Category: Montana Girl

It’s just another Monday, right?

Even the best fall down sometimes
I’m in my room in the evening before Valentine’s Day, Othello is sleeping on the bed, I’ve just talked to Sarah the L on the phone, and I’ve loaded six sappy CDs into my newly-dubbed “Sappy Stereo.” My limbs are sore from a day of sledding down a mountainous central-Vermont hill, my digestive system is sore from a delicious/spicy Asian dinner complemented with the always unsavory beer, and my heart is sore from what appears to be the latest in a string of seemingly-endless rejections. Per my usual storytelling style, let me back up to the beginning.

As you may recall, I met Peeps last Friday while viewing A Very Long Engagement with Montana Girl. I liked this woman. As is hardly ever the case with women (or anyone in general) I’ve just met, I found myself at ease in her presence. Add to that an attraction to both mind and body, and, as the night progressed, it became painfully clear to me and to Montana Girl that I was smitten with Peeps. Through a fortunate twist of unfortunate events (namely Inga Beep’s refusal to operate), I found myself alone with Peeps in her car, being driven home. Thanks to my lack of confidence, I soon found myself standing on the steps of my apartment building, watching Peeps drive away completely unaware of my thoughts.

Sarah the L and Smoochie Poo learned of this new attraction in my life over lunch the next day. Kudos to them for putting up with my prepubescent gushing. While finishing my salmon sandwich, I decided that my new mission in life was to see Peeps again. And so I set out to the streets of B’town to find this woman in the green scarf. Well, B’town is a small town but not that small and I soon realized that another meeting with Peeps would probably have to be one not born of chance.

Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
I contacted Montana Girl Sunday afternoon and told her that, if at all possible, I needed her help in getting in touch with Peeps. Give her my number, ask her permission to give me hers, anything to be able to speak with her one more time. After two days, and while reminding me that I owed her big time, Montana Girl gave me Peeps’s phone number. I talked to Peeps the next day on the phone and though I had spent nearly three days imagining what I would say if given the chance to say anything to her, I stumbled and babbled and stuttered my way through the most ineloquent speech possible. In between my mismatched words and incomplete thoughts, I managed to tell her I wanted to see her again, and to ask her if she felt the same way. When she told me she did, we made a date for Sunday.

In the days that followed, through yet another twist of fate, I was invited out to the movies Saturday night with Peeps, Montana Girl, and Montana Girl’s boyfriend Snowboard Guy. The movie: The Wedding Date. Though knowing I was in for 90 minutes of the most mind-numbing torture known to movie theatres, I couldn’t resist the chance to see Peeps. And when we found our seats as the previews were starting, I melted into mine as Peeps revealed to me that she doesn’t like it when people talk during movies.

After the hellish movie ended, we stopped at a nearby restaurant for margaritas and the “best salsa in town!”* While sipping our enormous drinks, Peeps and I were invited to go out on the town for dancing (eek!) and “girly drinks” (yes!). The plan: follow Montana Girl and Snowboard Guy to their friend’s house and then downtown. The plan, though simple enough, soon backfired when, in the heavy snowstorm, Montana Girl and Snowboard Guy’s car disappeared and Peeps and I, both without directions, were left to fend for ourselves. After it became clear from Montana Girl’s voicemail message that she either a) did not bring her phone with her or b) was ditching us, Peeps and I made the best of the situation and settled into a quiet wine bar downtown by ourselves. While listening to a piano-playing singer straight out of the Lost in Translation lounge, and while sipping our red wines, what began as we laughingly called our “pre-date” turned into our first date. After confirming our plans for what was now going to be our second date, we sealed the evening with a kiss.

Out of the doubt that fills your mind
The plan for our second date originally was to eat dinner and then go sledding or snowshoeing in the evening. The cold weather changed our minds and we opted instead to sled before dinner, thus turning the always rewarding Five Spice Café meal into a literal reward for a tiring day of sledding. While deciding where to sled, Peeps mentioned a hill from her childhood to which no other sledding hill could possibly compare. Though an hour away, it seemed the logical choice. When we arrived, I knew it was the right choice. This “hill” was the size of the upper tier at Yankee Stadium and even though Peeps fondly remembered this hill from her childhood, she needed a few runs down the “baby hill” to muster up enough courage to tackle the big hill. After a few hours of sledding that will no doubt leave me barely able to get out of bed tomorrow morning, Peeps and I drove home to change our clothes and prepare for dinner.

The second half of the date began with Peeps receiving a tour of my apartment. She was dressed up and made up more than she had ever been before; I took this as a good sign and even now, a few hours later, I still don’t know if I was mistaken. The food was great and her company was as well, but something felt different. There was a new vibe and I spent the majority of the meal decoding it.

At the end of the night, we talked; the first serious talk in our short history. Peeps told me that though she was interested in another date with me, she wasn’t sure she was capable of going through with it for numerous reasons: in six weeks, she’ll be spending 3 months in Japan; when she returns, she’ll probably be moving in with her mother in New Hampshire; and while there, she’ll probably be applying for jobs out of state. She needs time to think about things and she’ll get back to me.

You finally find that you and I collide
I want to believe Peeps. I want to believe that this is an issue of timing (a word I’ve recently learned to dread). I want to believe that if, in some parallel universe, she was presented with this chance, she would run straight for it, wrap her arms around it, and fight to hold on. I want to believe that what I saw in her in the very little time spent together isn’t a blind hope caused by my own desperation. I want to believe that she’ll call me and say, “I have to know where this is going to lead.” But I can’t.

*As declared by Mr. Benchly to Montana Girl.

PEEPS for 9 points

Montana Girl, her friend Peeps (nicknamed as such for reasons only the most dedicated Mr. Benchly readers will understand), and I went to see A Very Long Engagement last night.

For those who haven’t seen this movie, I think you should. It’s an all around beautiful story that’s told in such a unique way. It’s almost as if the director and writer took every expectation we have of film, and flipped them upside down and turned them inside out. The result is a film that tells an old story in such a refreshingly new way.

I was laughing during tragic moments; feeling the weights of a heavy heart during funny moments; inspired by seemingly insignificant moments; and caught off guard by normally expected moments. The result: I left the theatre feeling as though I had been rewarded for an unknown accomplishment.

This was followed by Scrabble and hot chocolate at Montana Girl’s apartment. For the second game in a row, I was able to defeat my fiercely determined and competitive rival, Montana Girl, thus ensuring that I will hold onto the Scrabble title for one more day. Playing for the very first time in her life, Peeps faired well and seemed to enjoy herself.

There’s more to this story, but I don’t want to jinx anything.

"Get Up, Everybody, and Sing!"

I spent yesterday trying to shake a migraine that has, unfortunately, carried over into today. The headache was the result of a combination of events and nonevents from this weekend:

1. My acceptance of an invitation by some friends to a local bar’s karaoke night Saturday;
2. My consumption of a handful of alcoholic drinks; and
3. My foolishness, before bed, in forgetting to take the “Anti-Hangover Medicine”: two Advils and a tall glass of water.

But I’ll be the first one to admit that my hangover was well worth the sight and slightly worth the sound of my friend singing a rousing rendition of “We Are Family.” For future reference, this friend will be known as Jay Peak, for his tongue-in-cheek desire to climb said mountain. Jay Peak nailed the first two lines of the chorus that everyone knows (“We are family. I got all my sisters with me”) and then resorted to a sad but, albeit high-quality, spoken-word delivery of the verses.

Sitting there listening to Jay Peak perform, with CAT on one side of me, and Montana Girl on the other, I was reminded of a conversation I had with Montana Girl a few months ago, in which she introduced me to the idea of an Urban Tribe, a concept she learned of in a book she had just finished (Urban Tribes: A Generation Redefines Friendship, Family, and Commitment” by Ethan Watters). Stated far too simply, the book analyzes the “white, upper-middle class, post-college, yet-to-be-married (ages 25-39) residents of bohemian garrets who host great New Year’s Eve parties and travel en masse to the New Orleans Jazz Festival.” At its heart, the book describes our generation’s establishment of the “Urban Tribe,” a “rotating network of friends and acquaintances that covers all functions formerly served by the traditional family, thus eliminating the need for marriage and intimacy.”

At first, I didn’t put much stock in this book and its core theory because I viewed the book as just another lame attempt by a member of my generation to turn a profit by trying to explain my increasingly inexplicable generation. But then I thought about it and my life and realized that like it or not, the author’s on to something.

While I often complain that all of my friends are falling victim to the desperation of a married life, truth be told, with few exceptions, the great majority of my friends are in their late 20s and unmarried. Whether by choice or heartache, here we are, legally unattached and desperately seeking Susan…or that all elusive boy named “Sue.” We’re constantly using our get-togethers to define who we are by not only the things we do, but also by the people with whom we do these things. Because if we know who we are, we are more apt to know what we want, and if we know what we want, maybe one day we’ll find it, and until we find it, we’ll have our fun. And what are these things we do?:

1. Game Nights – My Urban Tribe has started to resemble an advertisement for Hasbro. And believe me, I’m not complaining.
2. TV/Movie Nights – Honestly, who here in the last year, hasn’t spent at least one night a week, every week or month with friends, devoted to watching SOMETHING on TV?
3. Book Clubs – We love to read, yes, but it’s the monthly meetings we crave.
4. Knitting/Cooking/Wine/etc. clubs – see explanation for #3.
5. Holiday/birthday parties – I used to think the only parties ever thrown were the Chucky Cheese ones for kids; the slumber party ones for teenagers; the “we really want to be wife-swapping but I guess we’ll have these boring PTA and babysitting horror story conversations instead” parties for our parents; and the birthday cake-card-and-hug ones for our immediate families. And then I hit my mid-20s and suddenly, everyone’s throwing a party for everyone else. It’s just a guess, but I think all of the world’s major problems would have been solved in the last 5 years if my generation had devoted as much attention to the problems as it did to celebrating everything else.
6. Other – Just the other day, I was invited by Montana Girl’s Urban Tribe to participate in Christmas caroling up and down Burlington’s Church Street. Evidently, this is an annual thing for them, as is their viewing of A Charlie Brown Christmas (see also #2).

Did you notice something? A theme maybe? Aside from the fact that they’re all designed in order to make us feel included in the world, if there’s one other trait all of these activities have in common, it’s got to be their recurring nature. We leave each activity assuming there will be a next. And it seems, that is where the genius of this Urban Tribe idea can be found. In the absence of the security and comfort that was handed to us in our childhood by our traditional family, we’ve created these new families that are as stable and loving as can possibly be.

And so, while attempting to plan a February URT to New Orleans with Ms. Parker, True, and Ms. Scharf (though not for the Jazz Festival) and while simultaneously planning this year’s New Year’s Eve festivities (which will be spent with, at the very least, Mia Wallace; and at the very most, Mia, Sarah the L, Mr. Mikes, and a few more unnicknamed friends; but not with my immediate family, who, incidentally, will all be in town), I’ve come to the realization that although my traditional family still has an important place in my life and always will, my Urban Tribe has taken on a much larger role as of late. And I’m OK with that. Because, in the karaoked words of Jay Peak, “we are family!”

The Great Kitty Trial Run of 2004

Not since Ringo Starr’s 3-minute meeting with Ann B. Davis in a unisex bathroom of a small Omaha, Nebraska nightclub in 1972 has there been such a meeting of minds as there was yesterday afternoon in my apartment when Montana Girl’s cat Othello and I joined forces to take on the world and single-handedly put an end to cancer, starvation, crime, and subsequently, prostitution. Yes, that’s right, Othello moved into my apartment for a week at the end of which we should know for sure whether or not he gets along well enough with The Virgin Mary’s (TVM) cats Sherbert and Shu-Shu. So far so good. Here are some highlights:

1. Sherbert seems remarkably calm with the transition. After learning of the presence of a third cat in the apartment, and upon determining the food supply to be satisfactorily stable, Sherbert was business as usual. He slept on the couch, and didn’t flinch an inch when Othello greeted him with a hiss and kitty growl.

2. Shu-Shu, though remaining in TVM’s bedroom for the duration of the first day, did make a few appearances out from under TVM’s bed and was seen this morning staring through the bedroom glass door at Othello as he roamed around the dining room. Although greeting Othello with hisses and kitty growls on Day 1, she seemed somewhat peaceful this morning and able to stand her ground (behind the bedroom door) as Othello hissed in her direction.

3. Othello, as should be expected considering he’s been uprooted from his home and mother, has been acting nervous and excited rolled up in a big ball of curious reservations. With the help of his kitty tower, kitty litter, water, food, and “Catnip Box,” he’s made a home for himself in my bedroom. He’s fond of the square-box-shaped crawl space behind my clothes rack and so I’ve officially dubbed that area of my room “Othello’s Fort.” I think he realized early on that my room was really his room and should there be a kitty brawl, he has a safe haven to which he can run.

4. TVM and I have decided to divvy up apartment time between the three cats. Othello had most of yesterday evening to roam around the apartment while Sherbert and Shu-Shu were stuck in TVM’s room; then Sherbert and Shu-Shu had all night to roam the apartment while Othello was in my room. This morning, there was a brief “communal time” where all cats roamed around freely. Today, Othello has the apartment until 1, then Sherbert and Shu-Shu have the afternoon, and then Othello has the evening for an hour or so.

5. While stuck in my room last night, Othello seemed more than content to snuggle with me on my bed. This quiet time lasted until about 2 a.m. at which point he felt the need to explore the various nooks and crannies, and then mark his territory in the kitty litter box not once, but three times. It was also discovered by me that Othello is quite possibly the loudest eater in the history of cats. At approximately 6 a.m., there was a kitty confrontation through the crack at the bottom of my door between Othello and an undetermined kitty. Both cats expressed their disgust with the other with the traditional hissing. At approximately 6:30 a.m., Othello began crying to be let out of the room. TVM opened the door to feed him and thus began the aforementioned “communal time.”

In summary, after 24 hours, Othello seems to be as well-adjusted as can be expected; Sherbert couldn’t give any less of a crap about Othello; Shu-Shu has been less social than her normal self, which, I might add, is far less social than the normal cat. More updates to come.

Here kitty kitty kitty

Contrary to popular* belief that can be partly blamed on a nasty rumor that originated somewhere in the Sahari Desert, I have not, as of yet, fathered any children. Yes, that’s right, folks, thanks to the concerted effort of myself and numerous (though not THAT numerous) women, I’m 27 and without children. Please please, hold your applause until the end.

Although, ironically, in order to achieve such a lack of responsibility in the present, I had to be extremely responsible in my past, it’s safe to say that I’ve never considered myself to be a responsible person. And so, it is with an extremely nervous tone that I declare to the world that in two days I will be the proud and skittish pseudo-owner of a beautiful and skittish black cat named Othello. I say “pseudo” because the permanent custody of Othello is yet to be determined.

You see, my friend, who for obvious geographic reasons pertaining to her childhood shall henceforth be called Montana Girl, has discovered that she does not have the time and energy necessary to give Othello the love and attention any pet needs. Yes, she’s THAT busy. And then, one day, when she determined that Othello was the equivalent of my kitty soul mate, it was decided that I would ultimately assume responsibility and ownership of said kitty. But first…

I have a roommate and I can’t believe I haven’t yet mentioned her. For obvious religious reasons, I’m going to call her The Virgin Mary. Well, you see, The Virgin Mary, when moving into our apartment, brought with her two very adorable and eccentric kitties named Sherbert and Shu-Shu, who, for the remainder of this blog will be referred to as Sherbert and Shu-Shu. Sherbert is old (as The Virgin Mary says, “age undetermined”) and has one fake eye; Shu-Shu is a SCAREDY CAT with a capital S and CAREDY CAT. They’ve all settled into the apartment nicely but a new cat could completely negatively disrupt their lives. And so, Montana Girl, The Virgin Mary, and I decided to have a Trial Run. We’d take Othello for about a week or so to see how he adjusts and to see how the other two kitties adjust and if everything works out, he’s mine. If things don’t work out, he’s the Humane Society’s. No pressure, right?

And so, two days from now is Day 1 of said Trial Run. And in 9 days, if all goes well, I’ll be a daddy. And I’m nervous. Really nervous. I’ve never cared for anything by myself. I’ve only ever cared for a living, breathing thing for a few hours at a time (in the case of my nieces), a few days at a time (in the case of my roommate’s kitties), or with the assistance of my family (in the case of my childhood dog). Never with the buck stopping at me. Cousin J’s recent fish trauma only intensified my fears. What if something goes terribly wrong? What if Sherbert eats Othello? What if Shu-Shu goes insane? Now I’m the scaredy cat.

*In this instance, “popular” is used loosely if only because it’s untrue.