Panama! Part 2

Those of you who know me know I don’t like small dogs.  I’m not subsumed by a baby-talking alter ego when I see their bulging eyes and stubby legs.  Instead I’m compelled to ask myself big, esoteric questions, like, How far I can punt this thing? Why can’t this thing carry its own weight in whiskey barrels or picnic baskets?  

Dogs have always occurred to me as Man’s Best Helpers, so the itty bitty ones that bark and fit into handbags seem like a gross abomination of the species.  They seem to be made only for behaving obnoxiously and making their face hair wet with saliva.  I hate them.  It’s probably because like repels like and our similar anxieties meet in the middle like two magnet ends trying to go at it.  Anyway, you should know all this because even I was surprised at how I responded to this little ball of fuzz:



I absolutely fell in love with him.  I can’t explain it.  If you had told me months ago that I would love a Pomeranian, I would have punched you in the face for even suggesting such a thing.  And yet, there I was, covered in sweat and allowing a small hairy thing to rub against my bug-bitten legs.  He wasn’t as barky as other dogs- so he had that going for him.  And he was genuinely cuddly without being cloying. He only sometimes came out to greet us when we came up the stairs.  He played fetch with a stuffed mouse for a short while, and then he stalked off like a nuclear physicist insulted by our pedestrian requests to know what pee-pee was made of.  He could take us or leave us, and that was refreshing to see in a small dog.  Would I be anthropomorphizing too much to say I thought he was moody?  Or brilliant?   I rather like the idea that maybe he wouldn’t come when he was called because he was sulking under the bed, writing in his diary, bemoaning how utterly alone he was in the world because his parents had brought him to this godforsaken place where no one understood him.  It didn’t feel like such a stretch.  And since there was a time in my life when I was also sequestered away in a bedroom ignoring the calls of my family and scribbling about my sad, what-does-it-all-mean-anyway life, I related.  It was like I was meeting the sixteen year old dog-version of myself.

Panama! Part 1

Well, the world didn’t implode.  It didn’t even hiccup.  It was just another day in Paradise the day I walked onto Isla Bastimentos and delivered a big ol’ hug to the Other Lauren Ziemski.

Our hug, our meeting… it was all very normal, really.  In fact, the whole trip had an air of total banality to it.  It was, as they say, soooo Panama.  Our plane almost crash-landed in Changuinola.  No biggie.  One day the whole island lost power.  Whatevs.  Whole sections of menus were unavailable at most of the eateries on the island.  Meh.   This is just how it IS on Bastimentos.

MOAR CHRISTMAS!

Yeah, so that blogging every day thing didn’t work out so well, now did it?  I should know better than to set the bar that high.  I mean, for God’s sake.  I’d just come off a jag of showering only sporadically and ignoring the laundry while trying to write a novel.  Who was I trying to convince that I would be able to blog every day?

The Twelve-ish Days of Christmas

I had this really good idea. I was going to post something every day, starting on December 1st, until we left for Christmas vacation on the 13th.  It was going to be so fun!  Updates from our crazy house every day!  Getting ready to leave, getting ready to spend the holidays with our families… so much to talk about!  I was all jazzed up after NaNoWriMo- so jazzed because the “novel” (let’s not call something I squeezed out in 30 days a “novel”, shall we? Let’s call it a novella.  A practice novella.  A pranella. Ah, yes.  There we are.  A pranella) really got me into the habit of writing nearly every day.  Well, every day starting on the 16th or so.  Yes, that’s right.  I frittered away the first half of the month and *technically* wrote the novel in 14 days or so.

Congratulations, Little Brother

My little brother (though he stands easily a foot taller than me) has always been my “little” brother.  But today he is something else.  A homeowner.  And though I try not to tell anyone else’s story but my own on this site, I thought he deserved a little shout out this morning for the journey he’s made.
He texts me a picture of him and his girlfriend standing in front of their five bedroom home.  I don’t ask him why, when it’s just the two of them and a cat, they need five bedrooms because it’s beside the point.  The rates were good, they got a great deal on the price, and he’s handy, so they can fix what they don’t like.   It’s an old house- nearly a hundred years old, on a corner lot, built in an era when there was need for so much room because families were larger then.  They own it simply because they can.

Candida AlbiCAN’T, Sucker

There was a really brilliant bit going around on the Huffington Post site a couple of weeks ago about the typical trip to Whole Foods.  I laughed out loud at parts.  I did.  Girl knew how to assess a ridiculous situation. And I appreciate a good pull-back from the myopic scrutiny that we here in the Northwest apply to everything from our shoes to our tofu. Every once in a while, I actually laugh out loud (alone in my car, usually) thinking about our first world ridiculousness.  I live in the city with one of the highest rates of first world ridiculousness, so I’m guaranteed to enjoy at least one derisive snort a day.
The one thing about the piece that did get at me a little was the bit about Candida.  And that’s because I have it.  And it is no fucking joke.  And here is where, were I not so serious about this crap growing in my guts, I would full-on belly laugh at MYSELF.  Because, Candida?  Really?  Your gut flora is a little out of whack?  That’s what you’re complaining about, kid?
My internal dialogue me is SO mean to the regular me.

Thailand, Day 2

 
 
So we decide to take the train to Chiang Mai.  Why? Because it was recommended to us.  Forty dollars to sleep the night away on an air-conditioned train and awake in a whole new part of Thailand. It practically shimmered with romance and intrigue.
At 6 pm, we roll our luggage noisily up the curb and enter the station. The place is large and overlit with fluorescent lights. There is a second floor, from which you can look down at the passengers camped out down below.  And camped they are.  Or rather, the white people are.  The Thais are sitting in neat rows of chairs, their hands in their laps, their gaze focused on the large screen TV showing a Thai sitcom.  The white folks are strewn about like trash, filthy and splayed over their grungy backpacks, their eyes sleepy.  There is a section at the front of the station, roped off, and populated by men in orange robes.  “For Monks Only” the placard reads.  A few of them cup their chins in their hands and laugh at the TV show.  Burdy and I go upstairs to scope out the food situation.  We have no idea if we’re going to be able to eat on the train, so we figure it’s best to eat our dinner now.  Before we sit down, though, we go to see the train on the platform.

It Looks Like This, Too (A Love Letter)

Upon my request, my husband has left me a thermos of coffee on the countertop.  He has made it in the early morning hour between his waking and mine.  He has left via the garage on his bicycle for work, having showered and dressed in silence so as not to wake me in that hour.  My husband has left me a drawing next to the thermos.  He has drawn me some birds surrounding a skinny, shaky heart.  He is man who was not used to drawing hearts before he knew me.  He has gotten so used to drawing hearts.

Star Struck

Dear Holy Writing Spirit,
Please let me not trip over my words tonight.  Please take the marbles from my mouth and the lead from my tongue.  Grant me patience both with myself and with “The Process”. Guide my hand with the pen, and turn my ears towards your messengers.   Allow me to be a conduit for your writerly grace and to know a glottal stop when I see one . Imbue me with perfect diction and let my hands lay down by my sides, lest they pinwheel about my wrists in nervousness. Forgive my overuse of elipses, cleanse me of the sin of starting sentences with “and”, and deliver me from clichés,
Now in the hour of your finest performance,
Amen.

This is the prayer I recite every Tuesday night.  Every night now for three weeks, I have sat around a table, along with a dozen other students, with one of my literary heroes.  I have made it seem like it’s all cool to be sitting five seats from my literary hero and reading my writing out loud, but it is not cool, people. No, it is not cool at all.  It is an anxious, sweaty- palmed affair in which I bend the corner of my papers back and forth in anticipation of having to speak I am so nervous.  And why?  Because the combination of being in the same room as one of my literary heroes AND the pressure I’ve put on myself to make this class THE CLASS to END ALL CLASSES and to make me finally write that book is making my head implode. I have to consciously remember to breathe.  I have to remember to be calm and to breathe and that hey!  The instructor puts his shoes on one at a time just like the rest of us!
Oh, but the agony of trying to stay present when all this STUFF is swirling around in my head.  Stuff like: why does this book matter anyway?  Why should anyone want to read it?  Are you going to trip over your words when you read?  You HERO is listening, dummy!  What if his eyes glaze over and you bore him?  WORSE!  What if your stuff is so bad he is stunned into silence?  How will you live afterward if your literary hero hears a bit of this book you’ve been writing and his reaction is that of a man watching a Great Dane take a dump in a baby stroller?
These past few weeks of writing were particularly challenging.  Not only was I nervous about reading, I was nervous about WHAT I was reading.  The week before last, this thing kept coming to me, both from my classmates and from my writing coach.  The thing was a question.  The question was: where are YOU in all of this?  Somehow, I’d begun to write a memoir and I wasn’t IN IT. And everyone could see it.  Either I was a master at writing a character into obsolescence, or I SUCKED at showing up in my own work.  It seemed strange to me that I could achieve such invisibility, given that I come here every once in a while and tell you about my arthritic knees and my intestinal distress,  but I’d heard it now from several people. I wasn’t showing up in my own work. It was like I was invisible. 
So I spiraled into some real darkness and I went back to lying on the leather couch of my mind and asking: okay, LoLo.  When did you first make yourself invisible?  No clear answer came back. I was just aware of a vague sense of hiding behind telephone poles for most of my life. Not real ones, of course, but something figurative, something large enough to peek out from behind to observe the rest of the world, but something that would hide me entirely if I wanted to stand with my back up against it. 
Eventually, I pulled out of that dark place. On the third day, I woke up and said, “Ahhhh.  That’s better”.  I went back to the drawing board and cranked out another chapter and this time I made sure to start most of my sentences with “I”.  I was putting myself in my book.  I had thoughts and feelings and not all of them were around Cheez Doodles!  I was doing it!  I was expressing myself!
I can’t tell you precisely when that shift from Describer to Narrator happened.  It might have been the conversation I had with an old friend of mine- a musician who has made his way to Broadway.  He said something to me about how ALL of us, actors, musicians, writers… all of us live with doubt.  And all of us need to create and perform in the face of that doubt.  In fact, you could postulate that the only thing separating an artist from a non-artist is that the artist lives in his fear and acts anyway. 
I also spoke to a very good friend of mine who is a professional photographer and she echoed the sentiment of my musician friend- that all of us, ALL HUMANS, cringe in fear at the idea that we are subject to criticism at all times… especially those of us who put ourselves out there ON PURPOSE to be critiqued and loved and reviled and adored.   Again the message came through: your desire to crawl under a rock when things get ugly is no excuse for not trying. 
Really, what came out of all of this was the idea that I have a VERY fixed idea that because I want this so badly, it should come gracefully and easily.  I may have read ONE too many articles of the Zen of Pulling Weeds or some shit because EVERYONE I talked to has the same reaction to my insistence that this should be easy: WHAT ARE YOU? NUTS?  NOTHING in life is SUPPOSED to be easy, dummy!  The things hardest fought for are the things you treasure most.  Sometimes that thing is a difficult childbirth.  Sometimes it’s being unemployed for a long stretch only to find your dream job at the end.  I know of very few parents who would trade in their kids for an easier time of things.  That’s how you fall in love with your creation: you work alongside it. You fight for its survival.  You change in the process.
Something, though, has kept me from embracing this struggle.  Everyone who has passed on that bit of wisdom circulating around the Internet right now ,“Lean into it”, I have wanted to shove hard into row of parked motorcycles.
The Perfectionism is dying a slow death, but it still rears its mangled head from time to time.  I have found myself stumbling, wanting to impress my instructor and classmates, leaving my willingness to experiment at the door in the name of making a good impression.  I am actually embarrassed at how intimidated I am. I feel like everyone else is so witty and charming and funny!  I can hardly string a sentence together. My words leave me regularly.  I find myself in this very awkward game of Charades, where  I am subbing out wholly formed thoughts for wild gesticulations.  My classmates lean in and try to discern what I mean by *wave hands in circles, swivel head, make guttural noise, stare at tabletop for uncomfortable seven seconds and wave hands some more*. My classmates aren’t just good at writing, either.  They’re good at talking abouttheir writing.  About their thought processes and how they go from point A to point B.  They’re having meta conversations about what it’s like to think about their writing.  I’m still stumbling over fucking verb tenses.  For god’s sake.   Their stuff is SO good.  Their pieces are charcoal sketches of nudes.  Mine are hairy firetrucks and my name signed in crayon trailing off the page.  They are waxing philosophical about film and theater.  I am laboring to push out words like a manatee with twins on the way.
I do this a LOT- get all star-struck and tongue-tied in front of other good writers and then I want to crumple up into a ball my version of “art”.  I think it’s a little, um, weird, because my level of discomfort should be inversely proportional to the level of celebrity. But my celebrities aren’t the normal ones so my nervousness is a little, well, extreme.  To wit: one of my best friends went to a Beyonce concert a few  nights ago and she sent me a text telling me she’d just about peed her pants in awe at the woman.  Truthfully, if I came face to face with Beyonce’s quadriceps, I might be liable to let go a little trickle.  But, really?  I don’t think about Beyonce except when someone mentions her name.  No offence, Mrs. Knowles-Zee (which is, I’m SURE, what you call yourself).  You are amazing; you’re just not as cool to me as, say, Ira Glass or Oliver Sacks.
 “Normal” celebrities don’t do it for me.  One time, at bookclub, talk ran right into celeb gossip and the ladies were all Ryan Gosling this and Ryan Gosling that and I was like WHO IN THE HELL IS THIS MAN with a baby duck’s last name?  Everyone in the room just then turned to me and their heads began the slow, awkward swivel of the possessed/incredulous.   Someone pulled up a picture on their phone. I stared.  I squinted.   Nothing.  I didn’t know him from Adam.  Incredulous looks from the ladies circulated. Do you think she’s okay?, they whispered to one another. 
The problem is that I don’t see a lot of (American-made) movies, and I don’t watch TV much. Instead, I read. A lot.  Heavy stuff, too.  Like right now, my favorite book is a five-hundred page treatise on the origins of cancer.  I can’t put it down.
Here are some factoids about me that might clear up why my heroes run so left of center.  I have never, ever in my life done two things:
Smoked a cigarette
Bought a women’s magazine
That should do some of the work in explaining why I can’t point Ryan BabyDuck out of a lineup, or why I think of rum before I think of  actor when I hear the word “Gosling” and why a child’s dose of cough syrup is enough to get me high,  and why I can’t identify 80% of Hollywood on name alone.
Ask me about the fascinating connection between the brain and the guts, though, and I can point to the exact PAGE the article is on in my subscription to Mother Jones.  Or if you want to read that gorgeous story about the beekeeper in The Sun?  Yeah, I got you covered.  Oh, and if you want a short history of how autopsies have historically been performed, you just let me know.  I’ll be returning “The Emperor of All Maladies” to the library in about one week.
I never think that what I’m reading is so weird until I find out that the rest of the world wants to know about the Royal Baby that was just born and I’m like “Royal baby? Is that Nigerian princess who keeps spamming me pregnant?”  I’m much more interested in how my food is produced, which one of my bath products contains Methylparaben, how to excise a lung… these are the things I’m reading about. 
And none of that seemed so weird or cloistered (or soooooo very indicative of the fact that I live in Seattle) until I got to this class and realized that all my reading has done me no good.  I don’t have a working knowledge of Shakespeare.  I haven’t seen very many movies.  I’m more familiar with the fiber content of graham crackers than I am with filmmakers.  It leaves me feeling like I’ve shown up to a MENSA meeting with a baloney sandwich in my hands and an Archie comic stuffed into my back pocket. 
The whole reason I wanted to take this class was because I saw the instructor perform a few years ago and his monologue was what made me think I could make a go of this writing thingee.  And now that I am in front of him, I’m acting like a Nervous Nellie.  I took this class because I wanted to use it as a tool to flesh out this book I’m working on.  Somehow, though, I’ve let my nervousness eclipse my focus and I’ve been loathe to work on the book.
The instructor is only ONE of many indie-celebrities in front of whom I’ve made myself sound like a broken Whoopie Cushion. There was this one time when I met one of my musical idols, Dan Bern.  He was playing in my city, in my neighborhood even.  When I walked up to him after the show to flirt/chit-chat, I made a complete and utter fool of myself.  Again, a little bit of trivia to help paint a picture here:  I live with a particular form of cognitive dissonance when it comes to physics.  I cannot properly gauge the distance between two locations.  Miles mean nothing to me.  Tell me distance in minutes, and be sure to throw in landmarks or I will never understand what geography you are pointing to.  Anwho,  when Dan Bern, my idol, told me he had just come from SeaTac, the town that is synonymous with our airport, an airport just thirty minutes away by car, I asked if he had flown from there to here, the club we were standing in.  In other words, instead of taking a moment to process the information, take in a few molecules of oxygen, synthesize it with what I already knew about time and space, and perhaps form a follow up question, or maybe just stand there and shake my head dreamily like a NORMAL star struck person, I summoned up all my bravado and asked if he had flown from the airport to the venue.  In essence, I’d asked him if he had gotten into a plane and flown the approximate three minutes it would take to cover the roughly twenty mile car ride. He stared at me blankly, wondering how I didn’t know the geography of my OWN FUCKING STATE. “ No”, he said with an appropriate amount of exasperation and pity in his voice. “I drove here”.  Like a normal person, was the implication at the end there.
So yeah, me and celebrity – we don’t do so well together.  My brain melts around people I admire.  I keep thinking I’m meant to rub elbows with big names, but when I actually do, I wind up saying THE most inane stuff.  I once stood in line WITH NO BOOK TO SIGN just to shake hands with Stephen Tobolowsky at a book signing event.  When I got to him, all I could say, like he was some veteran coming home from war, was: “Great job sir.  You really inspire me”.  You know what?   I didn’t say that at all. What I said was, “You. Are.  Beashhhhhh.  Ohgod.  I. Thank you.  I’m sorry I don’t have a book.  You. Should know.  Aiiiiiiiiii”. Then there was the sound of hissing as my brain off-gassed from death by atrophy.  So, yeah.  I can wreck a two sentence sentiment in no time flat.  There were probably about a dozen or so OTHER sounds I used to “talk” to Stephen Tobolowksy, but I have necessarily blocked from my memory so that I am not horribly disfigured by the weight of my own shame.
Today I am taking a moment to collect my breath and my thoughts and to remember that we are all human, all of us.  And that unless I am told otherwise, I should just presume that everyone else is just as nervous and tongue-tied as I am, in front of celebrities or not.  Everyone is finding their way.  Everyone is making hairy fire trucks in the privacy of their own home and maybe they are much more practiced at shining them up before they bring them to class.
Sometimes, The Holy Writing Spirit answers my prayers, and it sounds like this:
Dear Little Child, Wandering in the Desert of Your Own Mind,
How DO you read your work in front of your writing heroes?  Ah, if only I could reveal the answer to you!  I acknowledge your difficulty, though. You probably haven’t yet learned the art of dismantling your gods.   That’s all.  You’re just now starting to see how absent you’ve been from your reading and isn’t that helpful?  After you go home and the adrenaline ebbs from the shores of your self-awareness and your breathing goes back to normal? See? You’re doing alright.  Listen.  First of all, do you not remember the first of my laws?   There is no God of Writing but the One God of Writing.  Thou shalt not worship false idols.  I’m sure this guy is great and all, but, seriously.  Do I need to inscribe it on stone tablets or something?  Buy their books and go to their shows, but remember who fills you with wordy life day after day after day. Not those yahoos.  Me. ME! TREMBLE BEFORE ME, THE LORD, YOUR WRITING GOD!  Lol! Just kidding!  I love throwing that shit in from time to time. Hey. Listen: you must learn to calm down.   You will never glean all there is to glean from those you adore (and there is stuff to be gleaned, for sure) in that state of starry-eyed palsy . You must gracefully take your heroes off their pedestals and you must raise yourself up tall.  Only then, with the pedestal out of the way, will you be able to see what there is to see: you are all human.  And you are all trying to tell a story.

Now go tell yours. 

A Visitor

I had an unexpected visitor this week.  The little girl I used to babysit- on the east coast, in Irvington, NJ- was here, in Seattle, and sleeping on my office floor. She was on a road trip- a soul journey- the kind we all should take from time to time to sort out what’s next for us and what’s important to us.  I’ve taken my share of those, so I was SO excited to finally play the role of hostess to someone on a journey like that.   
Not that Eliana really needed any sort of sagely advice from me, or a soft place to land, exactly.  You know you’ve both grown up in a hard place when you offer your guest an air mattress and she insists on sleeping on the hard ground because, y’know.  We grew up in Irvington.  What’s a little hard ground? In addition to being a damned good roadtripper, this young woman is also an accomplished musician, a fabulous cook (she makes a mean veggie scramble), and downright delightful company.  We talked long into the night and laughed about all sorts of things (not the least of which was the most monotone, eyes-glazed-over, culty happy birthday song either of us had ever heard at one of the Sri Chinmoy eateries here in town).
We went out for food and drinks the night she rolled into town and we reminisced a little bit about our times growing up.  Each of us dug way back in the memory banks for funny stories to tell Mr. Burdy- like the time we tried to bake a matzoh from scratch in the microwave using borrowed flour during Passover (Whoops.  There’s a joke in there somewhere that starts “A Catholic girl walks into a Jewish home…”). Or the time I had to boost her through the window on the front porch because we’d locked ourselves out of the house. Or the time my brother told her he painted his nails black because it would hide the blood when he committed murders.  Ah, childhood. 
I would like to claim responsibility for this young lady’s remarkable outcome, but let’s be honest.  I really didn’t have anything to do with it.  I don’t mean that in any over-self-deprecating way, either.  We were next door neighbors for eight years or so, sure.  And we’d lobbed our share of water balloons and childhood taunts over the chain link fence separating our yards, but, it’s not like I taught her much in the way of life skills.  And also, I once dislocated her shoulder. RELAX!  I did it while we were dancing!  FIERCELY!  “Shiny Happy People” will inspire that kind of energy in young people.
It was her amazing parents that are really responsible for her outcome.  And her community.  And the fact that she’s always been a bright shiny star, a smart and charming and lovable human being- a  personality  that was formed way before I arrived on the scene. 
Her visit reminded me once again of the inherent messiness of our memories.   While we reminisced about all the minor damage  we’d caused  ourselves and others in our childhoods  (there was the requisite Showing Of the Scars with Accompanying Backstories over gin and tonics one night), it became obvious that we each remembered such different things.  She remembered the tile in her bathroom.  I remembered that her brother was obsessed with He-Man.   It always blows my mind a little how two people existing in the exact same space and time can produce such different memories of those times. I would think that I WOULDN’T be surprised at this point in my life. But, having three siblings, all of whom I feel very close to, has sort of skewed my sense of individuation when it comes to memory.  We spent SO much time together growing up; it’s hard to remember a story without them in it.  We four keep a memory alive in a way, I suspect, that a family of two or three can’t.  There is often so much material between the four of us, so much adding and re-calling, that the idea that different people can remember different things occurs as downright bizarre to me, still. (I often dream of writing a book with the three of them, telling the same stories from four different angles.  I’ve even figured out the cover:  four line-drawn head shots, done up in primary colors like a Warhol painting.) 
Recreating in a vacuum, which is how I’ve gone about writing the memoir I’m working on… that is challenging stuff.  The theme of my life for the last month has been how shaky, at best, my memory is when I have to remember alone.  It’s hard to recreate the past without the input of those other three lunatics who share my last name, or my former next door neighbor, or my former clients and coworkers.  I’ve been working on the memoir almost daily, and aside from the challenge of just committing to a time every day to sit here and write, there is this: what I thought was there, just at the edge of my memory, ready to spill over onto the page, is in fact a tangled mess of chronology. I find myself stymied by questions of time and order.  Did Mr. X do this funny thing in 2003 or 2004?  Was I promoted before or after I almost set fire to the wall of my office?  Did I work for that nutbag  the same year I was almost hospitalized for exhaustion, or the one before?
It’s funny how much pride we attach to being to being able to tell a story and recall every single detail- or, how much we want to punish those who embellish (ahemJamesFreyahem) in the void.  I’ve always prided myself on being able to reconstruct the past from just a few Polaroid snapshots. What this memoir is shoving right in my face is how, with the passage of time, those snapshots fade, and get replaced by new snapshots.  What shelf the chocolate covered pomegranate seeds are on, what corner of the garage we  crammed the tripod into, where I put those Christmas cards I bought on clearance at the end of the season last year… This is the banality of living that crowds out all that drama from so long ago.  And thank goodness, really.  My brain is overactive enough.  The last thing I need to do is find the Christmas cards and then feel the urge to call 911 because I’m remembering an electrical fire from 2003.
It was great to rehash the past during Eliana’s visit.  It was even greater to create new memories with her.  It’s comforting in a way I can’t really explain to know my childhood is safeguarded in the memories of more than just a handful of people.  It’s a blessing and a miracle to see that, despite our concrete jungle beginnings, some of us have been able to fold ourselves into the organic nectarine, fleece camping vest, sensible shoe wearing embrace of the soft west coast.  We made it out alive.  We’re taking roadtrips and seeing the world and asking big questions of ourselves.  That, too, is comforting.  Maybe somewhere in between the cuts and bruises and the shoving through windows, our two free spirited souls, unbeknownst to our conscious selves, were signaling to each other to meet on the West Coast in twenty years.
Oh, and Mrs. Kissner? That was three days for 8 hours a day at a rate of $3.00 per hour, so I will be sending you a bill for seventy-two bucks for the services of babysitting your daughter.  She ate all her lunch and then some, I only ordered her to drink alcohol twice, and she doesn’t one have ONE new scar to show for her time here. Unlike my memory, I’d say my babysitting skills have greatly improved.