September 8, 2011


Going out for drinks tonight with my oldest friend, and two of my best guy friends from high school, otherwise known as, all of us who have moved home and whose presence can be tolerated pre-drunk. Basically, it’s going to be a 5 year reunion of Dr. Eisenhouer’s CP Physics class in a fine Rutland drinking establishment. There will be catching up. There will be beer. There might even be a reciting of Newton’s Laws of Motion.

But guys, I’m like, really stressing. I haven’t seen two of these people in— seriously— over 4 years. And I don’t think Caiti has seen me in anything other than lounging clothes since the summer between freshmen and sophomore year of college when we both worked at The Aeagle. So, the last time I saw them, this was what I looked like: 

Ye-uh.

A lot has changed. Obviously. Including losing those 20 pounds during my freshman year of college. Y’all know what I look like. But I wanna knock their socks off. Dressing for other people is always so nerve-wracking. And I mean, it’s a Rutvegas bar. Heels are not an option, here. So I think I’m going with a LBD, gold belt, and gold sandals. Caiti said she was thinking about sweats.

I SINCERELY hope that was a joke.

#Nervous.Stressed.WhyCan’tIJustGoNaked.

XOXO

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September 17, 2011


This is my mom, about 3 years older than I am now, during her trip to Venice with my dad to attend a what was then the world’s largest jewelry tradeshow/convention.
She was obviously a hottie with a great wardrobe.
I grew up seeing this photo on my mom’s dresser, and about a year ago, found a dress that INSTANTLY reminded me of this photo. I bought it, because wearing it made me feel like the way I think of my mom in this photo— young, hip, adventuring and exploring, and put-together.
All things I need to remind myself of, sometimes.
XOXO
Sooo, to follow it up, we have…

This is my mom, about 3 years older than I am now, during her trip to Venice with my dad to attend a what was then the world’s largest jewelry tradeshow/convention.

She was obviously a hottie with a great wardrobe.

I grew up seeing this photo on my mom’s dresser, and about a year ago, found a dress that INSTANTLY reminded me of this photo. I bought it, because wearing it made me feel like the way I think of my mom in this photo— young, hip, adventuring and exploring, and put-together.

All things I need to remind myself of, sometimes.

XOXO

Sooo, to follow it up, we have…

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September 19, 2011


Now down to only two male cats in the house, I started laughing hysterically when my kitten made a pass at trying to kick our borderline feral mountain-beast’s ass over the food dish at lunchtime. The last time the kitten sneaked out at my ex’s and got into a cat-fight, all I remembered seeing as I rounded the corner of the house to run towards the fighting cat noises was my ex, bending down, wrestling my kitten away from the orange lion cat that SOMEONE had the common indecency to call a housecat, and then punting the orange hellcat into the next yard.

Normally, I am not one for any sort of animal violence, but…

…If you could have seen it. Hysterical.

Only nearly eclipsed by the fact that MY small mountain lion was trying to run the kitten out of the kitchen, then turned around, and ran face-first into a table-leg. PRICELESS to see his face.

Punting and running face-first into things. It’s what mean cats (and people) get.

XOXO

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September 25, 2011


Since my junior year of college and moving to Burlington year-round, my interactions with the Nanny Family have been such that the last time I saw their “baby” whom I nannied for/was in cosmic child-love with, he was 2, and I was teaching him how to swim, say “lion,” “elephant,” and “bear,” and eating lots of Goldfish crackers, the seemingly universal snack food of toddlers (and nannies). Now that I’m back in the area, I picked up a dog-sitting gig (the Cookie Monster,) for them while they were out of town. So when I delivered her back today, my past (literally) ran into me again. Because my past is now three feet tall, he ran into me somewhere directly under my boobs. I don’t know which was more shocking.

My “baby” is now 4 years old, 42 pounds heavy, and told me that he could “swim across the ocean ‘cause I don’t need help swimming anymore,” when I asked him if he remembered me helping teach him to swim. Of course he was much too young to have any concrete memories, but, as he came out from hiding behind his mother, started poking me, then progressed to leaning against me (I am a helpless sucker for all dogs and children who lean on me), which culminated when he grabbed my hand in his and dragged me all around the house to show me his photos, see how much he weighed, and scale me like a human tree, time caught up with us. Carrying him back outside on my hip like I used to when he was much, much lighter, I felt his soft, spiky hair against my neck as he put his head down on the same crook in my shoulder that he used to. It felt so, so right, and it apparently did to him too, because he turned and mumbled in my ear, “I think I remember your voice.”

My heart felt like it suddenly fractured. I nearly cried with joy.

As I put him down in the driveway next to his mom to say my goodbyes and get back into my car, he clung to my knees, not letting go. He’d always been hesitant to let people leave as a toddler, but now, when he asked if he could come home with me and I told him he’d have to sleep under the bed with the cat, he thought about it seriously for a minute before responding with, “I like cats. But I’d have to bring a blanket.” He talks now. And he’s exactly the clever little person I always imagined he’d be.

Lovelovelovelovelovelovelove.

And thus SuperNanny Round 2 begins.

XOXO

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September 26, 2011


Almost Famous.

I was just reading the 2011 Burlington Book Festival program again when I suddenly remembered a completely singular incident that occurred maybe 6 months ago, and then I promptly forgot until now.

I was out on a date with my ex-ex…at least, I think it was him, and I forget where we were…when our conversation with a stranger nearby took a turn for the weird. Stopping in the middle of our very plain, polite conversation, the stranger suddenly turned to look at me. “Where have I seen you before?” he asked.

I shrugged. He pressed on. “I could have SWORN I’ve seen your face before. I think I’ve seen you on TV!” he exclaimed, triumphant.

"Absolutely not," I told him, most emphatically. I do not have the sort of face they allow on a TV screen. I have the sort of face and character that does not belong on film.

"No, I’ve seen you on TV!" he implored me with. "You were in an auditorium-type thing, reading at a podium!"

I could feel the neurons in my brain slowly waking up, then struggling to shrug off the sleep and try to tell me something.

"It was public access…" he finished unsure, slowing down and trailing off as the feeling of bafflement warred with something else across my face. My then-boyfriend stood staring at us, watching this conversation go on, dumb-founded. Here was this seemingly perfectly normal girl he had found, who he thought he knew pretty well at this point, given the fact that if he knew her this well in the Biblical sense, so there was obviously some televised part of her life that she was not telling him about. Looking over, I saw the look of confusion on his face when it suddenly hit me.

"YES. Yes, I was," I corrected, as the stranger’s euphoria hit it’s high, and my then-boyfriend’s confusion it’s ultimate low. "It was in the fall, for Burlington Book Festival. I was reading introductions all weekend, and it was being televised. Wow," I finished, wonderingly. "I didn’t realize that people could have seen me on TV." It was an odd-as-hell thought.

We left, and the stranger went on with his day. As we walked away down the sidewalk, my then-boyfriend turned to look at me. “Wow,” he kidded. “I didn’t know I was dating a famous girl.”

Only to the like, 4 other people and that stranger that actually watch public-access TV and literary events. Thank god.

XOXO

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September 27, 2011


Million Dollar Boyfriend.

One of the best moments in my life was probably when the ex looked at me and said, “I probably deserve to let you punch me in the face for everything I’ve put you through.”

I told him I wouldn’t punch him because I liked his nose too much to break it. (It was true. He was too pretty to mar, no matter how pissed at him I was. It would be like painting over a da Vinci.)

So he told me I could slap him.

I did. Hard. Three times— left, right, left. If you’re clever, you know one of those was a backhand. I was not fucking around with my retribution. It was the only time I’ve ever raised a hand against someone I’ve been with (not in self-defense), and I had his permission to do so, so I did. Did it solve our problems? No. After that night, I never slept with him again, never hung out with him again, never sought him out again. By the lesson of the story is that I have struck a man across the broad plane of his cheekbone for less disrespect. Did it make me feel like I achieved making him feel the shame that he should? No. Was it still worth it be be allowed that outlet? Oh, hell yes. In that one moment, he knew what I needed to feel better more than I did, and he was man enough for once to actually grant it to me. For that, I will be forever indebted to him, no matter what a prick he was.

Dignity. In case you wouldn’t know it if it slapped you across the face.

XOXO

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November 8, 2011


I still can remember the first night you spent over— you, in jeans, on top of the covers, and me, all the way across the bed, in shorts, under the sheets, and covered in nerves.

I never have worn shorts to bed since I was 10. I never would with you, again.

XOXO

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He Will Always Be “The” Ex.

Funny, isn’t it? The person I thought I’d love forever, and I can hardly remember your body anymore.

A year and a half of on-again, off-again love and hate in such extremes, and you are now all but a stranger and forgotten.

XOXO

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I smoked a truly heinous amount last night for someone who isn’t used to it anymore, and this is what I came up with.

I dwell. I am a dweller.

XOXO

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May 2, 2012


Apologies.

There is one night I will never, ever be able to free from my memory; one night that replays constantly in the deepest, darkest, loneliest nights when I wake up from horrible dreams and sleep is miles away. 

The cat had gotten out for the second time that week, and while you stayed home in case he came back I drove around the neighborhood at 5 miles per hour, hanging out the window and thinking obsessively, compulsively about the fact that I had never lost a pet to an accident before, had never had to seen a torn, broken, bleeding little body on the side of the road that I recognized before. I was alone. I was afraid. I couldn’t blame you for what happened, but I wanted to. I desperately wanted to.

When I pulled back into the driveway, you were waiting for me. You could tell when I got out of the car that I had had no luck, and I could tell by the crushed look on your face that you hadn’t, either. As I walked to the door, you reached your arms out to me, waiting to enfold me in comfort that I couldn’t stand. You grabbed my arm as I brushed by you, and I shook it off, violently.

I knew what I was doing was wrong, unfair, mean, vindictive. I knew that it was not— had never been— your fault, but not even knowing all of that could shield me from the look of pain and despair in your eyes. The same look that keeps me awake some nights, brings the emotional wave of the end of our relationship crashing back down around me. You hid the look as quickly as it came, and brought me inside to the basement window to show me where the cat had pushed out, and how’d you’d fixed it so that he’d never be able to get through it again— how you’d tried to fix my pain while I was out, planning yours. You showed me how you had been trying to fix things while I was gone, make my life better, and when I had returned, I had shaken you off like something I couldn’t stand touching my skin; something I didn’t love and wanted to hurt.

never didn’t love you or want to hurt you. But that night, I showed you that I could, what I was capable of— an unfeeling, cold bitch you’d never known before, too wrapped up in her own emotions to take yours into consideration, which, as a girlfriend, had previously been the reason for my existence in your world: to make everything better. To be aware of your emotions, your feelings, your needs even before you were. To anticipate when you needed a word a praise, a push to finish a job, a small tease to lighten tension, silence, or the feeling of arms wrapped around you. And in the moment when you were poised to give me what I needed most, I literally pushed you away.

We found the cat. I let you hug me. I made a fuss over him like I’d never made over my love for you.

What this can say about our human limitations to accepting help and causing pain, I do not know. But this is what I do know:

Since then to now, I have never meant to hurt you again like I did that night— not by pulling away; not by replacing you as a friend, confidant, or lover; not by anything I have said or done or written— I just wanted to stop myself from hurting. That night I learned that just like how I couldn’t protect you from life’s injustices or the hands that you’d been dealt to live with, I couldn’t protect myself either, and neither could you do it for me. This is my apology to you, for then, to now; I am sorry I ever pulled away; I did it all selfishly, for myself.

XOXO

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July 4, 2012


The feel of this photo reminds me so much of my early-morning walks to my 9-AM class in Italy it’s not even funny. Those were the days (and nights).
XOXO

The feel of this photo reminds me so much of my early-morning walks to my 9-AM class in Italy it’s not even funny. Those were the days (and nights).

XOXO

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August 8, 2012


Day 4:
Twig leaves early for an impromptu carpentry job, and Baby Becks sticks around long enough to keep me company as he eats his breakfast before work. As we’ve already established a kinship based on our similar personalities and senses of humor and questionably legal habits, our repartee is quick, easy, and open. I’ve noticed Twig scoping us out as he sits on the edges of our late-night smoke sessions, listening, showing the reserve of his that is at violent odds with his child-like, spontaneous, behind-closed-doors relaxed side. I enjoy Baby Becks as a sort of willing sidekick, not the hero of the hour, and am secretly making designs on somehow getting Nora out here long enough for her and B.B to hit it off famously. Throughout my time  here, I’ve come to acknowledge the boys’ relationship as that of a male version of mine and Nora’s: one a straight-man, one a foil. Cheech and Chong occasionally when they have an audience to perform for. Friends since high school, mirror opposites in many ways, complimentary and complex. For as many times as my people-pleasing, neurotic nature has worried during Twig’s stoic silence if I’m overstaying my welcome or being a touring pain in the ass, Baby Becks has piped into casual conversations over dinners and passed lighters the little things I so need to hear to put me at ease: “I’ve heard a lot about you,” “Thank you for doing the dishes; you didn’t have to, but it was really nice,” “We’re really having enjoying a woman around,” “We’d love you to stay longer,” “I know we’re going to miss you,” “You’re a good one; I like you. Twig, hold on to this one!” As I have perfected the Withering Death Look any time Nora pushes me beyond my emotional comfort zone by bringing up the Big Stuff in front of other people I’d prefer to impress with my silence and seeming nonchalance, Twig has perfected the fond “Asshole, Did You Have To Say That Now; I Was Getting Around To It On My Own, Slower, More Cultivated Time” look, coupled with a private verbal affirmation of what B.B said earlier, later. Between his bites of the boy’s habitual morning egg sandwiches, Baby Becks confirms my suspicions. “Twig’s a little neurotic, too, like us, but in a different way. He needs to always be doing something, have a plan, be getting things done. You and I smoke, so we know all about laying around for 20 minutes, thinking about something before we actually get up and do it, but he likes to just be OUT THERE already.” And today, OUT THERE he is.
The dog, realizing that I am the only human who is going to be home with her all day today, has bonded with me. She crawls up into my lap in the perfectly-broken-in leather chair, and licks my face. I am quick enough to get a picture of this and send it to Twig as proof that it actually happened. When he comes home, he’s frazzled from working all day, and in a hurry to get to his forgotten-about music lesson. The dog seems to sense his attention is elsewhere in his absent-minded, perfunctory pat, and hunkers down out of the way by my side, leaning into me and seeming to say “Don’t you notice us? We’re starved for your love!” The dog and I have officially joined forces and become BFFs. He notices us, cowering in the chair together like two kicked children, and immediately softens. We demand nothing. We just want everything.
In return for our patience and withholding our neediness, the dog and I get to watch an exceeding attractive man put a violin case in his backpack, pick up his moto-cross helmet, and walk away in a pair of jeans that look like they’ve been molded to him. I decide that it is not a bad life by any means, and that this mental image will get me through many a long, lonely night.
XOXO

Day 4:

Twig leaves early for an impromptu carpentry job, and Baby Becks sticks around long enough to keep me company as he eats his breakfast before work. As we’ve already established a kinship based on our similar personalities and senses of humor and questionably legal habits, our repartee is quick, easy, and open. I’ve noticed Twig scoping us out as he sits on the edges of our late-night smoke sessions, listening, showing the reserve of his that is at violent odds with his child-like, spontaneous, behind-closed-doors relaxed side. I enjoy Baby Becks as a sort of willing sidekick, not the hero of the hour, and am secretly making designs on somehow getting Nora out here long enough for her and B.B to hit it off famously. Throughout my time  here, I’ve come to acknowledge the boys’ relationship as that of a male version of mine and Nora’s: one a straight-man, one a foil. Cheech and Chong occasionally when they have an audience to perform for. Friends since high school, mirror opposites in many ways, complimentary and complex. For as many times as my people-pleasing, neurotic nature has worried during Twig’s stoic silence if I’m overstaying my welcome or being a touring pain in the ass, Baby Becks has piped into casual conversations over dinners and passed lighters the little things I so need to hear to put me at ease: “I’ve heard a lot about you,” “Thank you for doing the dishes; you didn’t have to, but it was really nice,” “We’re really having enjoying a woman around,” “We’d love you to stay longer,” “I know we’re going to miss you,” “You’re a good one; I like you. Twig, hold on to this one!” As I have perfected the Withering Death Look any time Nora pushes me beyond my emotional comfort zone by bringing up the Big Stuff in front of other people I’d prefer to impress with my silence and seeming nonchalance, Twig has perfected the fond “Asshole, Did You Have To Say That Now; I Was Getting Around To It On My Own, Slower, More Cultivated Time” look, coupled with a private verbal affirmation of what B.B said earlier, later. Between his bites of the boy’s habitual morning egg sandwiches, Baby Becks confirms my suspicions. “Twig’s a little neurotic, too, like us, but in a different way. He needs to always be doing something, have a plan, be getting things done. You and I smoke, so we know all about laying around for 20 minutes, thinking about something before we actually get up and do it, but he likes to just be OUT THERE already.” And today, OUT THERE he is.

The dog, realizing that I am the only human who is going to be home with her all day today, has bonded with me. She crawls up into my lap in the perfectly-broken-in leather chair, and licks my face. I am quick enough to get a picture of this and send it to Twig as proof that it actually happened. When he comes home, he’s frazzled from working all day, and in a hurry to get to his forgotten-about music lesson. The dog seems to sense his attention is elsewhere in his absent-minded, perfunctory pat, and hunkers down out of the way by my side, leaning into me and seeming to say “Don’t you notice us? We’re starved for your love!” The dog and I have officially joined forces and become BFFs. He notices us, cowering in the chair together like two kicked children, and immediately softens. We demand nothing. We just want everything.

In return for our patience and withholding our neediness, the dog and I get to watch an exceeding attractive man put a violin case in his backpack, pick up his moto-cross helmet, and walk away in a pair of jeans that look like they’ve been molded to him. I decide that it is not a bad life by any means, and that this mental image will get me through many a long, lonely night.

XOXO

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Day 1:

My mom has to drop me off like it’s the first day of school. It’s so embarrassing. It was embarrassing enough to admit to Twig back in June that I live with my parents post-S.O break-up, let alone bring him back to the house to meet them that night. But now, now I am so nervous I can’t enjoy the luxury shopping in the Mall of America, and stop at the first thing I see on the Rainforest Cafe’s menu that has the word “tequila” in the description. I tell our waiter I’ll be having that. 

In the week leading up to my trip out here, I confided in Twig that I’m worrying if everything between us will live up to the anticipation and the hype. “Don’t worry;” he tells me. “We have plenty on time to work on it. Sort of…” I adopt this as my mantra, and become well-acquainted with Jose.

Finding his house (HOUSE, how weird I feel saying that; everyone I know lives in apartments and doesn’t have mortgages,) is relatively easy. I wave Mom away, knocking on the door after checking the names on the mailbox. Nothing. I knock harder, and the force makes the door swing open a little. I press one of the two doorbells (as it turns out, the wrong one,) and wait some more. A more at-ease woman would just walk right in, calling out his name, asking if anyone was home. I know he’s home, but I am not the sort of girl who will just walk right in to someone’s place. I’m more like the girl what calls from the front stoop, describing the front door, and asking if it’s theirs. I can be overly-cautious sometimes. Supposedly, it can be endearing. Right now, I’m worrying I’m about to meet a stranger while carrying three ridiculously over-stuffed bags. Good god. He’s going to think I’m moving in. Mental cringe. Why couldn’t I have packed lighter? 

I hear my mother make one of those “Aha!” noises from where she’s (STILL!) parked across the street, and it nearly muffles the sound of a window sliding up above me. “Why hello,” I hear, and I take a step back (off-balanced; damn bags; nearly wobble,) and look up, seeing Twig’s all-too-sweet, much loved, familiar face grinning impishly down at me. He disappears, and I hear a dog start barking frantically in the background as his footsteps tramp down what can only be a set of stairs. I don’t check behind me to see if my mother is still there. Like I said, fourth grade, all over again.

I walk in as soon as Twig opens the door, and he grabs one of my bags before pulling me into a hug that feels like coming home. We lean against each other for a long moment, and then he leads me up the stairs (told you!), filling me in as we go. His roommate, his self-professed heterosexual life partner, is still at work. He’s got a few days of work to do this week. I can take the car into downtown while he’s working, check out some of the fantastic museums. I drop my things as soon as I can by a wall in the living room, and ask for a tour. I make sure to put the things for the dinner I’m making tonight in the refrigerator. I ask to meet the dog. He slows my roll, stops me again, and hugs me. “You look so beautiful.” We process down to the back porch so I can meet his dog, and stay out there until things get heated enough that the neighbors may call the police to complain before I pull him back inside.

Afterwards, I remember the squash that needs to still be bought for dinner.

“We have a few options,” he tells me, ticking them off on his fingers. “We can take the van, which isn’t running well in this heat. We can take the car, or we can take the motorcycle.” He raises one of those decidedly darker eyebrows at me, his signature look, impishly mischievous, the one that I adore the most. 

“Well, I’ve never been on a motorcycle,” I recap, knowing what this has been leading to since the day he sent me a photo of the new bike he bought, avec bitch-seat, the only one he’s deigned to acquire. “Motorcycle it is,” he tells me, and I sheepishly haul my moto boots and leather jacket out of my bag to show him. 

He forgets to drop the pegs for me. First, he asked if I needed help putting the helmet on, and I got to demur because that, at least, is something I have done for years playing with friends equipment and in Harley-Davidson shops and swap-meets. Then, I get to gesture to the pegs, still tucked up. I have to pop my helmet’s visor open for him to finally get the gist, and when he does, he smiles sheepishly as he lowers them. “It’s been awhile since I had anyone ride with me,” he admits. “Just hold on to my waist, let me know if you need a break, and please don’t fall off.”

It’s like this was something I was born to do. No longer am I looking wistfully at those chic girls hidden behind glossy, reflective helmets smugly holding onto their boyfriend’s waists as they zoom by people trapped in the cages of their cars; I AM one of those girls. Years of high-level horseback riding have honed my balance— I drop my heels deeper when Twig brakes so I don’t slide forward and into him, and I lean, flat-backed, around turns in the very way that used to make my trainer scream across the jump course at me, “NO MOTORCYCLE TURNS!” (The one fault I undoubtedly do have as a novice pillion rider is, undoubtedly, the fact that I keep jostling the back of his helmet with the front of mine whenever I lean forward or turn to look at something new. I cringe every time I do it. What bad manners.) We take a tour around two of the lakes in town, watching runners and sailboats. At stop lights, I gently massage his lower back, and while moving, focus on keeping my hands on his hips in a relaxed manner, not gripping too tightly, not digging into him with fear. It’s easy. He’s a superb driver, and after the initial period of taking it easy, is goaded on by my whoops and happy laughter into picking up his pace, driving as if he’s not got precious cargo in the back. I wiggle my fingers at two small children as their mother points us out from the sidewalk, and watch their faces split into wide, childish grins that I’m sure mirror mine, if you could see it behind the helmet. Twig reaches back and pops my visor up higher, so we can talk at stops. We make a pit-stop at an immaculate rose garden in a park that the elementary school he went to maintains, and he asks me what my favorite roses are as we lean down and smell the various specimens. Instead of a stem or two or a bouquet, I get an entire garden. 

In the grocery store, I insist on buying the squash (dinner is, after all, as I said, on me,) and he is astounded when I can fit them into my tiny vintage leather shoulder bag. The cashier looks at the helmets we both have tucked in the crook of our arms, and tells me to “be safe” as she hands me my change. I am mildly affronted. Obviously, this is the kindest, most gentle, intelligent man on Earth I’m with. We split a smoothie in the parking lot, grinning at each other like loons. He brings me to his favorite bookstore and I fall into the calming thrall of reading book jackets and excerpts, and then we pop into a tobacco shop next door that smells of molasses and fruit and leather and men. It is clearly a seduction that plays entirely into my favorite things. And it works. I am besotted with this place and the company.

Back at home, we open one of the two bottles of wine I brought, and he grills the corn while I whip up sauteed leek, mushroom, bacon, and bleu cheese-stuffed baked squash in a dish that looks like little canoe-shaped bundles of bliss. His roommate (a dead-ringer for David Beckham’s little brother; all the men out here are singularly gorgeous and tattooed and kind, and I decide to move FOR SURE, right then,) comes home, and we all shoot the shit on the back porch as it gets dark, drinking wine and smoking. After the dishes are piled in the sink and the wine is drunk, as we are starting to be, Twig takes me up into the attic he’s in the process of converting into his master suite, and out the window onto the roof. Baby Becks follows at first, then wisely judges that we took far too intimate to interrupt, and backs away downstairs, begging bedtime to give us space. We lay on the gritty, sandpapery shingles, looking up at the purple-and-orange-tinted city sky, watching airplanes overhead and realizing we can still see the stars. I fall more in love with the city, with the state, with somewhere you can coexist with both skyscrapers and with stars. Familiar constellations lull us into a sleepy satiety, and Twig stands up and offers me a hand back through the window, and into bed.

XOXO

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August 9, 2012


The Vicodin Diaries:

1.) Whenever anyone tells me that their cat is a Rumpy Manx, I get the overwhelming urge to say, “No, YOU are a Rumpy Manx, you Rumpy Manx, you!” 

It just sounds like some sort of randy, English term of endearment to me. It really should be.

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2.)  I want to eat approximately a pound of crispy, salted french fries; a BLT on crunchy, whole-wheat toast; a drippy-cheese burger; corn on the cob; a beet salad; pretzels; apple slices with peanut butter and chocolate chips; extremely greasy, personal-pan pizza from Pizza Hut; a fresher-than-fresh Romaine Cesar salad with croutons and anchovies; coleslaw; really good weed; a martini; chicken nuggets; a grilled cheese sandwich; and everything else breaded, fried, crunchy, and sharp that I cannot have right now. 

I am so tired of soft foods, and I have another week to go, at least. Big “thank you” to Ash, you got me onto puddings— I have DESTROYED two snack-packs in the last two days; my morning ritual is wake up, pudding, Vicodin.

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3.) Hindsight (literally, bwahahahahaha,) being 20/20, I got ridiculously lucky in the fact that Twig is one of those rare, rare people who look even BETTER without their clothes on. You know how infrequent that is, to find someone who looks like they have an awesome body even under layers, and then when they get undressed, you’re just like, “HOW COULD THIS HAVE GOTTEN EVEN BETTER; YOU DON’T EVEN LOOK AWKWARD AT ALL; I DON’T UNDERSTAND; THANK YOU BABY JESUS.”

The man has an ass like two high, tight little scoops of hard ice cream. The sight (or just the thought) of it just does things to me. 

Granted, this is not a one-way street of objectification; one night while grilling out on the deck, Baby Becks brought up the fact that there was “one more of those awesome big buns” for Twig to have his burger on if he wanted, and just from the priceless, cat-that-ate-the-canary look on Baby Becks’ face as he looked past me at Twig’s response, I knew there was some sort of “whoaaaarrrr; dat ass; I already have awesome big buns” miming going on behind me, even though Twig was absolutely silent. I turned around; he gave me The Cocked Eyebrow And Impish Grin “Don’t You Love Me?” look. Most definitely. May I remind you now that he is 30 and men really do never grow out of an extended adolescence as far as humor and sex are concerned.

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4.) I just, suddenly remembered how when I was in the shower and Twig was running out to get something, he knocked on the bathroom door to tell me he was leaving, and since I couldn’t hear him anyhow over the stream of the water, turned the facet off and then turned around to see him peeking at me around the edge of the shower curtain with That Look and boyish, devilish grin. I would have loved to invite him to join me, but he caressed my wet breast and then disappeared.

Nonetheless, having a guy check in on me in the shower has always been one of those little daydream fantasies I’ve always had, you know, the ones where you sugar-coat reality and cohabitation, and it was really nice to have it come true. Now I can stop wondering what it would be like, and focus on more important things, like solving world hunger and figuring out what makes for the best bikini shave possible.

Thanks for bearing with me as I go through this process of writing all this shit down so I don’t forget and can re-visit it to polish and work it at a later point in time.

I guess all I have to say for myself is…

XOXO

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