Mr Benchly

Turning on the water

If I have a favorite household chore, The Virgin Mary will assure you that it’s definitely not cleaning out the kitty litter but maybe, just maybe it’s washing the dishes. And her hunch is a correct one backed by a year and a half of detergent-soaked proof. I seem to be always washing dishes and for awhile, my explanation was simply that it was the only chore I knew how to do effectively, but recently, I’ve realized that I do it more for the sense of cleansing satisfaction I get whenever I finish the job. It’s nice to be able to make something clean and pure again; in this world, you don’t get that opportunity very many times.

This weekend brought with it plenty of opportunities to wash dishes. CAT invited all of her friends to her family’s summer home for the weekend, and I graciously accepted the invitation. Considering the emotional repercussions of last fall’s Great Snoring Banishment of 2004 (see October 10, 2004 blog posting), I was hesitant to return to the Bradford, VT wood, but with lowered expectations, and less people in attendance, this weekend turned out to be more rewarding than the previous one spent there. And while I admit this partially had to do with the fact that I was not forced to share a room with The Paraguayan (the snorer, not a guy pretending to be gay), I believe that my improved spirits were more the result of a new friend that I made: The Righteous Babe (named as such for her startling resemblance [both physical- and personality-wise] to the original RB).

The Righteous Babe showed up late Saturday night after catching a bus from Boston and though I had only been at the house for half the day, her arrival was a much-needed antidote for the frustratingly annoying Ma Gorg (picture the traits of this Fraggle Rock character and Fraggle nemesis, and you know what I had to deal with this weekend). Ma Gorg has a dominant personality and because of this, she made a point of having her hands in every activity, food dish, and tangible part of the summer house, while making sure to rule every discussion, joke, and thought of the weekend. I learned very quickly Saturday that my favorite part of the house/property was always wherever there was the required space between myself and Ma Gorg to make her voice disappear. When The Righteous Babe arrived, I no longer needed that spatial filter because she brought with her a spiritual buffer to any and all stress (that may sound cheesy, but it’s the only way for me to describe it).

We set a place for The Righteous Babe at the dinner table and made enough food for the extra person, but because of commuting obstacles beyond her control, she arrived late and a few minutes after we had finished eating. Most of us remained at the table to keep her company while she ate her meal and it was quickly discovered that thanks to Ma Gorg’s generous second helping, there was nothing left of the main course for The Righteous Babe to eat. With a heartfelt appreciation for even having a plate set aside for her, The Righteous Babe devoured what was left of the salad and dessert.

The evening gave us the chance to play board games (CAT’s favorite past-time and the universal G-rated ice-breaker). While a few hours of games wasn’t remotely close to enough time to thaw the many layers of ice I had placed between Ma Gorg and myself, it did allow enough time for the green-house effect to take effect between me and The Righteous Babe. And for that, as is often the case, I can take no credit. And I doubt that The Righteous Babe would take credit either; she was simply doing, I believe, what came naturally to her (ie, she was being herself).

The rest of the weekend allowed for many opportunities to nap, read, write, play games, go for walks, enjoy the scenery, eat, sit in front of a fire, have great conversations, and all the other activities silently implied by the term “R & R.” And after nearly every meal, in an effort to chip in around the house, and while mentioning my inability to do any other chores (specifically cook), I washed the dishes. The weekend would have been perfect had it not been for the fact that Ma Gorg was part of nearly all of it. And then:

Monday morning, after an enormous breakfast I classified as in my list of “Top 25 Breakfasts of All Time” and after a satisfying weekend, which, because of Ma Gorg’s constant interference, was not completely satisfying, I found myself on Closure’s doorstep, washing dishes and standing beside The Righteous Babe, with a towel in her hands. We were alone in the kitchen and took the opportunity to talk about everything two strangers could possibly have time to talk about in 10 minutes, which is to say we didn’t talk nearly long enough. But what we did say was important, I hope, to both of us. While she gave me career (and on a subtextual level, life) advice, in an ironic conversational twist, I may have given her the advice for which she had not yet realized she was looking.

Regretfully, I finished washing the last dish and hesitantly, The Righteous Babe dried it and filed it away in the cupboards. She said that I should write about two strangers/new friends washing dishes in the kitchen and I assured her that I had already written part of the story in my head. A few short minutes later, with a hug and well wishes, we said goodbye and I waved to her as she drove down the long driveway. After watching her car disappear into the trees, I returned to the house where CAT had already begun the process of closing up the house by shutting off the water.

The (Commuting) Choices We Make

I slept in this morning, which is a luxury my new car now allows me to afford. But as I drove to work on the interstate, my thoughts were not of the sweet dreams I had had after my alarm clock sounded, or the joys one feels while driving a nice new car, but rather of the money I was soon going to be losing should I continue to drive solo to work every day.

I recently talked to The Doctor about carpooling again. He’s open to the idea but because of his current physical therapy schedule and his son’s daycare schedule, he can’t start for a few weeks. We’ve made plans to meet in the park ‘n’ ride lot in mid-June, so now I’m trying to determine my best commuting option until then. For as long as it is federally funded, however inconvenient it may be, the Loser Cruiser is always an option. But last night’s drive home brought with it an interesting plot twist to my life:

I left work last night shortly after the Toad hopped away (only Sarah will get this reference) and headed to the parking lot to find my still-unnamed vehicle (the latest suggestions: Silver-Door Dolly, Silver Otto, Jane Honda, Rhonda, Carmine, Gertrude, and Timothy) parked next to a blue car being opened by the new girl, Freckles. We both started our cars and Freckles took a right turn out of the parking lot with me close behind her. 45 minutes later, we both took the same South Burlington exit before finally heading in different directions into town.

Evidently, it seems that Freckles makes the same daily commute as I do and so she could very well be interested in carpooling with me, and then in mid-June, with me and The Doctor. This was news to me, because, as will not be news to you, in the two or three weeks that she has worked here, I’ve said less than 10 words to her. Although the silent treatment I’ve given Freckles has everything to do with the fact that she’s a new employee and that it generally takes me 2 to 3 months to be comfortable enough with someone to randomly talk to him/her (those irrational trust issues again), I’m now hesitant to address this commuting issue with her for a completely separate reason: she’s unfairly cute (and yes, Sarah, she’s wife cute).

You see, I have a history of carpooling with attractive women. In the 5 years that I’ve been carpooling, it has happened twice: Veronica Japanica (named as such in honor of her car’s nickname) and Widget (named as such because this is what Veronica Japanica called her). While both carpools ultimately ended, only one ended positively. Veronica and I were roommates, coworkers, and carpool buddies meaning that on any given day, we spent close to 16 hours in each other’s company. Strangely enough, it worked out just fine because we were friends who had separate lives.

When Veronica moved away, however, my next carpooling buddy taught me an invaluable life lesson: like beer and milk, coworkers that date and carpool do not mix. (The only thing more dangerous is dating a roommate, which is like mixing vodka with engine oil.) As I briefly mentioned in a past entry, Widget and I started dating a few months after we began carpooling and what seemed to be a wonderfully convenient situation quickly turned into a depressingly uncomfortable one post-break-up. The months at work that followed our break-up were nothing short of a hell where you’re forced to drink milk/beer/engine oil cocktails.

After Widget and I crashed and burned (though, not literally, thankfully), gas prices and my budget were such that I still needed to carpool, but for my sanity’s sake, I needed to carpool with someone for whom there would be no chance of falling. The Doctor was a healthy alternative because he is one of the nicest individuals I have ever met, he’s a good friend, his sense of humor is unrivaled, and well, he’s a he. The Doctor and I started carpooling and continued to do so successfully for close to a year until the infamous Inga Overheating Incident. Ever since then, it’s been the Loser Cruiser all the way with the occasional solo commutes in Mama or Papa Benchly’s vehicles and the always treasured moments spent in Inga and Sarah the L’s Daisy (after we both missed the LC).

Now that I’m a member of the car-owners’ club, I’m struggling to decide if I should ask Freckles to join The Doctor and me in our quest to save the planet while simultaneously saving money. On one hand, she will help to reduce the priceless wear-and-tear mileage on our vehicles while we all pocket loads of cash. On the other hand, she’s young, she’s intelligent (I even think she has an English degree!), she’s cute, and I wouldn’t stand a chance in her 2-hours-a-day presence. As I post this, I still don’t know what I’m going to do.

After sleeping in this morning, I left for work approximately 20 minutes after the Loser Cruiser typically leaves the bus station in the morning. When I caught up with the Loser Cruiser on the highway, I knew she was running a little late (Deane doesn’t drive slowly). As I passed the bus and returned to the right lane, bringing the Loser Cruiser into my rearview mirror, I realized that I am reluctantly closing one commuting chapter in my book, while anxiously looking ahead to the story that awaits me on the next page. Hopefully this story has a happy ending.

0 to debt in 3.5 hours

I did something this weekend that I should have done a long time ago. I bought a car. And not just any car; a NEW car. And not just any new car; a car so new it had less mileage on it than what my dad and I had to drive round trip to get to the dealer. This car is so new, you can smell the perfume and cologne of the underpaid assembly line workers.

For the car fanatics out there, here are the essentials: it’s a 2-door, silver, standard Honda Civic DX Coupe with black interior and it gets 38 miles per gallon. And the engine…well…the engine’s pretty and won’t need a tune up for “110,000 miles.” It comes with a CD player, air conditioning, two cup holders (don’t laugh, Inga never had ’em), 4 tires, a very cool (free state inspections for the life of your car) value package deal, and the coolest freakin windshield wipers you’ve ever wiped your windshields with. And in the words of not one, but two of my female coworkers (both of whom, I suspect having a crush on me), “you’re going to get some chicks with that car!”

This car’s entrance into my life, though, has presented me with four very difficult dilemmas:

1. Inga. What to do with Inga? Poor Inga Beep the Jeep has been sitting in my parking lot since mid-winter and has not started since mid-February. While her body remains, her soul has gone on to a better lot. So far, I think I have the following options:

a. selling her for parts at the Jeep dealer;
b. paying a small fee to have her taken to a junkyard; or
c. donating her to the Kidney Foundation, who will tow her for free, and which will allow me to write off the donation on next year’s taxes.

Obviously, c is the best option and the one with which I feel the most comfortable but I’m new at this donation thing so if anyone out there knows of a better donation option, please let me know.

2. The Loser Cruiser. Considering this bus has provided me with more inspiration than my 3 hours with Sally on Inspiration Point after the prom, it’s going to be tough to completely turn my back on Deane and the other regulars. But considering I’ll most likely resume car-pooling with The Doctor, and on the days I won’t be car-pooling, I’ll probably be playing softball and will need a car, I can’t see myself using The Loser Cruiser all that often. Maybe I could ride it once a week for old time’s sake?

3. Now that I’ll be driving more, I risk putting on the 20 pounds I’ve lost since I began riding the bus and started walking everywhere. I’m not so concerned with this, however, because I can honestly say that in the last 6 months, I’ve developed quite the appetite for exercise. My rule will continue to be: if it’s located within 1 mile of my house, I’m walking there.

4. Most importantly, what to name her? All of my cars have had memorable names (eg, Noise, Old Yeller, Inga). The new car must have an equally great name. I’m not going to force it though; I believe that a car’s name should come naturally, thus producing rewarding results in the end (eg, Daisy, Veronica Japanica, Manny, The Beast, Fairmoni, Fanny Muffles, etc). If anyone out there has any suggestions, please let me know. And no, I’m not going to call her “The Other Woman,” a nickname that carries with it an uncomfortable acronym.

Karma’s not a bitch

Last night’s happenstance occurred at the corner of Main and S. Winooski on my way home from Pure Pop. That’s where I ran into Montana Girl who was on her way to Muddys for coffee. I joined her and said “raspberry iced tea” when Georgia behind the counter asked for my order. I handed Georgia $10 and only when I had reached my seat did I realize that Georgia had given me change for $5. Montana Girl said I should ask for correct change but the moment had passed and I decided to let it slide in the hopes that karma might return the favor someday. This morning, while exiting the Loser Cruiser, Deane handed me a 10-ride pass (a $40 value) “for all of the trouble caused by last week’s break-downs.

Two Thums WAY Up!

Not since Tony Danza realized the difference between microwaves and toaster ovens in 1989 has there been such a revelation as there was this morning on my Loser Cruiser commute. During a bus-ride of, I’m compelled to say, skilled eavesdropping on my part, I discovered that Ebert watched all three extended-version Lord of the Rings movies back-to-back-to-back this weekend…with his PARTNER! That’s right, folks, Ebert’s gay!!! The only thing that could have possibly been more enjoyable than hearing him say his partner’s obviously-masculine name would have been hearing him call his partner “Gene.”

In other Loser Cruiser news, semi-regular Richmond Park ‘n’ Rider Plain Jane revealed to the Cruiser community what we all suspected but didn’t dare say (most because of common courtesy and respect; me because I don’t talk on the bus): she’s pregnant! Mazel tov!

Let’s Not Go to the Movies

There’s a Simpsons episode where Homer realizes his stupidity can be blamed on a crayon he shoved up his nose and lodged into his brain when he was a young boy. As an adult, he decides to have it removed and instantly, he becomes a genius. He’s so smart he accidentally proves there is no God. Unfortunately for him, after gaining intelligence, the simple things in life no longer entertain him.

In one scene, Homer is shown in a movie theatre watching the latest comedy off the Hollywood assembly line. He is surrounded by a theatre full of people laughing hysterically and he can’t understand why. He says something to the effect of, “I don’t understand; this isn’t funny at all.”

The point of all of this is, I felt like Homer Simpson Friday night as I sat there in the theatre with CAT, The Virgin Mary, and The Irish Postman. We were watching Monster-in-Law with Jane Fonda and J-Lo, and my lord, I’d say that I had never seen anything so poorly written and badly acted as this, but I’d be lying because I see it more often than not whenever I go to the movies. What’s worse than that is that nearly everyone in the theatre left thinking it was money well spent.

I understand Hollywood’s point of view here; it’s the same point of view that McDonald’s and WalMart and auto companies, and oil companies, and the government share: if society keeps on buying it, we’ll keep on selling it. So you can’t really blame them for cashing in like that. I’m sure most of us would sell out for a billion dollars. But you have to blame us for not putting our collective foot down and demanding better products. At some point, we decided by majority that we will accept less than what’s good for us so long as we could chalk it up to easily pronounced sayings like “that’s life” or “so it goes” or “welcome to the real world.”

And sadly, I need to bring this rant to a quick end. I’d write more but XXX: State of the Union starts in 20 minutes.

Our Endless, Numbered Days

One of my best friends told me yesterday that one of her close friends was recently diagnosed with cancer. She discovered a tumor on her chest about 6 weeks ago and within a few weeks, she learned that it was from a rare and nearly-always deadly form of cancer. Adding a sordid kind of vindication to those party ice-breaker “what would you do if you had a week to live?” questions, the doctors informed her not long ago that she will most likely die before this weekend is through and there isn’t anything they can do to help her save giving her medication for the inevitable pain. My friend visited this woman this past weekend to show her support and to, if only on a very respectfully silent level, say goodbye.

Despite crossing paths with this woman four and a half weeks ago (pre-diagnosis), I can say without a doubt that my life has, up until now, never been affected by her, minus one notable exception: something about her rubbed me the wrong way that Saturday and, after coming to a snap judgment as I so often do with strangers, I decided that I didn’t like her. And so here I am today, offering my heart and my ears and my shoulders in an effort to console one of my best friends, while also privately dealing with the illogical guilt that came packaged with the realization that I thought very real negative thoughts about someone who, in a matter of hours, will be in an ultimately deadly pain I could never possibly imagine.

Like I said, my guilt is illogical and my experience with human nature tells me that it’s most likely my own awkward way of dealing with death, even if it is the death of someone seemingly so irrelevant to my life. I’m probably using this feeling of guilt to fill the void left inside of me by the depressing recurring recognition of my own fragile mortality. Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time I dealt with death in an awkward (read: human) way:

When I was 5 and my great-grandfather died, I spent much of the wake playing hide-and-go-seek around his casket with my cousins; when I was 14 and my grandfather died, I spent most of the week craving isolation and privacy so that I could unleash endless gallons of tears into the world while I embarrassingly sang religious hymns to calm my anxiety; when I was 17 and my high school guidance counselor died, I haphazardly chose the University of Hartford as my next educational stop; when I was 23 and the husband of a coworker committed suicide, I was so angry and sad and depressed that I couldn’t work for two days, even though I had never met the man and had never said more than two words to his wife; when I was 24 and my other grandfather died, I got a tattoo; and when I was 24 and my dog died, I cried more than for all the other deaths combined.

It’s during times like these, when death rules your conscious and subconscious thoughts, that it seems the only antidote for the fear of the unknown is the only other indescribable feeling out there: love. The most obvious case in point is to take a look at the September 11 phone lines that were forever tied up with calls between loved ones. Just as John Lennon said, “God is a concept by which we measure our pain,” I submit that love is a feeling by which we manage our fear of death.

The band Iron & Wine has a song called “Passing Afternoon” that my amateur song-interpreting skills have determined is about a love lost (aren’t all songs about this?). I initially planned to mention the song because it contained the following line, which I thought best described how I’m feeling today: “there are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days.” But close inspection of the song’s lyrics made me realize how similar it is to something I had already written and so now I’ve decided to end this entry with my own words instead.

Let me preface my poem by saying that this most recent encounter with death has reminded me of a lesson I’ve been trying to teach myself for as long as I can remember: life (meaningful or not) disappears quickly, but while we’re here, life isn’t about death so long as it’s about love.

The frost on the tree that sits outside our room
reflects the moonlight of the January night.
Flowers and life are paralyzed by the gloom,
leaving a barren yard suffocated in white.

Our bodies are entwined beneath the sheets of the bed.
We are warm and safe from the winter air.
The February night passes and the morning is spread.
I wake to the scent of your sweet golden hair.

The sun rises over the hills that lay in the east,
casting shadow upon shadow over a desolate March land.
The wind pierces us like an unforgiving beast
as we walk side by side, hand in hand.

The wind dies but the clouds multiply,
hiding the warmth of the April sun for a while.
You glance toward the heavens, shiver and sigh.
I give you my coat, you give me your smile.

The trail ends with the roots of an ancient maple tree
that is thriving from the rich vitamins of May.
I lean against the tree, you lean against me.
Our love is nourished by this warm spring day.

We take a different path on our walk home
and wade through a sea of grass so high.
My heart keeps a beat like a rabid metronome
when we kiss softly underneath the June sky.

I place between your hair and ear
a July wildflower dressed in blue
and while the young flower’s death is near,
its good intentions will remain with you.

We continue walking with less and less ease
as the afternoon surrenders to the torrid August heat.
The trail winds its way through a labyrinth of trees.
Our journey now is nearly complete.

The September day and our pace slow to a crawl
as we see the comforts of our home ahead.
Summer has lost its battle with fall
and withdraws to our memories to bury its dead.

The yard is covered by a rainbow of leaves
that suppress the ground with their dry, brittle skin.
We are chilled by the hands of the brisk October breeze
and retreat to our home, waiting for the night to begin.

The November sun sets over the valley in the west,
coloring the sky like a kaleidoscope.
We lay on the porch with your head on my chest,
watching the horizon dissolve into a spectrum of hope.

I warm you from the cold December air,
kiss you goodnight and watch you drift to sleep.
These days, these months, these years we’ll share,
and this love is what we’ll keep.
© 2005 Mr. Benchly

Measuring the marigolds

In a symbolic tribute to the recent events of my life, Deane returned to full-time duties on the Loser Cruiser this week and the substitute driver was banished to a lifetime of crappy routes. (Though my friends [and even I] will claim that the substitute’s banishment to a lifetime of more sensitive, considerate, compassionate, and respectful routes capable of sending emails without typos would be a more fitting tribute to my life.) Of course, Deane defines “full-time” as 6 hours a day, Monday through Thursday, leaving Friday to another driver I have unaffectionately nicknamed Fidgety Friday.

Fidgety Friday is so named for his inability to sit still for more than 5 seconds. If he’s not adjusting the height of his seat, he’s adjusting his position on the seat; if he’s not adjusting the in-bus mirrors, he’s looking in them; if he’s not switching lanes to let someone much slower pass us, he’s stopping completely to give someone else our right of way; if he’s not scratching his nose, he’s adjusting his glasses; if he’s not rolling up his sleeves, he’s taking a drink of water; etc. And as anyone who has ever ridden a bus of this size on an interstate before will tell you, its sensitive steering means that the last thing you want is a bus driver who can’t sit still. Consequently, my mornings on the last day of each week typically begin with motion sickness.

Unfortunately, I must admit that I am discussing this topic because I am not the most appropriate person to be leading this discussion. Like murderers who have held their secret crimes inside for too long, my ex-girlfriends will eagerly tell you that a perfectly comfortable cuddling position with me never lasts more than ten minutes because either my arm starts to twitch, I get a leg cramp, my nose itches, or the heat of the pillow convincingly suggests that it needs to be flipped. Those instances when she and I fall asleep cuddling and wake up more than an hour later in the same position are so few and far between, I consider them historic and consequently, I can actually recite the times and places in which they occurred.

When I was growing up, Mama Benchly actually dubbed me “Inch Worm” after the Anne Murray song of the same name. “Inch worm, inch worm, measuring the marigolds. Seems to me you’d stop and see how beautiful they are.” I craved the affection that came with being held and rocked to sleep, but my energy was such that I could not sit still. (When I was born, I had so much energy, the doctors even suggested putting sneakers on my feet and letting me run home.) Hearing my mother sing this song to me in her soft and familiarly comforting voice always calmed my nerves and put me to sleep. Despite this twist lacking in irony, I consistently tested the patience of both myself and my mother.

As Niece #2 has recently proved, this trait is definitely a genetic one. I constantly see her struggle when her desire for cuddling conflicts with her inability to keep still. Considering she is only 3 years old, I don’t yet have enough heart in me to confess to her that, evidently, we are both doomed to a cruel fate of an unending appetite for and incurable resistance to cuddling. Why are we so restless? When all we want is to feel that emotional connection and purpose and security and comfort one feels while physically so close to someone else, after we’ve reached this goal, why are we seemingly so eager to push it away? Is it a purely physical response or is it much more? Are we sabotaging our happy lives on purpose? And if so, why? Because, it seems to me that we should stop and see how beautiful they are.

Just call me Deane

Today began like any other: I awoke to the gradually louder and increasingly annoying beeps of my alarm clock, I turned the alarm off, and I went back to sleep. A few minutes later, when I determined that to stay in bed one more minute meant to miss the Loser Cruiser to work, I got out of bed, made my bed (because I’m anal), took a shower, dressed without much thought of the weather, ran out the door as Othello looked on with his puppy-dog-kitty eyes from his spot on the table near the window, and walked up Church Street to the bus station.

When I arrived at the Loser Cruiser hub, I was alarmed to find no Loser Cruiser waiting for me. In the winter, on those typical Vermont snow days, this was expected; but in the warmer months, the bus routine is as predictable as the menstrual cycles of college roommates. I sat down on one of the benches, took out my David Sedaris book, and waited for news of my morning commute’s fate. After another bus’s driver notified Make Out Woman that our bus was broken down and would be delayed at least 30 minutes, and as Make Out Woman and Biography Man walked away (to, I’m guessing, their respective vehicles), I sat next to Hunger Mountain Girl and considered my options. I called Mama Benchly who graciously let me borrow her car and I began walking in that direction, when I suddenly became overwhelmed with a feeling I can only describe as a distant cousin of survivor’s guilt. I turned around, approached Hunger Mountain Girl, and offered her a ride to work. When she accepted, we headed to Mama and Papa Benchly’s home to get the car.

(When we were met at the front door by Brother-in-Law #1, who had just dropped off Niece #2, I was treated to a stinging moment of awkwardness when it became clear to me that he had mistaken Hunger Mountain Girl for Hypothetical. That one’s going to leave a mark, especially for him when my sister finds out and punches him.)

Those who know me best, know that I don’t do well when dealing with strangers. And though Hunger Mountain Girl and I had ridden the bus together for almost a year, my invitation to her this morning were the first words I had ever spoken to her, and the thought of spending the next hour in a car together was an uneasy one. My fears were put to rest soon enough though as we settled into our car and a nice conversation about San Francisco and obnoxiously rich people. On our way out of town, we passed another one of the Loser Cruiser’s stops and when we noticed two fellow passengers waiting impatiently in the rain, we pulled over and offered them a ride. And so, the morning commute to work became the car-pool tale of Mr. Benchly, Hunger Mountain Girl, the Cruiser Snoozer, and Audi Girl.

Most of our conversations stayed far away from anything controversial with the exception of the uncomfortable silence that greeted Hunger Mountain Girl’s observation that most convenience store owners are “foreigners.” The Cruiser Snoozer talked about his children, Audi Girl talked about a town meeting she went to the night before, Hunger Mountain Girl talked about her upcoming two month trip to the West Coast, and I talked about my job and my need for a new one. Hunger Mountain Girl told me that Stonecutter Way Girl’s name was Claire and she was from France (do you hear that, Sarah? She’s FRENCH!!!!) and that while I was sitting in front of her one day, she drew a picture of me. The highlight of the trip, by far, was when we all came together in a union of nostalgia to swap stories about Al Bundy. Oh how we all miss Al Bundy!

As we exited the interstate at the Montpelier exit, Hunger Mountain Girl asked me where I was going to drop everyone off. I said, “might as well do the route.” I then shouted out in my best Deane voice, “anyone for National Life up on the hill?” When no one answered and while everyone silently thought of National Life Guy, I made my way to State Street. I pulled up to the Chittenden Bank and called out “David? David?,” thus mocking Deane’s daily attempt to wake up the Cruiser Snoozer. Finally, I drove down Stonecutter’s Way and pulled over to let out Audi Girl and Hunger Mountain Girl. As they left the car, giving wishes for a good day and gratitude for the ride, I responded the only way I know how: “I’ll see you on the bus.”

Thought of the day

Have you ever noticed the similarities between dealing with a break up and drinking until you vomit, and that both seem to be related to the 5 stages of mourning (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance)? Think about it…

Denial. When you’re drinking and you’ve had too much to drink, you think you’re invincible and another drink won’t hurt you. When you break up, you think “this isn’t really happening.”

Anger. When you realize you’ve had one too many drinks and a trip to the bathroom is in your near future, you get upset at yourself and curse your stupidity. When you break up, your anger is directed at your ex or, if you really screwed things up, yourself.

Bargaining. When you’ve reached the point of no return, you start thinking things like “maybe if I drink lots of water and eat lots of bread, things will turn around in my favor” or “maybe if I rest a little here on the floor where it’s quiet, I can make myself better.” When you break up, you think things like “maybe if I show her I’m not so needy, she’ll want me back” or “maybe if I change who I am, she’ll like me better.”

Depression. When you realize all the bargaining in the world isn’t going to keep you from throwing up, you slump on the bathroom floor, sad that you’ve ruined another perfectly good night with too many drinks. When you break up, you find it hard to wake up in the morning and to push the tears back into your eyes.

Acceptance. At some point during your sadness, you come to terms with the inevitable vomit and you say “bring it on!” as you stick your finger down your throat. At some point after a break up, you realize it was for the best and, as your mother actually embarrassingly said 12 years ago, “there are other fish in the sea.”

Just a thought.