest of the day was great

Love and xxxx's

Katie N.

The spelling errors are as they exist in the letter, as is the bold - which in the letter is drawn over a number of times. I have no idea how old I was when I wrote this, and I'm really not willing to even speculate. Worth noticing is the fact that I signed it "Katie N." Lest my mother get confused with her other daughter Katie.

Also not dated, this is Grammy Ad's letter. I cried... just a warning. But, she is my Grammy. I don't expect it to be as touching for you.

Dear Katie -

You've only been gone a short while and I miss you already - when you leave in the car I feel like running down the street saying come back, come back - Grammy is so glad you don't live far, far away - I am very lucky -

Grammy wants to thank you very, very much for all the lovely birthday presents - for my money - which I will put in my piggy bank - it was very generous of you to give it to Grammy because little girls don't have very many pennies -

I cooked up the apricots and they are delicious and I will think of Katie when I eat them -

I love my bracelet and will use my note pads right away because I need them very badly - especially that nice eraser - How did you know I would need a good one like that when I do my puzzles in the paper -

I hope your lip is better and that it doesn't hurt anymore -

I meant to show you some spiders I have outside my kitchen window - they are all in little houses that their mother built and someday they will come out and go off and have fun with the other spiders -

Grammy is sending you the cookies you like - I forgot to give them to you -

I had a wonderful birthday party - just about my very best because you and Daddy and Mommy were there - at our cookout!

Have fun in nursery school with all your friends and I will see you again before too long -

Big kisses and hugs to my very very special granddaughter

Grammy

X

Well, that's Grammy Ad. The most amazing person ever.

And, though I never noticed it before typing this - she apparently hates any and all punctuation.

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.

'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.

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.

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.

Gracias

So, I don't want to get all in-depth and emotional with this post, as I have a tendency to do at times, but I just wanted to say that part of the reason why I love Thanksgiving is because people say "thanks," when they normally don't, or wouldn't, or don't have time to, or whatever the reason may be.

That being said, I just want to mention how thankful I am to have the friends I have.

They are numerous, and they are awesome.

I am so lucky, and so thankful for old friends, new friends, same-age friends, older friends, younger friends, boy friends, girl friends, musically-inclined friends, local friends, faraway friends, married friends, mom & dad friends, business-y friends, school friends, fun friends, crazy friends, sober friends, drunk friends, work friends, family friends... the list goes on and on and on.

And on.

I'm going to give myself some serious credit for picking the coolest people ever to hang around with.

So, be thankful for something this week. Or, be thankful for more than just one thing, be thankful every day. If you're not, well, then, you suck.

And, put a couple bucks in the Salvation Army bucket; then when the person ringing the bell says "Thank you, have a happy holiday," I promise you'll get that warm feeling in your chest that makes your step lighter, and your stresses a little fainter, if only for a moment.

Happy Turkey Day.

Sister Theresa

I recently discovered, by taking a Myers Briggs test, that I am an ENFP. The many extraneous details of ENFP don't really matter in this particular situation, except for one. I learned that, as part of my personality, I look for connections in random occurrences, find commonalities and search for meaning in local, or even global, situations that seem connected in some way.

The staggering thing is, I do that. A lot. Even if I don't know what the connections mean, I still recognize them, ponder over them, and wonder about a day when their meaning will become clear to me. The story that I'm about to share is one of those situations.
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My step-dad has twelve brothers and sisters; they were born in the 1930s/1940s and their parents were old-school Portuguese.

Their boys were encouraged to quit school, ceasing their educational careers, immediately after high school - or, maybe even sooner, I'm not sure - so that they could work, help out the family, pay for things. The girls were encouraged to get married so that they could leave the house, be dependent upon someone else for food on the table. It was all in the name of providing, of surviving.

They used to have a large family Christmas party every year, Uncle Joe would dress up as Santa, take pictures with the kids and hand out presents. They had to rent a hall there were so many people; brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. I could never remember everyone.

Everyone's name, if you were one of the thirteen children referring to a sibling, was Brother (Insert Brother's Name Here) or Sister (Insert Sister's Name Here) as if they were nuns and... well, and, whatever the male equivalent is for "nun," I have no idea.

So, four years ago Sister Theresa came to Thanksgiving at my house. She doesn't have a husband, she doesn't have children, so, she chooses one of the thirteen to be thankful with every November. That particular year, it was our family.

When she arrived, she handed me a gift: a Christmas cactus. I love Christmas cacti. It could not have been a more perfectly chosen present.

Over the years, I came to realize that the Christmas cactus was actually two individual plants potted together and because of this, they would bloom at separate times. Which, is kind of nice because then I always got two blooms, at two different times, and they were two different colors. Red and pink.

It's been four years since I've seen Sister Theresa, the last time was at that Thanksgiving dinner. This month, I received word that this year Sister Theresa is going to come to my Thanksgiving. I can't help but think it's odd - and, I do mean odd in a good way - that both times I have had Thanksgiving dinner at my house, Sister Theresa has joined us.

Perhaps even more strikingly odd is that, as Thanksgiving nears, the buds on the Christmas cactus that Sister Theresa gave me are all plump and ripe with color, about to blossom, for the first time, simultaneously. For the first time, ever, the flowers on both plants will bloom at the same time, during my second Thanksgiving with Sister Theresa.

Is it just my ENFP-ness, or isn't that kind of cool?

Forward & Back

In March I moved, and now I live in the house I grew up in.

Sort of.

Well. No. I definitely live there. But, I only sort of lived there as a kid.

It was the house my best friend lived in her whole life.

Isn't it weird how things come full-circle?

Twenty-five years of friendship and now I wake up every day in her piano room.

The Beginning of The End of Facebook

So... facebook.

I've been on facebook for almost one year. I joined up last September-ish when a friend told me it was the better way of keeping in touch. She was right. I do keep up with a lot of people I wouldn't necessarily talk to if they weren't on facebook; people who I do want to keep in touch with, people that I do want to hear from, and people that I don't necessarily think to pick up the phone and call.

Instead of calling, we keep in touch peripherally by engaging in trades of - admittedly - egocentric status updates that inform any "friends" of what we find relavant to report on.

And, I will say, I have hidden some people - who will remain nameless - because, honestly, I just don't give a shit what you are doing and when, but I had to accept your request for friendship because that's just the kind of girl I am. (You know, the kind who is easily pressured and extremely non-confrontational.)

I'm also the kind of girl that leaves people in what I like to refer to as "facebook purgatory." It's that transitional place where a person who has requested my friendship waits for me to "approve" or "ignore" their friendship. They request, and then... They just... wait.

My mother, not yet on facebook, finds it's concept truly horrifying. "Why would I want everyone knowing what I'm doing all the time?" she asks. "I don't know, Ma." I tell her.

She calls to tell me she received another email invitation from "facemail" and she is getting really irritated. "Don't these people have lives?" she asks, "Who cares what I'm doing?" "I don't know, Ma." I say passively.

And, really, I don't know.

As far as I see it, facebook is for people who have difficulty staying in touch, not people in relationships, which require communication, who are just too lazy to follow through.

In Memory

Last July, on this day, my best friend of fifteen years lost her mom to Lupus.

That's a hard sentence for me to write.

It's been a full year and it's still hard for me to comprehend that she's really gone.

When I go visit the house I sometimes catch myself expecting to see her there.

I expect, without realizing it, that when I pull up to the curb, I'll see her hand part the blinds to check who's arrived; that when I go inside, she'll get up to hug me, laugh her laugh - the one that sounds just like her daughter's - and tell me how happy it makes her that her daughter and I are still friends after all these years.

Certain things don't go away; certain memories, certain moments. They stay with you, like the person is with you.

I remember her. I remember her blue hairbrush that she'd tuck under her hair while it dried, her laugh, the way she used to absentmindedly write out words with her fingertips on the arm of the couch when she talked, the way she put on lipstick, the way she answered the phone, how much she loved her children, her husband, her grandchildren, and - literally - everyone who ever had the pleasure of crossing her path.

She had the most love to give, the biggest heart, the most welcoming, personable, and caring approach to life - and she lived it, every second, without Lupus. She may have had Lupus, but Lupus did not have her. Ever.

She'll never be forgotten, her memory will thrive amidst the family, friends and acquaintances that she left behind; that memory will keep her with us.

And though there are many thinking of her today, I can't stop thinking of them. The family. That close-knit, loving, adoring family, with hearts as big as hers; hearts that ache today, as they remember.

A Mother's Love

My mother called me this morning for two reasons:

1. She thinks the weird looking scrape on my leg is MRSA.
2. She instructed me that I need to wear bug spray more often; there's been a local discovery of equine encephalitis.

I am now heading into the walk-in because, knowing my mother, if I don't, she's going to call me every fifteen minutes until I have a diagnosis to report.

I really hope I don't have MRSA. I googled it, and it's effing disgusting.

Family Vacations are All the Rage

Not really.

I mean, the house is big enough, I'm managing to steal WIFI from some nearby provider, the kids have gone back to their actual home with their parents, which means the incessant cartoons, Oreo-eating, and dog-(mis)handling has drawn to a to a close... but now it's raining.

Rain. On my mini-vacation to the beach.

The beach. A magical, risky place where those who are pale-skinned, freckled, wide-hipped and sunburn-prone, such as myself, only spend one or two days every year.

Today was going to be my day.

I came prepared.

Board shorts. Tank tops. Sundress. Sunblock. A beach towel. Books. Magazines. A bathing suit, for Christ's sake.

And now this.

The plan has turned on me. Turned. In a big way.

We are T minus one hour away from our tour of the Cape Cod Potato Chip Factory.

I will revel in the golden chip's production, not the golden rays of sunshine; the cool metal of the factory lines, not the cool waves of ocean water.

Rainy family vacation.

Oh, joy of joys.