Category: Niece #2

Ready or not…

The Benchly family likes to joke that I’m always the last one to know when something significant happens. For example, Mama Benchly told me once that one of my cousins had had a second child and I was surprised to hear that there had been a first one. And when Brother-in-Law #1 proposed to Sister #1 at a Thanksgiving with both of their families present, I was the only family member not in the room. It was for this reason that I made Sister #1 and Brother-in-Law #1 promise me that I would be the first family member to know if/when they got pregnant. And to this day, I still remember the giddy feeling I felt when my college roommate told me my sister had called and said it was imperative that I call her back that evening, which was eclipsed only by the giddy feeling I felt when she confirmed my theory: she was pregnant with Niece #1.

Ten years after finding out about the inevitable Niece #1, my nieces have multiplied by five, while the nephew count remains at zero, which, as far as I know, is where it will remain. (On a side note, I’ve always thought that if I was ever blessed with a family, that I’d only be able to bless my parents with more granddaughters. Of course, I also thought I was going to play for the Yankees so what do I know about my future?) Like Papa Benchly who has said he wouldn’t trade his granddaughters for all the grandsons in the world, I can’t imagine my life without my five nieces. Though the youngest is not yet two years old, each niece already has an established personality and I love to sit back and watch them learn their way through the world:

Niece #1 is a sensitive and curious leader who wants to love and be loved;

Niece #2 is determined and will make up her own mind about things thank-you-very-much;

Niece #3 is a tireless performer who probably loves to be tickled more than all the other nieces combined;

Niece #4 seems to have inherited traits of both of her sisters (#1 and #2) in that she wants to love and be loved but on her terms; and

I think it’s safe to say that Niece #5 will be running the family by the age of 4.

But as anyone with nieces or nephews will confirm, sitting back and watching is not an option. Aunts and uncles have important responsibilities and, ten years into my role as Uncle Benchly, I’m convinced that mine are to love unconditionally and to tirelessly entertain. The loving unconditionally part was easy: these girls were my first experience with instant unconditional love; they opened their eyes, I was in love. As for the entertaining part, my résumé includes helping Niece #1 learn how to play chess, taking Nieces #2 and #3 for a spin around the pool, watching Niece #4’s already obvious soccer talents, taking Niece #5 on my famous Uncle Benchly Airplane Express (complete with propeller sounds and arm wings), hundreds of board games, countless games of tag, and scavenger hunts, among many other activities including, I’m convinced, the most rewarding game of Hide-and-Go-Seek known to any niece or nephew in the world.

Whenever one or more nieces is gathered, it isn’t long before a game of Hide-and-Go-Seek is suggested. The rules are simple: everyone takes turns and we usually keep the hiding to one floor. So why is this game so rewarding for the girls? Simple. Because once a niece starts counting (hopefully to at least 20), despite my 6’2” Benchly frame, I squeeze myself into hiding spots in which no child would ever dream of fitting. And I stay there. I stay there despite the pain that, at times, has led me to tears; despite having to go to the bathroom; despite my nieces announcing that they’re giving up searching for me; and even despite the times when my nieces actually gave up searching for me. Occassionally, to keep their interest, I’ll wait until they’re in another room and I’ll shout out “I’m in here!” And if I feel that they’ve become more discouraged than a game for children should ever make a child feel, I’ll quietly leave my hiding spot and “hide” in plain view. After I’ve been discovered, I’ll convince the niece that I’ve been hiding there all along.

There have been times when my uncle tricks haven’t worked as well as I had planned (e.g., if Niece #4 or Niece #5 saw me hide and give away my hiding spot by staring at me and giggling), and there have been times when my nieces have shown that they’ve sadly lost some of their naïveté (e.g., when Niece #1 refuses to believe that I’ve been hiding in plain view the entire time), but for the most part, as long as I have enough time to hide, I have no trouble entertaining them with memorable hiding spots. Of course, how many children are capable of counting slowly when they’re overcome with excitement? And so, often times, they’re shouting “ready or not, here I come” when I’m obviously not ready. But as in life, when things happen before you’re ready for them, it’s in how you respond that determines your fate and so, with this in mind, I sprint and leap and shove myself into the best hiding spot available and hope that I don’t stub my toes along the way.

Even Flowers Have Their Dangers

Sister #1 and her husband celebrated three additions to their home this year: their third beautiful child, Niece #4; a new 2nd floor bedroom, built to accommodate Niece #4; and a second full bathroom, built to accommodate a household with 4 females. On a whim, I visited their home last Friday night to see the new bedroom and bathroom, but mostly to see my nieces. As my visit came to an end, Sister #1 walked me down to my car. A minute later, Niece #1 came outdoors with a concerned look on her face as she told us that her sister, Niece #2, was getting scared because their mother had disappeared. Sister #1 assured Niece #1 that everything was OK, we said goodnight, and they retreated into their home as I drove away. In retrospect, I figured that, most likely, Niece #1 was the one who was scared because although she likes to look after her sisters, she was worried that no one was looking after her.

While visiting with my sister, we briefly discussed the local news, which, for most of my faithful readers, became national news last week: the disappearance and murder of University of Vermont senior, Michelle Gardner-Quinn.

After saying goodnight to her parents, who were visiting for Family Weekend, Michelle ventured downtown to meet up with her friends. When she couldn’t find her friends, and her cell phone died, she borrowed the phone of a considerate stranger. After failing to connect with her friends, the stranger was kind enough to walk her home. The video camera of a jewelry store captured footage of Michelle and her good-deed acquaintance walking up our city’s hill to her home. Nearly one week later, her body was discovered near a gorge 20 miles away.

As only my most loyal readers will note, my hometown has not been without crime, as evidenced by the Great Inga Beep the Jeep Burglary; however, in the time that I’ve lived here, I’ve honestly never felt anything other than a refreshing belief that this place is where I needed to be if ever I wanted a lost wallet returned to me or if ever I wanted to be the “victim” of a random act of kindness. And after reading and listening to every news report I could find, it became increasingly clear that this sense of security had been shared by most, if not all the residents of our small community. So as law officials do their best to put together the pieces of this tragic puzzle (having arrested the stranger on unrelated charges), it’s not without reason to say that the residents of our Queen City are doing their best to put together the pieces of their crumbled sense of security.

Considering my home’s close proximity to the events of this crime, I’m sure it’s no surprise when I say that my way of coping with this tragedy has been to reflect on my own life. Although my frustration with professional athletes who use the phrase “this puts things into perspective” surfaced yet again last week at the news of a professional baseball player’s death, I admit that I’m guilty of feeling these exact same thoughts regarding Michelle’s death; something like this really does help you remember what in your life should truly be valued, and what’s extraneous.

At the top of the list of values for me, as always, are my loved ones. And just as I instinctively drive slower and much more defensively when my nieces are in the car, I feel the need to protect them from the evil in this world. I want to take Niece #1’s hand and lead her back into her home and tell her that everything will be OK; she has her parents, and her sisters, and her uncle, and that’s all she needs. But as hard as it is to admit, that’s not what she needs. As her loved ones, we owe it to her to help mold her into someone capable of conquering the world; someone capable of making the right choices; someone capable of living a rewarding life. We can’t shelter my nieces forever because in the end, they will need to deal with the reality that I’m dealing with today:

That as much as I want to, I can’t rewind life like I can rewind the jewelry store camera tape. I can’t walk Michelle and the stranger back down the hill until they disappear out of the camera’s view. I can’t walk them back to the bar and make different decisions for Michelle. I can’t walk Michelle back up the hill to her loving parents. I can’t walk Michelle back into their outstretched arms so that she can hug them goodbye once again and know that everything will be OK.

I don’t want to grow up

This morning, Sister #1 sent me pictures of Nieces #1-2 proudly displaying their ballet outfits. I blinked. Evidently, sometime in the last year, my nieces became old enough to walk through the young child’s rite of passage into ballet class. I showed the pictures to Freckles who, after seeing how adorable they were, as well as the Barbie dream house in the background, declared her jealousy. I asked her if she was jealous of a 4-year-old’s life and she said, “Life was a lot easier when I was 4. Although it is all relative, so it probably seemed tough at the time.”

I know that Sarah the L will agree with a shout out to rival any southern-Baptist “amen!” when I say that I’ve been working at my current job for far too long. For awhile, I rationalized my immobility with a number of valid-only-on-the-surface reasons (read: excuses) such as, but not limited to, my love for Vermont, the mostly-unheard-of comforts of a well-paying editorial job in Vermont, and my desire to accumulate valuable years of publishing/printing experience. In all honesty, like a man paralyzed by his metaphorical and/or literal cement feet in a zombie dream, I was too scared to move; afraid of the unknown world of lesser-paying jobs and the chance that this was as good as it could possibly get.

A few years ago, I read an interview of a co-writer for the TV show, The Simpsons. He talked about the sense of accomplishment he bathed in every day because of the commercial and creative success of the show. And he expressed aloud his bewilderment at the decisions of some of his former coworkers to leave the show for a better opportunity elsewhere. “Don’t they realize that it doesn’t get any better than this show?” he asked. Stupidly, when rationalizing my decision to stay at my job, I silently cited this writer when asking myself the blindly rhetorical question, “Don’t they realize this is a great Vermont job?” More coworkers than I can remember have come and gone since I began working in my department and only recently did I begin to think of their departures in a different light than that shown by the writer for The Simpsons. Only recently did I begin to consider that my position at this company, though a decent job for Vermont, was not worth the pain its mind-numbing work and soul-sucking executives inflicted upon me. This year, I began to come to terms with my fears and actively seek other employment. At this point in my search, I’m considering leaving the state, and/or applying to graduate schools. In the mean time, I’ve decided to stay at my current job.

Like the ghosts of this company’s past who were stuck with the company until their dreams of leaving it came to fruition, I have begun to question management (who, from now on shall be known as Darth Vader) with questions that ring in a lack-of-trust tone. Due to a great moment of idiocy on my part that can be blamed on my apathetic history with this company, Darth Vader’s overly defensive, bitter, pretentious, and passive-aggressive responses actually shocked me. But of course! While Vader’s answers were caked with professional-speak icing, the underlying tone screaming at me at the top of its lungs said, “Who the hell do you think you are and where the f#*k do you get off questioning anything I say?” Vader’s point that I shouldn’t dare question her authority, driven into my heart with a rusty spike, reminded Freckles of Madison and his belief that, if left unchecked, power bred corruptness. Showing my less-intelligent side, Vader’s response reminded me of high school.

While it could never be argued that Darth Vader ever resembled the popular Plastic Girls of high school (a phrase I coined in college, which was subsequently stolen by Tina Fey), her recent display of “I’m better than you” authority-flexing elitism did. This resemblance was so evident to me, in fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she convinced the Geek Squad (aka, the IT Department) that it was their privilege to do her work, or if she gave an employee a compliment, only to take it back two seconds later with a cruel, sarcastic rolling of the eyes. And while I could have a field day with comparisons between Vader and the people in high school I resented the most, my loyal (and starved) readers will not be surprised when I instead veer seemingly off subject for an unclear but good reason.

One of my coworkers showed up to work today with her face beaten into a pulp by, I’m suspecting, her “loving” husband of many years. I guessed spousal abuse because, according to what Veronica Japanica told me many years ago, this was not the first instance. While she smiles and stands proudly by her man who I’m guessing, in her abused mind, is the victim, I cannot help but notice the similarities between this coworker and Kara Beth Borden, the 14-year-old Pennsylvanian girl whose boyfriend murdered her parents. Both have been abused in some way, both are assuredly confused by the pain that has accompanied what they thought was love, and both continued to stand by those that hurt them out of fear and shame (though, in Borden’s case, it may have been involuntary).

These similarities, coupled with the resemblance between Darth Vader and the Plastic Girls, have got me wondering: aside from the obvious change in responsibilities, is there really that much of a difference between adolescence and adulthood? Or, as Freckles put it, is a 4-year-old’s life just as tough as an adult’s? Relatively speaking, in terms of emotions, is there any difference between how you felt when your fellow kindergartners kicked you out of their clique because your Dukes of Hazzard car wasn’t authentic, and the resentment employees feel as they do the Lay-Off March by the desks of those who survived the cuts? Maybe there is no difference save our abilities to express our emotions in ways other than crying in a corner; though, come to think of it, as an adult, I’ve done that, too. I submit that there is no real difference and maybe, in our rush to grow up, we overlooked that fact.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

I’m sitting in my Church Street apartment in Burlington, contemplating the end of another summer while the afternoon sun paints my maroon living room walls with the golden colors of its slow, yet far-too-quick descent to the other side of the horizon, where it will rest while pondering tomorrow’s fate. As I try to recall all of the activities of this past summer (read: all the reasons why I’ve slacked off on my blog), I’m reminded of the “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” papers that Loser Cruiser passenger Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy was busy grading on the ride home from work last fall. When I was growing up, I used to dread writing that paper as much as I loved it. I dreaded it because it was my first homework assignment of many; I loved it because I got to talk about me. In that sense, and serving as a perfect closure to the introduction of this long-overdue entry, all I can say is that some things never change.

It’s only fitting to mention that infamous elementary school assignment when you consider that summer is the season when most of us are finally able to reacquaint ourselves with our inner child (mine was hiding out in my Inhibitions and Social Anxiety Closet). With the fine exception of Mama Benchly who, for various reasons, prides herself on being unremittingly in touch with her inner child, most of the rest of us adults corrupted by society’s cynicism and realism are only truly able to interact with this exuberant, whimsical, passionate, and youthful spirit when summer is in season.

It seems that only when the summer sun has come out to play for a few months do we see grown and overgrown men shrug off their aching muscles to return to a baseball diamond, and mothers fiercely compete against their adult offspring at any of those barbecue/picnic-friendly games (croquet, badminton, bocce, etc.), and grandfathers challenge their grandsons in cut-throat amusement park video game rides, and 30-year-old women plead like Nieces #1–3 to set off “just one more” firecracker, and 20-something friends return to the playground to have a go at the swings after throwing frisbees around all day, and a young couple see just how fast they can travel together on a jet ski.

Needless to say, I’ve had a really rewarding summer this year, and the summer began, as many successful summers often do, with a great new romance. After describing the last few months as rewarding, it was no surprise for me to realize that my courtship with Freckles began to take shape about the same time the official first day of summer came to pass. And while I’m thankful for Freckles for a number of reasons that I won’t delve into in this entry, I must acknowledge how incredibly grateful I am for having her in my life because if it were not for her, I wouldn’t have experienced half of what I did this summer.

The summer began with not one, but two summer beer-drinking softball leagues on Bad News Bears teams that threatened to break the long-standing record 6% winning percentage set by the Giants, my Little League baseball team. We couldn’t hit, we couldn’t field, we didn’t know where to throw the ball, or when not to throw it, and at the end of each game, the official boxscore resembled the betting odds for a Kentucky Derby long shot. But like most men given the opportunity to play the game they love, we had fun. With beer.

Thanks to Freckles and her unbelievably generous family, I was fortunate to spend a few summer afternoons and evenings at a camp on Lake Champlain where the aforementioned croquet and jet skiing took place. And as a too-good-to-be-true encore, I was also given the opportunity to accompany Freckles to her cousin’s Florida wedding in August. The only question that remains is how to properly thank people who, without hesitation or second-thought, gave so freely and so much? Needless to say, I’m still working on that one.

The rest of the summer was filled to the brim with disc golf with Montana Girl, The Virgin Mary’s birthday party celebration campout on a lake, canoeing, hiking with friends, time spent with the nieces, and all the other activities that make you feel young again, even if your 28-year-old body has a different opinion.

And then, just as I started to believe that I had recaptured the innocence I lost far too long ago, I was reminded that I can never go back to the world I once knew because as the summer sun began to set on this great season once again, I was assaulted with the kind of news only the sheltered Nieces #1–3 could have possibly overlooked: my company laid off nearly one-fifth of its workforce so that it could “continue to stay competitive”; Hurricane Katrina destroyed the way of life for hundreds of thousands of people; and gas prices soared to levels only Europeans ever thought were possible. And while I found some solace in one of the most powerful images of my short life (a seemingly infinite line of my fellow citizens ready to donate food and supplies to the hurricane victims), I can’t shake the reality that my childhood has left me, and in its place now stands an unforgiving and stressful world of pain and sorrow.

A. Bartlett Giamatti once wrote that baseball was a game designed to break you heart; that “you count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.” And now, as I prepare to face the chill rains of fall in this terrible, wonderful world, I think the same can be said for summer.

Forever’s Gone Away

I don’t recall much from my high school graduation. I imagine that one of my pretty classmates spoke of cherished memories, another book-smart classmate predictably mentioned hard work and determination, and the winner of the popularity contest (read: class president elections) probably paraphrased the Army’s “Be All You Can Be” campaign while Boys II Men’s “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” played over the speakers like the hidden song on the soundtrack of our lives. One thing I do remember, though, is the sight of many of my classmates shedding tears as they mourned the closing of the latest chapter of their lives and, while most passed it off as a sadness for the inevitable loss of their trivial friendships, I suspect their tears had more to do with the fear of the unknown. For most of my classmates who were conditioned to follow the pack in a desperate attempt to maintain an appearance of normality, high school graduation brought with it a terrifying world where those who thought for themselves and embraced individuality advanced, and those who didn’t stayed behind to reminisce about the “Glory Days.”

As for myself, when my high school principal stood up in the unforgiving, sweltering school gymnasium heat that June day and announced to my class that we had finally graduated high school and were now officially free to do as we pleased, I followed his advice and left, looking back only once to get one last glimpse of the school I hated and the sheepish classmates I never knew. Maybe I was ahead of my time, maybe my older sisters had given me insight into my future, and maybe my experience in those four years was just that miserable; all I know is when I left high school, I knew that the best years of my life would be found ahead of me on a path I had yet to create, rather than on the paved road of high school I was leaving behind. What I never realized was how quickly those years would pass by me.

One of my high school classmates emailed me the other day to notify me of our impending rite of passage into a quarter-life crisis: the 10 year high school reunion; that stressful evening spent with the people you hardly knew, pretending that you want to know them now, and while silently hoping they care more about your life than you do about theirs. I haven’t officially decided whether or not I’m going to attend this once-in-a-lifetime event but I won’t lie, I probably won’t. Considering I’m in touch with all of the people from high school with whom I wish to have meaningful friendships, I just can’t find all that much to be gained from my attendance. Regardless, however, the invitation has left me amazed at how helpless the passage of time makes me feel.

This past weekend, I mourned the loss of another year of my life as I celebrated my 28th birthday. Freckles treated me to dinner Friday night and, though she’ll tell you otherwise, she cooked a delicious meal. She then joined me Saturday on a hike up Vermont’s second tallest mountain, Camel’s Hump, whose peak ranks in my top five all-time favorite spots in the state. Though our stay at the top of the mountain was cut short in order to make our dinner date on time, the feelings of accomplishment inspired by the magnificent views, made it well worth the climb. The hike down the mountain in the lightening storm made me second-guess our trip, however. On the other hand, Freckles, author of the constant barrage of reminders sent my way at how important it is to live in the present rather than dwell on the future and the “what ifs?”, was impressively calm as we descended in the rain, serenaded by thunder.

Saturday night, Freckles and I met up for dinner with The Benchlys, Sister #1, her husband, Niece #1, and Niece #2. The night, which appeared to be capping off a perfect birthday, nearly turned tragic when Mama Benchly began to struggle for air, her face flushed from fear and pain. While I was paralyzed by an anxious shock, my brother in law, a volunteer fireman, stepped in to take charge of the situation and quickly determined that her airway was blocked, not by food, but by the swelling from an allergic reaction caused by the mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat my mother had mistakenly consumed moments earlier. When a handful of hits from her inhaler provided little to no relief, my brother in law ran to the store next-door and returned soon after with Benadryl, an antihistamine often used to combat allergic reactions. Mama Benchly downed the Benadryl while an imaginary crowd of fraternity brothers cheered her on and shortly thereafter, her breathing began to improve.

While Mama Benchly’s breathing, though still somewhat pained, returned to normal, the evening’s lessons learned of the fragility of the mortal life put me in a thoughtful mood from which I have yet to emerge. Stated simply, my mother’s allergic reaction was the scariest sight I had ever witnessed in my short life, and, on a day spent celebrating the latest year of my life, it served to remind me of how quickly life can be taken from us and, as Freckles always says, that our lives are too short for us to spend much time worrying about the hundred different potential consequences of our actions.

And so here I sit 10 years after my high school graduation and four days into my 28th year, awaiting word from the representatives from another Vermont publishing company with whom I interviewed this morning. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be offered this editing job, which will point my career in the right direction while allowing me more time to write. But if, for whatever reason, I failed to properly sell myself and my skills to the interviewers, I’ll be able to sleep at night because I’ll know that my life was too short for me not to have tried at all.

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.”

Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume 1

– Last night, I took part in what has become sort of a family tradition: I hung out at my parents’ house waiting for trick-or-treaters to stop by, ate more candy than we passed out, and smiled uncontrollably at the sight of two of my nieces dressed up in their costumes. This year, Niece #1 was Belle and Niece #2 was Little Red Riding Hood. Niece #3 was in her home near Albany, celebrating the holiday dressed up as Blue. And, proving yet again the theory that small children will never ever understand sarcasm, I jokingly told Niece #2 that I had eaten her candy and watched in horror as she started bawling her eyes out. I’m going to hell.

– I went for my semi-daily walk with CP today. Typically, we walk up a very steep hill on a road near our company, and then turn around and come back. Today, while walking up the hill, we heard rustling in the woods to our right. CP immediately put me between her and the woods and we looked up to see a pair of eyes staring at us. After a few seconds, we realized we were staring at not one, but two deer who were probably as scared as we had been a moments earlier. After staring us down for a few seconds, they hopped away and disappeared into the woods.

– The Great Kitty Trial Run of October 2004 has officially ended! After a few kitty disputes coming nowhere near “Cat Fight” status, after Othello showed signs that he had settled into the apartment enough so that he wouldn’t be afraid to come out of my room, and after it was decided by The Virgin Mary and I that while the cats may never like each other, they most certainly will be able to coexist, I decided to officially adopt Othello. So let it be known that on Halloween of 2004, I adopted Othello, an all black cat born on Friday the 13th (4/13/01). Congratulations may be sent to my attention in the form of check or money order.

– Tomorrow, as I’m sure all of you know, is Election Day and I don’t think it’s an overstatement when I say that it will be the most important day of our lives thus far. Tomorrow is our opportunity to unite as one voice and declare to our country and to the world that we do not stand for narrow-mindedness, or hatred, or bigotry, or unjust wars in a society where the rich get richer and the poor die on the front lines. Tomorrow is our opportunity to sound our barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world and slowly, morally, and peacefully heal the wounds on which our current president has continued to gnaw. Please exercise your right tomorrow and please think before you do. When we ultimately pass this world on to our nieces and nephews and sons and daughters, I want to be proud of the world we’re giving them.