September again.

And just like that, August is gone. September has begun with sudden rainstorms, breezy bike rides, Harvard Square, and another attempt at something I want to do. Full moons, peaches straight from the backyard, homemade pie crusts, the best pizza of my life, two basil plants blooming on the back porch, and a load of heirloom tomatoes from the Labor Day farmer's market in Central Square. They taste like candy, like the piles of tomatoes always on my grandparents' kitchen table, sliced up with pepper with every meal. Festa has come and gone and with it reminders of how much time has passed. The chill is under the breeze again, and I can feel myself hunkering down, preparing for the transition into winter.

In the great outdoors.

I'm grateful for family, in all of its forms. For friends who are comfortable with fireside flatulents, willing to drive so many hours just to sleep on the ground and skip showers. For technology that lets me make my nephew laugh from 1200 miles away, and see how silly my niece is and what her latest favorite My Little Pony dance is and hear the lilt of my mom's accent while watching her look through the bottoms of her bifocals at me.

I'm grateful for feeling at home again and for not having to wait too long in between. For unexpected visits from good friends, long meals, and too many drinks. For such a good job that includes dental insurance and financial stability (finally, finally). Mostly I'm thankful for all of this, the constant motion, the ebb and the flow, of life torn a bit at the edges, lived and worn like a favorite book, an old sweatshirt.

Aimee Mann on repeat.

It is so very summertime. I've been working like a dog lately (when can we retire that phrase? dogs don't do any work), but it's nights like this with the window open, the breeze, some long-craved strawberry ice cream, and silence (Mike's out watching baseball) that I am reminded to slow down and enjoy the opening of everything. I hate being hot; I sweat more than a lady ought to, but something about summer feels like you can't hide anything anymore. You can't just curl up into yourself and forget about the world. It is green, it is on fire, it is beading with sweat along its brow, it is waiting for the next breeze, the next raindrop, the next reprieve. The sun reveals us.

And just like that

So many things are happening lately. We're planning our trip to Georgia in July, and a friends camping trip sometime soon. Mike was offered and accepted a teaching position in Eastern Mass, and all of the anxiety I didn't realize I'd been feeling about that transition has faded away. We spent last weekend in Charlestown, RI, at Burlingame State Park pitching tents, building fires, roasting s'mores, and swimming in lakes (well, just one, but I was on a roll). We saw fireflies, one of the main things I miss about the south. Boston has penciled in Summer for tomorrow and Thursday with 90 degree temperatures, just in time for our very first kickball game.

I've started rereading East of Eden and am noticing so much more than the first time round. Something about reading in the summertime makes me feel whole, like something's come full circle. It's like waking up after an afternoon nap (the good kind) and realizing you still have a whole half day ahead of you. Or coming back from a weekend away and it's still light out and not yet dinnertime.

I loved camping with Mike. It brought back so many memories of camping with my family when I was a kid, swimming in the lake (they're much warmer in Georgia) and falling dead asleep at the end of the day. It was nice to share that with Mike. I'm getting excited to have him home full time come Friday, excited to see how our relationship will change and grow, how our time together will not be so regimented, but fluid and natural. I'm excited for the amount of time I've spent with friends that past few weeks, the ease with which the change has come about. We're all crawling out of our winter selves, stretching in the light of the sun and the company of one another.

Tuesday night.

Sometime in April or May my weeknight routine became: come home, make dinner, eat dinner, clean dishes, watch TV until I can't stand myself anymore, get ready for bed, talk to Mike on the phone (unless it's Wednesday, then it's snuggle time!), pretend to read until my eyes get heavy, go to sleep. Of course that wasn't every night, but it was a lot of nights, more nights than it should have been. More nights than I am proud to admit.

Then I started planning, I started going places, saying yes again. Then it was time for DC and really really long bus rides. Then it was time to go to Philly, Memorial Day, and singing to Billy Joel in the car. Then it was alumnae weekend, and staying out on a work night. And today, in the aftermath, everything is just different. I came home and made granola bars from scratch, which is something I've been meaning to do. (I also put mini peanut butter cups in them, which is something everyone should do.) I wrote some more of my novel and sent the whole messy chunk of it to my writing group for next week. Then I read two blog posts on babies (here and here) and cried my eyes out. Now I'm going to read until Mike calls, yawning and calling me main the way we do.

Trip to DC: Saturday

 After much planning and replanning, we thought we'd picked a weekend that Cyndi was least likely to work. Then Tuesday before I headed down, Cyndi got news that Saturday was a twelve-hour day, some of it spent outside Camp David. (Yes, she is in the Secret Service.) Luckily, one of her roommates went to Emerson with me, so we regrouped and I made her babysit me for the day. And she did a great job.

We wandered to Eastern Market and the Capitol Hill Flea, where I bought Mike a shirt with a polar bear looking through a View Finder (he collects them) from Sharp Shirter. We took advantage of the beautiful weather and walked to the National Mall, where we stumbled into an Asian street festival, where I gave in and bought a meat stick and a lemonade. It was glorious.

The downside to my whirlwind trip to the district was that I really only had time for one museum (maybe two if I wasn't an old lady with back problems). We went to the National Museum of American History, where I naturally headed straight to the WWII room, walking politely through the Civil War and something about Thomas Jefferson's slaves. It didn't come close to the WWII Museum in NOLA, but the Vietnam exhibit (the TVs above) was pretty effective.

Afterward, we headed back to their apartment for some rest before dinner. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving DC without sitting and reading in a coffee shop (and of going two whole days without a coffee!), so I ventured out while Clare napped. I found the neighborhood coffee shop and sipped a delicious latte, ate a chocolate chip cookie, and read two very strange stories from Ha Jin's A Good Fall. The wax paper bag the cookie came in is currently serving as my bookmark.

For dinner, we ate at Matchbox then had a couple drinks at The Queen Vic (which is less than a block from their apartment), but we were all pretty beat by then. Sunday morning was bittersweet. Cyndi took me to the bus station and waited with me for a while. We didn't end up crying on the bathroom floor, but it was refreshing to have a weekend that had been a year and a half in the making that felt like all those weekends in Georgia before graduation, before college, before life. (I mean, we were alive then, too, but you know what I mean.) Cyndi's someone who knows me inside and out, something I've often taken for granted; I can say things to her without context or apology, without fear of being misinterpreted or given room for explanation. There's something to be said for a friend who not only knows your history because you've told it to them, but someone whose own history is part of yours.

Well said.

Currently loving this quote from Zooey Deschanel (found via The Secret Life of Bee, whose post on sensitivity is lovely as well):

Being tender and open is beautiful. As a woman, I feel continually shhh’ed. Too sensitive. Too mushy. Too wishy washy. Blah blah. Don’t let someone steal your tenderness. Don’t allow the coldness and fear of others to tarnish your perfectly vulnerable beating heart. Nothing is more powerful than allowing yourself to truly be affected by things. Whether it’s a song, a stranger, a mountain, a rain drop, a tea kettle, an article, a sentence, a footstep, feel it all – look around you. All of this is for you. Take it and have gratitude. Give it and feel love.

Guest Post: What I Need

Today I'm working from home, enjoying more rainy days and baking birthday goodies in the background. I can't believe that this will be the second birthday of Mike's that I get to celebrate with him. I remember, right before I met him, saying to myself, "I'm so glad I'm single right now. I have all the time in the world!" Then, BAM, there he was. Things started without my fully understanding what was happening and before I knew it, I was in the throes of the real deal. Through it all, Cyndi's been one of my sounding boards. I've come to her with my insecurities and she has soothed me (or empathized) with me through them. These days Cyndi has a beau of her own, and it seems the lessons just keep on coming. Without further ado, I'm excited to present my first guest post from one of my oldest, bestest friends. 

I’m perhaps in my first adult relationship. There’s no “perhaps,” who am I kidding? I am in my first adult relationship, and I’m bad at it. I’m comically, tragically, stars aligned but I twist and turn them until they’re misaligned, bad at it. I’m a bad communicator, and vulnerability makes me squeal and squirm like I’m about to be waterboarded, and those are not excellent qualities in a sustained romantic endeavor.

But along the way, because so far I haven’t ended it or run away, and for me that’s all the stars in the galaxy gigantic, I’ve learned about what I need in a partner. I’ve learned a lot about what I need in a partner. And to each partner her own needs, but I thought I’d share mine, put them out there raw and vulnerable-like, as though putting it down in words will make them okay, smash Hulk style the fear and shame I associate with them.

I need a partner who is attentive--intensely and passionately attentive but not needy. Someone who wants to be around me, talk to me, see me, touch me, be with me so often we’re a cocoon of gross love falling but who doesn’t need that. Just wants it.

I need a partner who is patient, who sees my problems with vulnerability and raises me patience – because ultimately, eventually, I will talk about what’s bothering me. In fact, I can’t sleep, focus, do anything until I finally talk. It just takes me a while, sometimes a great, long, infinity while, to get up the nerve to say, “I feel vulnerable and here’s why.” 

I need a partner who is silly, who is completely and utterly unafraid to laugh and giggle and joke and tease and tickle and play and frolic and smile and run with wild abandon to the swings on a playground meant for small people 1/5 our age and just be silly. I’m joyous and fun-loving at my best, and I need a partner who likes that, embraces that and shares it. 

I need a partner who likes to do things, active things, sedentary things (in my living room wine tastings, for example), all things. I need a partner who is adventurous. If given the space and freedom, I will plan 22 dates on top of each other, all one right after the next, a series of big and small and outdoor and indoor and new and silly and adventurous and romantical dates that have been piling in my head, a mountainous to-do list for which the only remaining ingredient has been the perfect partner in crime.

I need a partner who makes me feel more secure than maybe seems normal, that maybe is what women say they need right before being misappropriated as “crazy.” I need a partner who reaffirms his affections, physically and with words and with actions and with deed. I’m finding a minefield of insecurities as I stumble through this relationship thing, insecurities I buried or wasn’t self-aware enough to recognize as insecurities in my younger relationships, and while the impetus is on me to address them (and I’m working on it, oh I am!), I need someone who is going to look me in the eye and say, “I’m not running.” Because it makes me a little less scared to stay.

I need a partner who uses words and shares words with me, who is not necessarily a poet emeritus (because who reads poetry anyway?) but who says to me, and says to me often, what I do to him, what I make him feel, what he likes about me, what turns him on, what turns him off, a partner that basks in words because words, simply words, is how I love and how I relate (except when I feel scared or vulnerable, in which case words get caught in the vast throbbing, hurting place between my chest and my throat, and I just can’t until I can).

I need a partner who lets me be me, which is simple and cliché, but it’s not and it’s not. It’s hard to find, and it’s the ultimate. It’s freeing, and it trumps all my fears and insecurities and tells them to lay dormant because I can be me, and I can embrace all that I am, and that is enough and he will like me because of it all. And that’s the biggest need of all. And the biggest thing I can give in return.

And I need a partner who shares with me his needs because I want to meet them and be there for him and give him the space and freedom to be all that he is and wants to be.

In this new adult relationship thing, I’ve adjusted my expectations and I’ve watched myself grow, and I’ve forced myself to communicate, just a little at a time (I’m a firm believer in baby steps), and because of that, I am okay at this and forgiving myself for not being a natural and getting better, a little better, every day. And he accepts that and me and is patient and is kind and is silly and lets me plan things and goes on adventures with me as simple as laughing in the rain.

And I like that. And I like him.

All the different ways to eat a strawberry.

I've been thinking about plans, about how they can turn into action. Thinking about what motivates me and what stills me, lets me stagnate. I'm deep in my comfort zone these days, lounging around the house during the workday, sewing late into the night or reading in lamp light. The itch to head south has come again (it always does, when the weather changes); I'm hoping it will be satisfied, if only temporarily, by my visit to DC.

Spring in all its forms.

The skies just opened up. This morning, that started so bright and breezy, has turned into an almost-noon-rain-shower. It is the type of rainshower during which I don't so much mind working from home, but rather, revel in it. The rain does not lock me inside, but excuses me from wanting to be outside.

This morning I woke up early enough, took the trash out, and tweaked my Thursday ritual. Instead of reading at 1369, I went for a run. I run best when I have badly lyric'ed hip hop blasting in my ears, turns out. I'm making small changes since bigger changes will have to wait, and I'm enjoying it. Today marks the first day of a month of primarily working from home. I cleaned off my desk last night in preparation, something that's been on my meaning-to-do list for some time.

This morning Meg Fee has come up with the perfect words for what I'm thinking these days:

but it's not enough. those things i love are simply not enough anymore.

no one tells you that one of the joys of getting older is the confidence in that phrase: not. good. enough.

you know yourself better, priorities come into focus, and lies are easier to unearth.

you learn, with grace, to let some things go: friendships that were more a product of youth and need than anything else. men who diminish your worth and underestimate your intelligence.

you care less about satisfying everyone--being thought of as kind. you invest far less time in pretense because time is in fact a commodity and so you give it to those you love--your friends and your family and yourself. and you stop apologizing for that. you make decisions. and you move on. and you let go when need be.

and where need be. corners and cafes and shared apartments.

growing up, it turns out, has its perks.

And just like that, everything is glinting and glimmering, people are running, holding newspapers over their heads like I thought they did only in movies. This is the Spring less heralded.

Morning leftovers.

Spring, I can feel you; you are so close. Days like today, with the promise of sixty-degree weather, I can only cross my fingers, roll my jeans up, skip the socks, and hop on my bike. I can make plans to play tennis right after work, maybe some frisbee. I can spend only a few more weeks living like it's winter, so cut us a break, ok? I love to sew, to watch TV on my computer, to crochet into the late hours, but I so miss sitting in grass with a good book, wandering with no layers to slow me down, taking my time on bike rides.

Last night I left the east-facing shades open so my morning could start as soon as the sun's, as soon as my eyes opened. Best way to start the day.

The give and take of adulthood.

Some days I just feel like the biggest dummy at work. Turns out, being an adult just means being able to lick your own wounds, all while you lift up that chin, tell yourself you're good enough, and move forward. Luckily, it also means eating cereal for dinner and ice cream for breakfast.

So today, I'm making some decisions. Today I won't feel bad for asking too many questions, for curiosity and a growing capacity for knowledge. Today I won't say no to a second cup of coffee, to a long, tight hug, to a second read of an old letter. Today, I'll take a slow and meandering walk without headphones, without cameras, without agenda.

This woman reminded me that I am too hard on myself sometimes. And, sometimes, what we think of ourselves can color the ways we think of others. So, today, I'm choosing to see myself happy, content, smart, and exactly as I should be, right here, right now.

Ritual: Thursday morning coffee dates.

Welp, after a week of beautiful spring weather, someone went and reminded Massachusetts that it's still March. It's been rainy and cold, or in other words, amazing reading weather. I've been taking the bus to work so I can get in as much time reading Andre Dubus III's memoir, Townie, as I can. It was a lovely surprise, getting sucked into this book I picked up as a last minute decision on my way out of the library a week or so ago. And now I want to check out all of Andre Dubus Sr.'s short stories. I feel the itch again, to write something new, to show a bit of the world as I see it to someone, even if it's just the someones in my writing group or some of you here.

It's become my Thursday morning, work-from-home day ritual to get up at my normal time, take the trash out, and sit at 1369 reading until 9 o'clock. I've been taking notes on overheard conversations again, little details on characters on the bus, things that these three kids said at the bus stop yesterday afternoon that had me wondering what I was like at that age, concluding I was never that brash, never that outspoken. A part of me admired those kids for all they've figured out so young, another part mourned their loss of something I had then, something that didn't require my learning so much so soon. Today, while reading, I jotted this down, as encouragement, as reminder:

"What good does writing do, Mom? Who cares about making up stories? I want to do something important for people." 

It was as if I'd reached over and slapped her face with a damp rag. "I can't believe you just said that, Andre. I won't tell anyone you just said that."

 

An ode to the third floor on the right.

I've spent so much time recently daydreaming about the future, and I fear I've forgotten to soak up everything that's happening now because surely I am missing the best parts. Forest for the trees and all that.

1. There is that feeling of coming home, after a long weekend away, of Inman Square's bustle and the welcoming light streaming into our room.
2. The nights when Meg and I are both home at the same time, or getting ready on a weekend morning. The loud (usually awful *cough*LMFAO*cough*) music and equally bad dancing, the waffles, the coffee, the laughing. I can't believe I'm all grown up and about to move on from the days of roommates. An era is ending! How dare I wish it away so fast?
3. This apartment is a place of so many firsts for Mike and me! Our first kiss, the beginning of our first date, our first cuddles, first boardgames, first apartment living together. 
4. This apartment was also the place of so many other firsts. I've been so many versions of myself in the short amount of time I've lived there. I've been young, recent grad, uncertain of my present, let alone my future. I've been carefree, discovering what it means to be in my twenties and single, to be a young attractive bartender, working late nights and having ridiculous fun with people in the same boat as me. I've been heartbroken, wreckless with my own emotions, fearless with my own heart. I've seen the dangers of that, and reaped the benefits. I've decided that that is who I am, and I have never regretted it. I've been a needy friend, a good listener, a horrible roommate, a better roommate. I've been the friend, tagging along and making my own way. 
5. It's also about a thirty second walk to one of my favorite coffee shops in my history as a coffee shop lover. It's been my go-to for early morning weekend reading time, writing time, or just general Hey, let's hang out time. I'll miss being a stone's throw from 1369.
6. Did I mention that Inman Square is amazing? It's central to so many great squares in Cambridge (Davis/Porter, Central, Harvard, Kendall, Union). I can get to an awesome brunch, bar, dinner, dessert, thrift store, coffee shop, movie theatre, mall, and Target all within walking distance.

Generally, I'll miss this chapter of my life. Not in a pining for it kind of way, but in the way you feel about people younger than you, experiencing things you remember struggling through with the new appreciation for where those experiences ultimately took you, shaped you. This was such a necessary, such a dear, such a fleeting time. Thank God for it. 

365 Chances #11: In which no one's a stranger.

Last night I went to dinner with Meg at Island Creek Oyster House. It blew my mind, specifically the buttermilk biscuit (there was honey on it!), raw oysters (the namesake oysters are delicious), and another dish whose name I do not remember. We also drank two bottles of wine and were able to catch up, just the two of us. Oh, and there were big snowflakes falling onto Kenmore Square right outside the window. So, you know, it was the perfect date.

That's all to say that this morning I was feeling a bit like I'd drunk equal to or less than the amount of one bottle of wine, so I was a little slow on the uptake. (Translation: I missed the bus to the gym and didn't have time for a proper breakfast.) So on my way to work this morning, I stopped into Trader Joe's for some bananas, an orange, and peanuts. All proper morning/snack foods. Upon checkout, I asked the guy the same old, "How are you today?" And it was his response that woke me up this morning.

"Ah, not doing so well today. I had to put my cat down yesterday."

My jaw did a little bit of dropping, and I couldn't quite figure out how to respond.

"I'm so sorry," I said. Call me Mother Teresa.

"You know, she had acute kidney failure and was in a lot of pain."

"Well, it's probably better that she's not in any pain," I thought to myself. I couldn't speak. I didn't know how to respond, how to offer anything genuine or specific to this man I had just met a minute before. All of the ways I know how to console are intimate and too private for a customer-cashier relationship at Trader Joe's, right?

I left a little bit stunned. I had the feeling I hadn't dealt with the situation properly. I felt a little like he was out of line, spilling his heart out like that in what's supposed to be a predictable transaction. But maybe that's what I don't like so much about the world. I served tables and bartended for the better part of my high school and college careers and even after a rotten morning or shift, when someone--even regulars--asked me how I was, I responded with the boilerplate: "I'm doing well, how are you?"

Sure, there's a time and a place for venting, and often your place of employment isn't it. But I admire that man's ability to say to hell with social norms and knee jerk, generic responses. Maybe if I spent more time actually revealing bits of myself to the world, I wouldn't be so shocked when I saw it in unexpected places.

[Addendum: Not sure what 365 Chances are? Start here. ALSO Meg check out what time I posted this!)

Early Thursday mornings.

Source: flickr.com via Cassandra on Pinterest

I'm sure I've mentioned that I'm a morning person. I blame my dad. For as long as I can remember, he's always up when I get up, no matter how early I think it is. This past Christmas, there were twelve people in one, albeit large, cabin, so I took the mornings for myself. I woke before everyone else (well, almost), made coffee, and read while the sun rose from behind the mountain. The mornings that my dad was there, he was already up waiting for me, sipping coffee, and reading a book. I'm so glad I inherited his appreciation for the small, quiet hours of the day.

Today I woke with Mike at 5:35, packed my stuff for a Ludlow weekend so he could take it with him, showered, and headed into the office really early so I can head out by four and catch a bus west this afternoon. With all of the apartment headaches (that are finally subsiding, thank goodness!), it'll be nice to have a mini vacation with trips to Joann's, small town brunches, and a jump on hanging with Philly friends who'll be in town for the weekend. Mike's taking a sick day tomorrow, so he'll be lounging with me while I work from home.

That'll do.

via

Last night I blew off holing up in my crappy apartment, making soup, watching How I Met Your Mother, and crocheting. Last night I met up with friends, had one too many beers (which is to say, two), ate the rest of my peanut butter ice cream, curled up waiting for Mike, and felt more content than I have in a while.

Sometimes I worry that I'm so stuck in my ways, in my comfort zone, in my I-don't-have-any-money-ness that I forget that I live in a city that I love. There are coffee shops that make my heart skip a beat within walking distance. There are entire neighborhoods drastically different from one another within walking distance. As much as all of this apartment stuff has been bringing me down, it's been so easy to forget that I love the four windows in my room, I love seeing the bustle of Cambridge Street below, the honking horns and the sirens, the yelling of the bar patrons at 1 am. (Okay, I'm getting sentimental.) I love how quickly I can get home after a long, slow dinner at City Girl, or that I can roll out of bed to catch a bus to the gym in the mornings. That deciding I want to bake cookies at eight o'clock at night means walking over to Johnnie's, or wanting to see the fifth season of Gilmore Girls means a seven minute walk to the library. That I can stop at Jenna's on the way, let myself in with my spare key, be near people I love most within the span of a phone call and a brisk walk.

I know someday that I want land, a house with a yard, places with silence where I can take my coffee, thoughts, and notebook. But for now, I am young. I am inexperienced, unsure of what exactly I want or need, and all I have is everything I have. And, for now, that is enough.

Battle of the moods.

I am conflicted about yesterday, about my thoughts and the funk I was in and the stifling feeling of being in a bad mood when everyone else is not. I was insecure and unfair, pouty and exhausted by my own mood. But I made cinnamon rolls that made me feel proud of my creating skills, I had not one but several good, from-the-heart conversations, and I spent the majority of my day in a room with so many people I love but do not see near enough. And that, I'm pleased to say, will always win.

Momma said.

There are times that I need to remind myself that there are days like today. Days that make me feel like I might be on my way to feeling like I have a handle on things. Days when I wake up in time to shower, take the trash out, go to the coffee shop for croissants, make a little breakfast, have a conversation without feeling like I have somewhere to be. It's rare that I feel discontent, and it usually is a product of something larger. The whole year and a half at my last job I felt stagnant, with money and my career. I lost track of what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be. But even through all of my struggles with money these past few years, I've learned to embrace the harder-to-find-but-free-er things in life. The library became my haven, I learned to appreciate an afternoon at a coffee shop. I learned to slow down, walking or biking instead of relying so much on public transportation. I learned to cook, to really examine the possibilities of food and stretch what I thought I was capable of. I learned that, no matter what my bank account looks like, I will make sacrifices to buy ice cream. I learned that I am more afraid than I have ever been, and so more willing to take chances, to try new things. I fell in love with books again, with long afternoons of silence, with board games.

It could be the swift approach of the holidays, of new milestones, of another year passed, but I'm feeling intro (retro?) spective. And thankful. Oh so thankful.

Back to regularly scheduled programming.

The Netflix on Mike's Xbox doesn't want to work. I am sitting in my living room wearing spandex and the apron I won from a giveaway this year. It is handmade and served as my inspiration to make my sister an apron for her birthday. Today has been such a good day, the sensible follow-up to two pretty spectacular weeks.

I spent a week in Georgia with my family, watching The Walking Dead with my dad and stepmom, eating my grandma's roast beast and my grandpa's famous cole slaw, baking apple cake with my sister, and playing endless games of He-Man and She-Ra with my niece. Before I left for Georgia, I entertained fantasies of waking up early and sitting on my sister's back porch sipping coffee and scribbling new stories with southern accents. Instead I woke to a three-year-old's crusty eyes, stinky breath, and requests for cinnamon rolls and Backyardigans. For an entire week I didn't think about the impending career switch, the leap into a whole new pool where I was a new fish doing a job I wasn't entirely convinced I was qualified for. I didn't think about the impending winter, which moved into Massachusetts, as it tends to do, while I was out of town, threatening to delay my flight. I thought, instead, about the little boy inside my sister's belly, the way the air smells in the field behind my parents' house, the gears on my grandpa's four wheeler, and all of the different kinds of ice cream in my sister's freezer.

It was simple and necessary, a palette cleanse.

I gave in. I'm watching the first episode of Mad Men for the first time. Mike's on his way home, then we'll make pizza, and watch Everything Must Go, based on a short story by one of my favorite short story writers, Raymond Carver.

"My granddaddy smoked them, and he died at the age of 98. He was hit by a truck." I like this show already.